The city was much the same as it had been the night before, the streets the inns lined were as deathly quiet as she remembered, but once again she could hear the quiet noise of distant parties, drifting to her on the wind. The sky was overcast, the beautiful moon obscured by dark, menacing clouds, an all too familiar sight in this region. The lamp hanging from Venatrix’s hip lit her way, a beacon of hope piercing the dim, dreary surroundings.

Traveling down the streets, Venatrix made her way towards the haunting mausoleum in the center of the town. Though the streets here were cramped and confusing, something about the main road drove her to avoid it; a terrible feeling that filled her at the sight of that open, empty street leading to the accursed building at Birkmoor’s heart.

As she walked through the streets, illuminated sparsely by the lamps that had so neatly lined the main road, she passed the occasional fisherman or guardsman. A single glance at her thin, woeful features awakened a fearful pity in their eyes, granting her a wide berth without noticing.

After a few minutes of walking, Venatrix found herself at the outskirts of one of the many parties about town, lit in the center of the street by a well-kept bonfire. The down-trodden residents danced about the fire, sharing drink and food and good-hearted chatter.

The noise from the people nearby fell quiet as Venatrix moved slowly through the party, hurrying away from her. A small boy stumbled into her path in his wild dancing, and was swiftly scooped up by his mother. A tense air of unease and distrust filled the cobbled street, the crackling of the fire taking a sudden prevalence over the plentiful conversation.

A nervousness filled Venatrix as she walked slowly to the other side of the party, but externally she remained as cold and collected as ever. Never allowing her emotions to show, she continued past the bonfire and on to the other side of the gathering, her cool, dispassionate grey eyes scanning the crowd.

It was some time after she had at last passed beyond the bounds of the bonfire’s light that the talk started back up again, now accompanied by many suspicious mutterings and musings. The light of her lantern once again her only companion, Venatrix turned left and found herself at the end of the main street, the moss-shrouded mausoleum towering over her from just a block away.

Here, the towns watchmen maintained their vigil, armed with old swords passed down from a conflict long ago, dressed in bits of reclaimed armor. A few torches were all that lit their nocturnal vigil, the illumination of Venatrix’s lantern drawing their eyes immediately.

“Unless you can use that blade, lady,” their leader, who wore more armor than the others, spoke, “I suggest you run on outta here.”

“You expect the tomb will open tonight?” Venatrix asked the man, approaching him calmly. She could always find innkeepers who would board her, anything for some coin, but a guard… that was uncommon.

“It’s gotta open sometime, our odds get worse every day that passes with that door shut.” the leader spoke, “You plannin’ to help?”

“If you’ll have me, sick as I may be.”

“Every man here could be facin’ his death tonight, Stained or not. The name’s William, and I’m happy to have you lady.”

“William, you can’t be serious! It’s bad luck, keepin’ a Stained on the watch!” a general cacophony rose from the members of watch.

“Leir, the woman’s no different from us, she came from the same place, and she’ll be buried in no different a coffin.” William slammed his sword against his shield, silencing his rowdy troops, “She stays.”

Venatrix bowed her head in thanks to William and took a seat upon one of the barrels they had rolled out, the venomous eyes of the watchmen set more upon her than the great stone door that stood before them.

The hours wore on as they sat there, and Venatrix found herself studying every inch of the immense door meant to seal away the long-forgotten dead. It was a massive thing, thick and held in place by hefty steel hinges, carved with the appearance of a terrifying ghoul, a superstitious habit meant to scare away the possessors of the dead. Venatrix could spy no visible lock on the door, but the effort given in protecting the bodies held inside told her there must have been one concealed within.

On and on the hours ticked, until at last they could stand it no longer. Members of the guard rose to their feet, stretching and complaining, while the ever-tired Venatrix had drifted into an uneasy sleep, her black umbrella resting on her shoulder.

It was the grinding of earth that woke her first. The sound of stone upon stone filled the air and urged her to open her eyes and turn them to the terrible stone door that kept their doom within. The head of the accursed grotesque was turning slowly, the hidden lock Venatrix had been so sure of revealed. It clicked into place with a chilling sound. Those massive stone doors peeled slowly open, revealing an impenetrable darkness within, and the sound of greaves upon the ground.

From the depths of the tomb hobbled a haunted beast. Though it must once have been human, no trace of its old nature remained. Tattered rags and rusted armor clung to it sallow, rotted skin, a blade clenched in its hands with some shadow of its former skill, but what was most terrifying of its many horrible features was the maggot-infested stump that was its neck.

A curious question alit in Venatrix’s mind, as more like the beast joined it. She could see the faded blue cloth on their armor, markers of an allegiance to some ancient army, and she recognized the removal of their heads was a practice of a long-dead kingdom, one who made a habit of playing with the dead, and who removed the head in a doomed hope of preventing the corpses returning.

She could feel in her bones that there was another cause for this, something other than the curse of some dead necromancer or the wishes of a forgotten army. Now that the door had been opened, she could feel something different, something older from deep-within the stone.

“To arms! The armies of hell are awakened!” William cried out, ringing a cast-iron bell in alarm. All about the city a similar sound awoke, the parties abruptly fell silent, and their fires went out, casting the city into a terrible darkness as the watchmen dropped their torches and took to their spears.

The watchmen clashed with the headless revenants, their spears driving easily through the undead’s armor, but the creatures were determined, and the magic which sustained them was strong. They pushed through the disastrous blows, driving at the watchmen with swords and axes.

Venatrix folded her umbrella and left it in the road, bringing her stump to her chest and raising her right hand to the sky. Her goal was inside the tomb, but she could not leave these men alone. The moon peaked through the slate grey clouds, bathing her in luminous moonbeams, wisps of magical power swirling about her as the damp, chill air that clung to her like an aura swelled, filling the street.

Three ghostly wolves, glowing with a silvery white, arose as though digging themselves from the ground. The air rung with their piercing howl before they set themselves upon the ghouls, ripping and tearing with their spectral teeth. Venatrix abandoned her umbrella and started towards the mausoleum, tracked by the stunned expression of the watchmen she had joined mere hours ago. Those few ghastly warriors bold enough to strike at her found themselves beset by her wolves; she was unaccosted during her brief walk.

Venatrix stepped through the threshold of the mausoleum, and the heavy stone door swung shut behind her, pulling shut with an echoing boom. The foul scent of decaying flesh reached her at once, the glow of her lantern spilling out across the floor and bringing to light the many cavities upon the walls where bodies once lay, and to the four eternal stone coffins of their leaders around the center of the room. There, in the center, lay a mammoth stone casket, more grandly decorated than the other, with its lid set ajar on top. It was raised from the ground open a plinth, lifted up in glory, and at its base sat a man quite unlike the foul beasts spawned here.

The man was young, in perhaps his thirties, and clad in clean steel armor. Next to him rested a hefty blade, the dull grey a similar shade to his empty, dead eyes, set eternally upon the ground under a mop of beautiful blonde hair. His pale white skin told of a life without sunlight, yet there was not a speck of dirt or blood on him.

“It is a strange thing,” Venatrix spoke, drawing his attention, “a young man in a place as old as this.”

“I am no young man, my fair lady.” the knight rose to his feet, bringing to hand his helmet, fit with the visage of a mighty lion. His waist cape, a demarcation of his status, was a blue as brilliant as the sky, “Many centuries ago, I have not the will to recall how many, I swore my service to the king of this land.”

“And in return, a boon?”

“Aye. I served the king in many battles, and for my honor his court of mages awarded me with eternal life.” A tear ran down the knight’s handsome features, “I knew not the curse it truly was.”

“And your service?”

“It is as eternal as I.” the knight set his helmet upon the casket that surely must have been his, grasping his great sword with both hands, “Please, my lady, I cannot allow your trespass.”

Venatrix laid her hand upon the simple grey handle of her sword, the undecorated cross guard set neatly into its sheath. She drew the silver blade with a beautiful sound, raising it above her head as though to strike, eyes set, emotionless, upon the sorry face of the knight before her.

With a swift motion, she drove her sword into the stone, stepping towards the knight and away from it.

“Your duty is long since served, sir knight.” she told him, “Lay down your arms.”

“I must.” the knight kept the point of his blade between himself and Venatrix, “It is my duty. My honor.”

“These centuries have been cruel to you.” Venatrix gently approached, “But serving a dead king is no honor. I beg of you, lay down your blade.”

Slowly, distrustfully, the knight set down his blade, his eyes kept on Venatrix all the while.

“It is not just your suffering you ensure. This spell upon you, it spills into the dead.” Venatrix told him, “They awake because you do not join their sleep. The people, they suffer for your cursed reward.”

“No! I never-” the knight could not stand the thought, “I did not comprehend the suffering off my undeath, I wish no ill upon them!”

“Hope is not lost. Allow me to break this spell,” Venatrix told him, opening her arms to the knight, “trust me to free you.”

The knight stepped cautiously forward, eyeing Venatrix’s unstretched arms. It was a strange thing, but she offered him his only hope in hundreds of years, could he deny it?

Carefully, he stepped closer, and Venatrix drew him into a gentle embrace. He was smaller than she was, though Venatrix was a tall lady, and cold as ice. After a moment, he sunk readily into Venatrix’s arm, savoring the affection he had all but forgotten.

“Eternal life is no man’s sweet reward.” She ran her fingers along his neck, drawing from it the mark that trapped the knight in his suffering, a golden glow upon her fingertips that dissipated into the rotten air.

The knight began to age in her arms, his golden hair wilting to grey. His skin wasted away into ash, dissolving through her fingers as his armor clattered to the ground. He whispered a “thank you” to her before he, at last, was gone, freed from his servitude by the first act of compassion he had experienced for an eternity.

Though the ghouls collapsed at the same moment the knight passed on, it was an hour before Venatrix left the mausoleum. What occurred inside was unknown, perhaps a moment of quiet or respect from the Carrion. Rain had begun to drizzle from the clouds when Venatrix left the tomb, the door sealing behind her for the final time.

“Ma’am… what happened in there?” William asked, handing the lady her umbrella, careful of the solemn air that now surrounded Venatrix, “They all just… stopped.”

“A man found peace, sir.” Venatrix sheathed her sword and took the umbrella, “Peace.”

“I… see.” William felt as though he would never understand what that meant, his eyes drawn to the beautiful blue cloth that was now wrapped around the end of Venatrix’s sheath.

Venatrix nodded to him and turned to the other man waiting for her, Alvin.

“Will you be needing a room again?” he asked, “I’ll draw up a bath.”

“Thank you, Alvin. But I will be leaving now.”

“In this weather?”

The rain picked up as they spoke, pounding against her black umbrella, her only shield against the elements. It swept across the black, cobbled streets, washing away the blood of the watchmen and ghouls alike. Venatrix set her eyes upon the gate out of town, at the other end of that wide main road. It didn’t seem so terrible a walk, now.

“Duty calls, sir.”