Morfil had been a diligent and loyal subordinate, but he lacked Irion’s intrepid nature. Besides, he was now obliged to the duties of the highest order, whereas Irion was practically a nomad from the lower. It was time for something new. Through Irion, I was free.

As the first rains splashed off my hood, I laughed as ghouls do. I was alive again, and the pitter-patter on my tongue was as sweet as bliss itself. It was time to pay my respects to the wondrous House of Rogaire. I marched toward the Thunder Bustle, through the flower-adorned precincts of the wealthier tombs.

Seasmil’s Tale

Seasmil’s Tale

I: We All Arrive at the Morgue Somehow

I enjoy my work. It’s an occupation I’m not surprised I ended up in, although it was not my original dream. But that’s the case with every man who holds down an honest wage. I work at the Nilghorde Pauper Morgue, where endless droves of vagrants are flopped out of carts and off horse backs to land on my table. With me they all end. It’s a brief inspection really, well that and some paperwork, as per a severely outdated policy that began in the Years of Peace, when the red, scale mail, sabers, and spears of the Conqueror’s soldiers became the blue, chainmail, sabers, and clubs of the Metropolitan Ward.

After initial duties, the corpses are usually tossed down into the Pauper Vault, the mass grave of our fair city. My work is not limited to the homeless, of course, for there are many orphans and prostitutes. There is even the occasional victim of a crime of passion, one whose aggressor possessed the quick wit to pay off one of my bosses. I can safely say I’ve seen every level of our opulent society on my table at some point or another.