I found Fryyd while running through Cragmire with a motely collection of fighters, healers, rogues. Fryyd was kneeling in the shadows of a ruined library, a library ignored by the hoard I ran with. Fryyd shivered in fear.
“What is this fear,” I ask in my sweet voice, a voice I reserved only for a few, else it’s haughty tavern tart through and through. You can’t be a sweet tart all the time.
“The dead,” he said, nodding to the dark corners of the library, “they walk.”
“But the dead live in Cragmire, silly,” I whispered, “or didn’t you know?”
“We were looking for books to sell is all. Me, Toabs, and Emmy. We had what we wanted, and then Emmy screamed. I looked. She had an ax blade growing from her head.”
“Come,” I said, gently pulling Fryyd up from the dust and blood. He stood easily enough, so…
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