Don’t be fooled. Behind that unassuming furry exterior and the constant motion of a wagging tail, dogs are vile creatures. Any Lich worth their weight in bone knows to stay a good distance away (preferably behind a legion of undead or at the very least a gaggle of revenants), or risk becoming a living, breathing, chew toy. The dog is likely the greatest weapon in the arsenal of a well-equipped paladin because, unlike a paladin, dogs are equipped with keen intelligence.

Villains and fools were the two types of suckers who guzzled down tankards of questionable booze and willingly chose to come back to the Haggard Wench. This was not the tavern I drowned my sorrows in and is, frankly, irrelevant. Next door, sat The Coward’s Brew and only fools occupied it. I happened to be one of those fools.

Nicks and cracks covered the few tables strewn haphazardly within the Coward’s Brew, like scars of the drunkards who wrestled in the inn. Mismatches of misfit chairs and tables of all sizes were the hallmark of bargain shopping and extravagant cost cutting. This was not a place for Kings or proper Ladies. This was a place for cheap booze.

The Coward’s Brew wasn’t warm. The occasional wind would seep through the cracks in the poorly built walls. The whistling and rattling of the wind was a constant reminder of the bleak frigid winter. Beware the cold. There were certainly harder ways to die. Candles flickered, making the already dim bar dimmer.

I sat perched on top of a stool in front of a bar, hunching over my lukewarm ale. My miserable mood was infectious.

“I’ve had it up to here with yer whining and whinging! Your mother is a filthy whore. That ain’t changing. She’s doing more good than the lot of those sniveling spoiled village councilors. How many people has she pleasured?” reasoned Azog, the barkeep.

“Please, shut up” I pleaded.

“Hundreds, maybe Thousands? That’s more good than anything the village head’s son has done.”

“Are you trying to rub it in? A barkeep like you sure knows how to make a man feel better. ”

I knew this wasn’t the case. This was just Azog. He was a foreign man from the Isles of Alcar, an eccentric barkeep who’s morals and strange thoughts were so alien to the respectable people of Nosterdam. To him, there was nothing wrong with being a son of a whore. If only everyone else in the village thought the same. This was the reason I chose to be a fool drinking terrible Ale in his cold inn.

“You’ll feel better when you get yourself a proper apprenticeship,” reassured Azog.

“No apprenticeship wants me, not after the bread incident. Yeast is not the answer!”

“Just because the baker-”

“Don’t talk about the bread incident. Not today! I’m not in the mood.”

Azog wisely shut his mouth and turned to clean one of his many dented tankards with his ragged cloth. The bit of rag looked small in his large hands. Unwisely, he decided to open his mouth moments later. He was a fool, after all.

“Did you hear the rumors?”

“What rumors?”

“The high cleric of Nosterdam is traveling to our village.”

“Why? There’s nothing here besides hefty amounts of cow shit. He’ll only find misery and sadness in this little town.”

“Not everyone in this town is sad, including you some days. Just hear me out.”

“Fine.”

Azog leaned in, making sure to look both ways to make sure there weren’t any patrons around. There weren’t. The Coward’s Brew was the least popular tavern in the entirety of Mudvale.

“Rumors are spreading that an evil necromancer is lurking among us. The holy order is sending one of their best undead smiters to smite this necromancer.”

“Do you smite the necromancer or the undead he raises? Surely, the necromancer is a living breathing being.”

Azog scowled.

“That is what most people think, but I’ve heard of great tales of mythical undead necromancers. Golag the Benevolent would suck the souls of the living, and feast on their terrors and nightmares.”

“Golag the Benevolent doesn’t sound too benevolent.”

“Well, that was what he was called. I don’t know why he’s called that. The guy telling me that story passed out drunk before he got to any of the good bits. All I’m saying is that there’s more to the dark arts than the clergy will have you believe.”

“Yeah, ok. Angels are evil and demons are my friend. Got it.”

Azog narrowed his eyes.

“Is that sarcasm I’m hearing come out of your mouth, Arthur? I’m dead serious when I say that the world isn’t as black and white as the kingdom wants you to think. I heard many stories working as a barkeep, all full of nuance. It’s dangerous being a sheep Arthur, and those who take the King’s words to heart are gullible fools at best, at worst they’re dangerous devotees. Always keep your eyes peeled and think for yourself.”

“Maybe. But there must be some merit to what the King says, or else why would he and the church try to smite them at every opportunity?”

“Only the King and the High Council knows. I wouldn’t put too much faith in them. Look at what they’ve done for our village.”

“Done what?”

“Exactly. They’ve done nothing for us.”

Thunk! The tavern doors flung open and in walked an old fellow. Something was off about this decrepit old man. Maybe it was his crooked eyes that didn’t quite sit right on his face, or maybe it was that his nose looked like it had been bludgeoned, straightened out, and then bludgeoned again. A raggedy gray cloak hid the rest of his figure, matching his dreary gray eyes. His wispy hair and stern expression made me want to look away, but there really just wasn’t much else to look at in the tavern.

The old man crept forward, dragging his old body until he found himself sitting next to me. In my humble opinion, he was too close. There were plenty of open stools along the bar; he didn’t need to sit right next to me. I was too polite to give him a piece of my mind, however.

“Grave Digger George! What brings you here?” hollered Azog.

“Booze.”

“Of course, of course. I’ve got plenty of that. Say how have you been doing lately?” Azog asked.

“Rotten.”

Azog was taken aback. You weren’t supposed to answer that question truthfully. You were supposed to lie about how fine you were. This was not the island of Sarr where the islanders vowed to only tell the truth or else face the chopping of the tongue. No, this was Nosterdam, a cesspit built on quality lies and following social norms. Even people from the foreign Isles of Alcar lied.

“How so?”

“I just got word that a nosy Cleric is going to be digging around my graveyard. I’m afraid he’ll find something that’ll just make my job much harder.”

“I’m certain an upstanding man like you has nothing to worry about. Make yourself comfortable. Arthur doesn’t bite, although he does smell a little.”

“That’s alright. My nose doesn’t work too well anymore,” responded George.

“Hey! I don’t smell that much!” I protested. ‘

“Are you sure about that? Why do you think I added all those herbs to your ale free of charge?”

“I thought you were being generous and felt some empathy for my plight. It’s good to know you’re a cold hearted sociopath.”

Azog snorted.

“Well, George, as an expert on the dead, mind telling us what you think about the dark arts?”

George stiffened.

“I don’t know anything of the sort. I’m just a grave digger, is all,” muttered George.

“Oh, I wasn’t calling you the necromancer or anything like that. Arthur and I were having a little disagreement here and were wondering if you could resolve a little mental tussle.”

George looked around to make sure there weren’t any patrons around. There weren’t. It couldn’t be stated enough that the Coward’s Brew was the least popular tavern in the entirety of Mudvale.

“I suppose I can give my two senses as a humble gravedigger. What exactly was the argument?”

“That the dark arts isn’t as immoral as the crown makes it out to be.”

“It’s the user that makes the magic. That’s what my great grandad always said. Over my years, I’ve seen plenty of dead bodies. If they were used for a good purpose, I’d think they could do some good instead of being lazy layabouts.”

“They’re dead, George. The dead are hardly layabouts,” I said.

“What would you know about that?” George snapped, his voice unnervingly angry. “They just sit in their little graves and don’t do anything. A bit of gumption and building themselves up by their bootstraps would be appreciated.”

Azog and I shared a strange look.

“Well, don’t worry George. We believe you,” Azog spoke for the both of us. This was not the case, but it was better to agree with crazy lunatics than risk angering their demented minds, especially shady gravedigger lunatics.

George mellowed out a bit.

“I’m just tired of grave digging, is all. I used to have dreams of doing something great, something not grim like playing around with the dead. I guess I just have regrets,” confessed George.

“It’s never too late to turn your life around,” I lied. It was a baseless claim that went against all the evidence I’d witnessed during the short span of my mortal life. The lie was more to myself than anyone else, a last bastion of hope. My life had not been turned around, flipped, warped, or even slightly touched. My trajectory remained the same.

George chuckled. “You think so?” he asked if I had said the funniest thing in the world.

“Well, yes. Life isn’t over until you die.”

“I suppose so. You remind me of my younger self, Arthur. I too was once filled with hope, but that’s not what fate has planned for men like us.”

“Men like us?”

“Dregs of society. The people who scrape the bottom of the barrel; people who were born at the bottom to serve the needs of the powerful. Don’t be like me. Find satisfaction in serving those who are meaningful. That is the calling we’re cursed with.”

As the sun was gobbled by darkness, I stumbled through the streets drunker than anyone should ever be. Dark thoughts rattled around in my head as I contemplated ways to avoid becoming like George. I was not like him. I wouldn’t become him. My life was not over the moment I was born.

Unfortunately, my memories of what happened that night evade me. Sadly, the minds of the living are fickle and even my earliest memories aren’t perfect. Only later would I solve this dilemma. I remember waking up slumped on the floor of a grave in the town's cemetery. It was cold, and the grogginess from the previous night lingered. I wondered how I ended up there.