Of all the Woes, only one was more feared than the Grey. Only Black Woes, those most terrible and primordial aspects of wicked magicks, were more capable of bringing death and destruction. Woes could manifest in many different forms, even those of the same aspect. Green Woes, the least dangerous of the Woes, could appear as small devilish creatures or minor plagues in equal likelihood, although Dragomir hadn’t ever seen a Green Woe himself.

  Black Woes were rare, spoken of with hushed whispers, and potentially extinct from the world. Most stories of Black Woes originated from the first decades following the Deep Woe itself, when the aftershocks of its arrival still echoed throughout the world most strongly. Dragomir doubted anyone alive knew the shape that Black Woes could take. Some spoke of storms to shatter continents, of disease that warped people into mutant monstrosities without hope for cure or protection. Some spoke of winged creatures less known to mankind. Dragomir was only thankful that Black Woes were so rare, for he knew how terrible the Grey could already be and shuddered at the thought of something worse.

  The Grey Woe upon Blestrysnia took the form of a deep curse. It was a curse of everlasting life, or a twisted mockery of such. Their oldest stories told of a grieving child in the midst of the Deep Woe who begged any entity who would listen to bring back his parents. And according to the stories, that wish was granted in the cruelest of ways, and the child’s unliving parents rose only to add him to their number as the first among the restless dead.

  Dragomir never believed the story. Few did: for it mattered not where or how exactly the living dead came to wander their lands nor where the spell that raised corpses new or old into false life came from. The simple fact was that it was here. At most they knew that the curse was most powerful around the Barrow Mountain, the lone mountain at the center of the land whose shadow was cast long over Blestrysnia. And neither Dragomir nor any other Corpsehunters could possibly change anything about that. Their lot was cast, and their mission was to endure and die for others. Yet, strangely, Runt seemed confident in his ability to end the tyranny of the Grey Woe.

  Now back in Blestrysnia, having seen to the corpses of the fallen Corpsehunters with Marcel seeing his good burial and Ionus’ body having been thrown into the mushroom pits without ceremony, Dragomir and Runt rested in Imanuela’s pub like in their first meeting.

  Over drinks and food Dragomir had asked Runt many questions. He asked about the man’s plans, his understanding of the Grey Woe, how possibly they might end the curse. But ultimately, Runt’s answers amounted to the same singular fact.

  “So, you’ve no idea how to destroy the Grey Woe?” Dragomir asked.

  “No.” Runt answered calmly between sips of his wine.

  Dragomir almost laughed at that. “I took you for a strange one, but not a fool… Really? Who comes to a place like this n’ doesn’t have an inkling about what they’ll do about it. The Grey Woe is rooted deep in these lands. We’ve fought it for centuries and still don’t know where it came from, let alone what sustains it.”

  “What about that story? The one with the child and his parents?”

  “It’s a tall tale.” Dragomir answered while sitting back into his seat, sighing. “No point in wondering.” He took a long swig from his mug, the energy he’d felt at the prospect of fighting the Grey Woe fading as he realized how foolish of an idea it had been.

  “…Perhaps…” Runt answered, long and slow. “But in my experience, stories have more merit than most would expect.”

  “Then you think you’d find some unliving family out there that started all this?”

  “Not exactly. But I would expect to find something similar enough. This might have all started with someone summoning the Woe out of desperation. There could be a ritual sight out there… somewhere.”

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  “Corpsehunter’s’ve patrolled these lands for centuries. Nobody’s ever come across any ritual sights.”

  “None who lived to tell.” Runt replied, his demeanor shifting enough for Dragomir to see that he had an idea.

  “What is it?”

  “Are there records of past Corpsehunters?” Runt asked. “An archive where I might have a list of when and where they disappeared?”

  “With our Templars.” Dragomir spoke. “But they guard our records zealously. You’d be hard pressed to be given access. I can't even get into them easily.”

  “We might as well try.” Runt said while rising from his seat.

  “Why? What could the records tell you that we don’t already know?”

  “You might be surprised at what a fresh pair of eyes can find.” Runt said, his short smile playing at the high point of his cheek. “It would do no harm to see what we can uncover.”

  —-------------------

  Their entry into the Templar’s Hidden Hall was far swifter than Dragomir would have ever expected. Located near the edge of Blestrysnia, in the furthest corner from its gates, the Hidden Hall was both an archive and resting place for many of Blestrysnia’s heroes. Many bones of countless Honored Dead were buried beneath its foundations; across and throughout its halls were monuments to their deeds. It was here where the Templars made records of their actions, writing their names and causes of death. It was a hallowed place, one of silent worship to gods the people of Blestrysnia had long forgotten the name of. In the low candle flame, only within this building which predated the Deep Woe itself, might Dragomir and Runt’s query be answered.

  The Templars took to Runt’s request rather quickly. Perhaps out of pity for who they must have thought to be a dying man. But alongside Dragomir’s vouching, the Templars allowed them access to their records of past Corpsehunters. From there, Runt went about collecting old records, bringing together entire ledgers on last expeditions and their journeys. He had no maps but Dragomir was certain that he was making one in his head from how studiously Runt wrote down various details onto a spare parchment.

  Left with little to do, Dragomir only watched and waited for Runt to conclude his work. And after three whole hours, he did.

  “Interesting…” Runt muttered from beneath his mask while pausing in his work.

  “What is it?” Dragomir asked, his eagerness fueled by boredom as much as his hope that Runt had truly uncovered something.

  “What do you know about the south-eastern side of the Barrow Mountain?”

  Dragomir thought over all he’d learned about that most terrible of places, but came up with nothing. “Not a detail you could use. I’d wager I know as much about it as the rest of the mountain. That entire mountain is blighted, little else matters to us.”

  “I ask because there seems to be a pattern forming. Of the expeditions launched to the mountain’s south-eastern side, all Corpsehunters were lost twelve percent more often than around other areas of the mountain. And expeditions would take heavy losses thirty percent more often than usual…”

  “Percent…?”

  Runt looked at Dragomir. “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry but, I don’t know what that means.”

  Runt cleared his throat. “It means that for some reason, that part of the Barrow Mountain is more dangerous than anywhere else in these lands. Over the last two centuries there’s been a pattern of more Corpsehunters dying there than anywhere else. And quite a few expeditions were lost entirely.”

  “Maybe they found something dangerous.” Dragomir reasoned. “Like the source of all this…”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Runt answered before standing. “No time to waste then…” He spoke while closing the ledgers, cleaning his now book-covered table while speaking. “How quickly can we set out?”

  “It would take hours. I could gather some other Corpsehunters, Florin at least if you give me until next mealtime.”

  “Fine then.” Runt waved him away. “Just see to it that everything we need is ready, then we’re leaving for the Barrow Mountain.”