The Gallows’ End was in full swing tonight. Thankfully it wasn’t called the Guillotine’s End, or no doubt such puns would arrive in droves, swift and terrible. Much like the wine here. He typically flayed the serving staff whenever an establishment insulted him with this kind of swill, but unfortunately, tonight he was dining in the only locale in Britannia where such exercises would not affect the hired help in the least.
Lagrath looked up from his glass. The tavern was as packed as he’d seen it yet. Against all odds, over the last few months the town had proven to be a huge success. To date, the various residents had spent only part of their time attempting to kill each other. As far as he knew, this was the first time anyone had ever tried gathering such a wide spectrum of hostile creatures together in the same place for any duration…an inhuman task that surely required the gentle touch of a genius. He congratulated himself by taking another sip of the awful vintage.
“Lovely evening tonight, isn’t it, Corpsen?” he said with a smile. His favorite drinking companion offered no affirmation other than total silence and a sullen glare. In truth, the man was Lagrath’s favorite kind of conversation partner—the type who never said a word and never interrupted him. In any case, it would have been unfair to hold Corpsen’s muteness against him, considering that Lagrath was the one who’d ripped out the vampire’s throat in the first place. Corpsen really represented rather amiable company, once he’d lost his ability to back-talk and had finally learned his place.
Taking the silence as a sign of unquestioning agreement (as he always did), Lagrath glanced again at the other patrons around the room. For the most part, the majority of them tended to stick together with their own kind…either for the company or for safety, and sometimes for both. Halfway along the northern wall of the big chamber sat a small group of heavily armored individuals, each of them bearing a differently colored set of steel and arms. Several of the guild’s most senior revenants were quietly trading war stories over a bare and empty table…food and drink served little purpose when there was nothing inside the armor of a customer but icy air and raw malice. One of the few who could pass for human if he’d only discard his suit of shadow platemail—which he couldn’t—was reminiscing softly to the others. Knowing him, it was most likely about some boring old battle by now long forgotten even in the most ancient of libraries. Kharnn was always easy to spot in the tavern, with his turquoise-green ponytail and deep emerald eyes. The revenant completely ignored Lagrath’s presence as he always did in any social setting. Lagrath’s second-hand man was probably the only one in town who hated him more than Corpsen did.
Space was at a premium in the main room tonight, a steady stream of patrons walking, shambling, lurching, and in some cases falling about between tables and in and out of the door. Lagrath looked over at the massive oaken entrance. The damn thing had been expanded to ridiculous proportions in height and width across both double-doors, theoretically to accommodate Darkmoor’s titanic frame. A completely stupid endeavor, considering that the oh-so-pious Lord of Bones almost never deigned to visit the tavern himself and typically just sent one of his skeletal minions in the rare event that he needed to speak with anyone.
Next to the door, in the opposite corner of the chamber from where the two vampires sat, clustered a foul-tempered group of very mortal and very tense looking men. The guild ambassador from Black Gate and his guards sat in the middle of a clump that otherwise included the remaining humans willing and permitted to visit the town. Mortals tended to frequent the tavern more than any of the other types of residents, as the dining chamber and guest rooms here represented the only completely safe place in town…or almost completely safe, anyway. The Ambassador himself seemed to look particularly dour. Lagrath couldn’t blame him, really…other postings such as, say, the beaches of Nul’jhem were most certainly more attractive than a haunted and half-mad little town built on top of a graveyard next to the Fens of the Dead. Poor bastards—the Warlords delegation actually had to sleep in the rooms above, resigned to spending every night blocking out the horrible noises of Ravenfel’s evening activities. For the human residents and visitors, sleep probably came grudgingly even in the Gallow’s immaculate and royalty-quality rooms…it’s especially hard to rest easy in the evenings when all of your waking hours are spent in the company of walking nightmares, and when several of your permanent neighbors regard you as luxury cuisine. The Ambassador and his fellows were no fools, always sitting in a corner with their backs to two walls and with a clear line of sight to the door. Lagrath had adhered religiously to the same sort of paranoia for years beyond counting, which is why he always insisted that his current table in the back corner stayed reserved for his potential use and pleasure at all times.
The ambassador noticed the stare and locked eyes with the vampire. Lagrath grinned and gave a cheerful nod. The man just scowled and turned to talk to the black-market merchant two seats to his right. Not the friendliest of receptions, considering that Lagrath had organized the alliance with the human’s guild to begin with…come to think of it, that was probably why the man hated him so much.
Corpsen, Kharnn, the ambassador…tough crowd tonight. Getting glared at by some human with diplomatic immunity was particularly galling. It used to be that just flashing a pair of ivory fangs would turn a mortal’s blood to water and send him quailing to the nearest exit in a total panic. Ah, the good old days, as they say. Now I get a snort and a cold shoulder… Have I lost the atmosphere of terror that used to surround me when I was younger? Don’t I look fearsome anymore? Not being able to see yourself in the mirror sure has its downsides sometimes.
He’d almost certainly do better at cultivating an aura of fear and awe if he’d just stayed locked up in his tower, occasionally hanging a corpse or two off the top for good measure. Instead he now trotted down to the tavern every so often, mingling with the locals, guests, and recent burials. Even a fine set of teeth lost their novelty when you saw their owner sitting in the same corner and talking at Corpsen’s sour face every week.
In truth, Lagrath tended to dislike company, typically guarding his solitude like a jealous suitor. When you sometimes go decades at a time without seeing anyone that isn’t in a cage or on an experimentation table, suddenly mingling with plebeians and a motley crew of corpses every week was quite a novel experience. Nonetheless, despite the drawbacks, coming down here on occasion seemed to be an unavoidable chore.
Regardless of land or kingdom, he’d always made sure to keep the Dreadspire in a place that was inaccessible and untraceable to just about anyone. With the founding of Ravenfel, that was no longer an option. Now his tower sat smack-dab in the center of town, like some sort of mad lighthouse for every lunatic and murderer—living or dead—to be found in this corner of the world. Although establishing the town had been partly his idea, and mostly his work, in truth he was suddenly deep in uncharted territory. Now every white knight looking to bed some impressionable young maiden could eventually figure out where to find him and attempt to ram a stake through his cold, black heart. In and of itself, that wasn’t so bad—at times, in other places, he’d become bored enough to leak and open up the routes to his home himself. He even kept a sketch book detailing the various fun traps and mechanisms he’d sprung on the visiting do-gooders foolish enough to come knocking at his door. This time, however, things were a bit more serious. Not only was he located just across the bay from the City of Paladins, but he was encircled on all sides by “allies” who were just as unpredictable and bloodthirsty as he was.
That was exactly why it was so important to see and be seen, even if it meant suffering through the piss that passed for wine at the Gallows. If there was one thing Lagrath excelled at, it was politicking, and that was the only reason he had agreed to help form the Undead Warlords in the first place. Whereas Gharik Darkmoor and probably even the rest of the Shadow Council were completely sincere in their desire to eventually exterminate the living from the land, Lagrath’s plans were a bit more…nuanced. UWL presented an unprecedented opportunity to eliminate the few threats that had remained too powerful or too numerous for him to eradicate on his own …first came the rest of his own kin who still managed to elude him, then the human kingdoms, and then the races of the dead, turned against each other, one by one, by his enterprising hand…and finally, finally, at long last the secrets of The Guardian could be his to steal…
Lagrath was startled out of his self-centered plotting by a loud crash further along the wall behind him. He glanced up from his wineglass and to his right, where he saw a sturdy man walking past the oaken doors that had just been kicked open. It looked like Besselat had emerged from the back kitchens to introduce the patrons to one of his latest bloody creations. The Butcher was one of the reasons why the house was so crammed tonight—although some evenings only the living gathered here, the mad chef’s dishes were like a siren’s call to all in town who craved the supple taste of human flesh. Catching a whiff of the platters, the entire human table crinkled their noses and recoiled back in disgust. None of them retched—enough exposure to the rotting frames of the town’s ghouls will make any man’s stomach hardy—but even then, no human liked the smell of their own kind being cooked. Well, no human but Besselat, anyway. The man was a psychopath, completely dead to emotions like fear or empathy, and a born savant with the medium of human meat. Lagrath had taken a liking to him immediately. The Butcher was definitively one of the best additions Lagrath had been able to organize for Ravenfel.
As if on cue, one of the other catalysts for tonight’s heavy influx of visitors came limping down the steps. On the white stone staircase in front of Lagrath’s table, a gaunt and hunchbacked figure in brown and green rags walked slowly to the first floor, all the while supporting a heavy wooden chest across his jagged back. Doromire was probably the town’s most popular ghoul. He was one of those unfortunate souls who’d come back to unlife without most of his prior senses, but he more than made up for what he lacked in intellectual prowess with an undeniable enthusiasm for the arts. Doromire set the chest down near the door and began unpacking the tools of his craft, most notably a giant contraption of poorly-painted wooden boards that unfolded into a large tri-fold box with an open window in the middle.
“Doro”, Lagrath called out, “is tonight my chance to finally catch a play by Ravenfel’s finest poet?” Doromire turned to look over his shoulder, flashing back a horrendous, gap-toothed grin and nodding so hard that one of his ears almost fell off. Despite his (too) frequents sojourns to the Gallows, Lagrath had somehow missed every performance to date. From what he’d heard, the narrator’s constant slobbering and lack of a real lower jaw only added to the entertainment of the audience well up to the dénouement.
“Remind me again—what are the names of your heroic duo?” The ghoul stuck his head deep into the box, fishing around in the cluttered mess with one bony army. Out came the ghoul’s best actors, two fine thespians who took center stage at every show. Still kneeling on the floor, Doromire put them on carefully and then hobbled around to face Lagrath.
“Hagrid!” On his right hand (well, stump), the decaying director presented a stained puppet with long blond hair and an elaborate prink dress. Whether on the West Britain streets or in the midst of an undead town, every puppet show in Britannia seemed to follow the same traditional formula—a maiden and a fool, the latter’s courting of the former forming the heart of each and every production. “Doro” then raised his right arm, showing off a second character in an orange-brown robe and white dunce’s hat. Lagrath noted that the ghoul had even gone through the trouble to make this particular puppet cross-eyed.
“Dren!” Doromire bellowed, waving his creation proudly in the air. “This one favorite! Favorite!” Some greenish drool started dripping down to the tavern floor.
“Yes, I’m sure he is,” Lagrath noted with raised eyebrows. He turned back to the main part of the room, wondering what the rest of the patrons were up to. As usual, the center table was the loudest. No wonder, considering that it played host to the same cast almost every night. Partly Rotting Pete was in the middle of a loud argument, which was also fairly typical. The ghoul was not nearly as stupid as Doromire, and not nearly as amiable, either. Rumor had it that Pete had his eye on becoming Ghoulfather, the Shadow Council position still vacant for whatever individual finally managed to unify the entire, tumultuous ghoul community under his or her leadership.
“Good luck with that,” thought Lagrath to himself. The ghoul wasn’t exactly the kind to breed unity. The only thing Pete loved more than spreading rumors was arguing with others about the rumors he’d spread. He must have been a merchant in his former life.
In addition to being the loudest, the center table was also always the most diverse. Sitting right alongside Pete were skeletons, wights, other ghouls…and even a human. Everyone just called him “The Grave Digger”, but having hired him, Lagrath knew the custodian’s true name was Demitrius. He seemed to shun the presence of other humans, visibly more comfortable fraternizing with the undead than in the company of his own kind. The feeling was mutual—Lagrath had never seen any of the other mortal visitors or residents go anywhere near the man. The Grave Digger’s comfort with the undead also seemed to be reciprocated…even the most violent or unintelligent of the town’s ghouls and skeletons seemed to treat Demitrius with a sort of casual affection. The man had as much immunity walking around town as Lagrath did. It made a ghastly sort of sense, in a way. Demitrius had probably buried or dug up most of the residents, including the majority of those in the Gallows tonight. Lagrath figured that even the least sentient, most newly-raised burials had sensed the Grave Digger walking around above them in the graveyard so much that, by the time they came back to the other side of the soil, they simply registered him as one of them. And when you’re the first thing most of them see when returning to a second life, well…the dead of Ravenfel probably saw him as a sort of paternal figure, if anything.
Demitrius more than made up for Pete’s verbosity, quietly sipping blood-ale out of a black-and-gray stein shaped like a leering skull. Lagrath had been surprised the first time he’d seen that…not that there was anything wrong with the beverage. He’d overseen the installation and perfecting of the town’s Blood Brewery himself. However, it was odd seeing anyone but Besselat digest anything derived from a human-based origin. Lagrath had asked Demitrius if he particularly liked the brew, but had only gotten a shrug in reply. Considering that the man’s shack of a residence was just on the other side of the graveyard from the brewery, maybe it wasn’t surprising that Demitrius was largely indifferent to not only the smell, but even the taste.
By now Partly Rotting Pete was in his full, decomposed element, practically leaning over the table to yell at Bonerot, the skeleton.
“I’m telling you, it wasssss Razzzathel, the rogue….!” Lagrath’s ears perked up at that, and the rest of the tables now seemed to be listening in, too. There was only one thing Pete could be talking about. In the last few weeks, somebody had been killing the town’s residents. In and of itself, that was hardly unusual. However, the worrying started when they didn’t get back up afterwards. Anyone that could sneak into a place like Ravenfel undetected and keep the dead…well, dead, definitely knew what he was doing. Or she, for that matter—assassination was an equal-opportunity profession, Lagrath thought mirthfully to himself. Frankly, he just saw the whole situation as an amusing distraction. Lagrath was about as worried about someone successfully breaking into the Dreadspire as he was about waking up to find Lord British riding in on the sunset on his pet dragon, an ivory spear aimed for the vampire’s heart. No, until someone like, say, a prized servant got knocked off, Lagrath was more than happy to watch the whole mystery unfold from a distance.
Nonetheless, by now Pete was so agitated and animated that the urge to jump into the conversation became impossible for Lagrath to resist. Not looking up from his drink, he called out across the room, “Actually, I heard it was Telamon.”
Lagrath didn’t usually speak with most of the patrons unless it was a one-on-one conversation, and he knew he had everyone’s attention now. Pete narrowed his eyes and gave the vampire an evil stare. He was probably trying to figure out whether or not he was being mocked.
“The merchant? You’re full of liesssss, Baron…damn, filthy liesssss! It has to be Razzzathel! Hasssss to BEEEEE!” With that last word, Pete slammed his fist on the table so hard his right eye popped out. “That’s one way to make a point,” Lagrath muttered under his breath. The ghoul scrambled to catch the eye and put it back in so he could continue glaring at his interrupter. “What did you sssssssaay?”
Lagrath cleared his throat. “I said, I may not have any evidence, but I have known intuitively that Telamon was behind this for quite some time. Certainly, it may seem strange at first, but when you consider the resources at his disposal, it becomes quite obvious for all to see. Why, someone left me an anonymous book at my tower door this very morning, detailing how the merchant-king was able to orchestrate such a diabolical scheme!”
With that the room erupted into loud murmurs, and then quickly degenerated into heated exchanges. Lagrath saw a number of patrons quickly hoping on the bandwagon to defend his conspiracy theory, while an equally large number seemed completely against it. Every single table had been divided by the argument.
Partly Rotting Pete was standing on his chair now, looking for all intents and purposes as if his limited remaining flesh was about to fly off his frame in rage. “IT. WASSSSSS. RAZZZZZZZATHELLL! He is the only one with the SKILLLSSSS-SSTHH!” The last part devolved into a flickering lisp, specks of slime leaping from Pete’s tongue like rats off a burning ship.
Struggling to maintain a straight face, Lagrath raised his voice to be heard over the clamor and called out again. “The only one with the skills? Shouldn’t you at least wonder whether it might instead be Sandro, the warrior?”
The room died down to a hush again. Still standing, the ghoul’s voice took on a deadly edge. “Ssssandro?...Ssssssssandro?...A moment ago you ssssaid it wasssssssss TELAMON!” He screamed the last word, hurling it across the room like an invective.
This time Lagrath couldn’t stop himself from grinning from ear to ear. He put on the most innocent face he could muster and raised his hands up to his shoulders, fingers stretched apart towards the ceiling.
“Pete, Pete…haven’t you ever considered that maybe they’re secretly one and the same person?”
With that, complete pandemonium broke out. Although some of the patrons stayed out of the argument altogether, others were yelling names and tossing insults at one another. Soon drinks and bottles started flying, and right after that the claws, teeth, and various other pointy objects in the tavern came out to add the weight of their arguments to the debate. In a heartbeat everything collapsed into a brawl, and the various undead guests no longer felt any need to restrain their violent natures. Bone knights were lashing out left and right with curved steel swords and heavy wooden shields, ghouls were leaping on any available backs and sinking jaws into flesh and bone alike, and countless other abominations were participating in the fray in every way they could. Lagrath saw Doromire hanging upside-down from the chandelier, cackling like a madman. Besselat was likewise waltzing through the crowd, a maniac grin frozen on his face as well. The Butcher was hacking in every direction with an enormous cleaver, slashing at the denizens he’d been serving just minutes ago. Demitrius just started mumbling to himself, stood up, finished draining his stein, and then slowly walked out the door. Even in the middle of the madness, with weapons and body parts flying everywhere, nothing seemed to touch him. His immunity among the undead seemed to extending even to rioting.
Lagrath noted two other groups not participating in the melee, albeit with very different approaches. In the far corner, he saw the humans had overturned their circular table and were using it as a shield against the airborne projectiles and frenzied undead, cursing like sailors all the while. Already the giant slab of wood was quivering with embedded daggers and scratched deep with claw marks, and the collection of humans behind it were slashing out from their protective shell at anything that came too close with spears and short swords. Tavern brawls weren’t a very serious issue in a town where most of the fatalities could get back up, but the humans present tonight didn’t have that benefit.
In complete contrast, the revenants on the north side of the room ignored the battle entirely. Occasionally weapons or arrows bounced with shrill screeches off their enchanted armor, but any previous discussions they’d been having continued unabated. Lagrath saw a ghoul come howling at Kharnn from behind, presumably lured in by a head that seemed deceptively flesh-and-blood above the neckline. Without interrupting his story, Kharnn suddenly rammed his short spear backwards under his right arm in a reversed grip, instantly impaling the ravenous assailant. The ghoul let out a scream, and then, after a pause, simply burst into ashes. The silver tip on Kharnn’s weapon gleamed brightly for a moment, and then the entire rod disappeared from view again.
The vampire’s attention snapped away from the other patrons when he felt a lancing pain in his shoulder…exactly in the same damn spot where he’d been hit with lightning in the Vesper graveyard just a week ago. He looked down, and saw a thick dagger stuck in his shoulder, right up to the lavish skull pommel. Lagrath sighed. At least it wasn’t in the heart—the heart always hurt the most.
Just as quickly, their table was suddenly greeted with a second projectile. From far across the room, a decapitated head arched over the combatants to land in front of Lagrath. Partly Rotting Pete’s furious face stared up at him.
“Thissss issssss all YOUR FAULT!” howled the bodiless debater.
The Blood Baron just grinned down at his accuser. “Why, my dear Pete, didn’t your mother ever tell you? Tavern brawls are nothing but sport and fun until some fool goes and loses his head!”
Lagrath savored the shocked expression that flashed across the ghoul’s face in the moment before he brought an armored fist smashing down on it, splattering bits and pieces of Pete across the table, ceiling, and himself. He turned to the person sitting next to him and met up with his companion’s icy stare, some of the ghoul’s grimy yellow-white teeth sliding slowly down the other vampire’s cheek.
“I think it’s time we made our leave, Corpsen.” Lagrath pulled the dagger out of his shoulder and grimaced before tossing it on the table. After he stood up and made to follow Corpsen across to the door, he paused for a moment to throw his half-filled glass of Gallows wine across the room, taking one quick opportunity to exact some childish revenge on the awful vintage.
After making it outside, the duo walked a few steps on the grass before turning around to look back at the tavern again. They saw the main party of humans come bursting through the door, still half-rolling the enormous table tightly behind them and hacking away at any pursuers. They finally let it fall into the dirt outside and began dusting themselves of the bits and pieces of the tavern’s evening dishes and, in some cases, of its patrons. The humans formed up and, after a short discussion in which the Ambassador seemed to take the lead, started head off into the adjacent woods. They glanced at Lagrath as they filed out, to which he responded once again with a happy grin and a casual wave. The human just scowled even more and stomped all the faster into the forest.
Talking partly to himself and partly to the mute figure beside him, Lagrath just started mumbling quietly. “They’re probably quite unhappy that now they have to spend a night in Ravenfel out in the open, instead of the safety of their little rooms. Looks like they’ve decided to blame me for this mess, as well…”
The two were torn away from the sight of the retreating humans by a loud eruption from the tavern in front of them. Turning back, Lagrath and Corpsen saw an explosion burst through the upper floor of the Gallows, and from out of the billowing balloon of smoke and fire, a flaming chunk of debris flew out of the wall and rolled to a stop at their feet. The two just stared silently at it for a moment, their dark figures illuminated in the blackness of the night by flashes of red and yellow from the tavern and from the burning husk in front of them. They studied at it for a moment longer, and then slowly pulled their gazes back up to regard one another.
With a completely blank face, Lagrath gently reprimanded his subordinate; “Look at what you’ve done, Corpsen.”
Corpsen Rotbone just glared back at him with wordless eyes.
