Arrival of the Undertaker

The heavy, rhythmic thud of granite against wood echoes off the cobblestones as a long-bed hauler of deep, black-stained oak turns the corner toward the Artisan’s Guild. The carriage is a masterpiece of grim utility; its massive wheels are reinforced with iron bands that show signs of recent, meticulous grease, yet the wood of the chassis is weathered and salt-streaked.

Stacked with clinical precision in the back are three rows of caskets. The brass fittings on each box catch the weak, filtered sunlight, polished to a mirror sheen that stands in stark contrast to the dust-covered street. Hanging from the sides of the wagon, suspended by thick, frayed hempen ropes, are a dozen blank tombstones. They sway with every dip in the road, clinking together with a sharp, percussive clank—a sound like a macabre windchime. Two large horses are anchored to the front of the carriage, their ribs disturbingly visible beneath their coat of matted hair as their breath vapors in the cool air. Master Silas Vane pulls the reins with gloved hands, bringing the heavy hauler to a halt. He wears a silk waistcoat of an intricate, dark brocade, but the fabric bunches and folds where it should be flush; his frame is noticeably gaunt beneath the expensive tailoring. He climbs down from the driver’s seat with a stiff, measured gait, adjusting a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles.

He pauses at the footboard, looking up at the boy sitting there. "Elian," he says, his voice a dry, disciplined rasp. "Watch the stones. Stay with the carriage. I am not spending the night searching the alleys for you again. Stay here."
The boy, who looks to be in his mid-to-late teens, doesn't offer a verbal reply. He wears heavy, mud-caked leather boots and a cloak of fine wool that is beginning to fray at the hem. He sits with his shoulders hunched, staring blankly at the gutter, his face pale and hollowing at the cheeks. Between his fingers, a small, orb-like flicker of pure white light pulses—a casual, bored display of his Light magic that dims and flares in time with the clinking of the tombstones.

Silas doesn't wait for a nod. He turns and marches toward the heavy doors of the Guild, his boots clicking a sharp tempo against the stone. Elian remains behind, sighing heavily as he turns his head slowly, his eyes flicking rapidly about his new surroundings. As soon as the Master Merchant disappears into the guild building, Elian hops down from the carriage and begins meandering casually toward the direction of the tavern.