Gravedigger Goldenfield

I understand, not everyone is comfortable dealing with the undead.

Craft this rune, let me feel its energy, and perhaps it will unlock the door to my past, shedding light on the mysteries you seek.

But beneath the rotted flesh and the cold touch, I still carry the remnants of my humanity. It's a burden I bear with solemn pride.

My purpose in this unlife is to bring tranquillity to the departed.

In a world brimming with chaos, I ensure that those who fall receive the dignity of a peaceful rest, a final sanctuary from the turmoil.

Well, how does one measure well-being when the boundaries of life and death have been blurred?

Being undead is no walk in the park, but it does make for a fascinating existential riddle. I exist, yes, but do I live? That's a question for the philosophers.

If you want help from the dead, you have to help them first.

That's been my reality since my fateful encounter with the Fleshmancers, who wove their morbid magic and left me in this state.

Despite the dark hand I've been dealt, I've found a strange calm in my role as a gravedigger.

Alright, better hope I don't come knocking at night.

Suit yourself. More food for me, I suppose.

Help me put some souls to rest, and perhaps I can avoid snacking.

No peace for me, at least... those bodies are... tempting.

Looking to buy a plot? I have drop-dead deals.

Yes, actually, I have a job for you.

Work's piled up to my eyeballs. Could use a hand.

If you've got the stomach for it, I've got work.

Not now, but don't wander too far.

So far, so good. Check back later.

For now, it's under control. Thanks, anyway.

There's no peace in death if the body isn't put to rest.

The cemetery's my domain, filled with souls entrusted to me.

I try not to give in to my undead impulses, but sometimes it’s tantalising.

It's monotonous, yes, but it's also comforting. It provides a sense of purpose and a tether to the world of the living as I navigate this eternal purgatory.

The methodical process of digging, the solemn act of burial - it's a cycle that resonates with the rhythm of creation and dissolution.

Picture this: your heart falls silent, your veins run cold, and yet you plod on, bound to an existence that is neither life nor death.

Memories of my past life are like fragmented dreams, elusive and distorted. Yet, I'm almost certain that I was a Mystic.

There's a wealth of knowledge deep within me, an understanding of the arcane and ethereal that can only belong to a Mystic.

But now, after being reborn in this undead form, even the mere act of touching the crafting table fills me with discomfort.

I ask of you, craft a rune for me. I have the recipe. It's a rune I'm certain I was deeply familiar with.

This rune, the Scar, it's more than just an intricate symbol. It's a key, a gateway to my past, a beacon in the fog of forgotten memories.

You might look at my decaying visage and see an undead monstrosity.

I see, no hard feelings. My past is a mystery, after all.

They call me Mortimer Gloomsworth, the gravedigger of Goldenfield. It's a somber occupation, but essential nonetheless.

Ever since the portals, the town's seen an influx of newcomers... and new graves.