The Bloody Crown - Continued
In that dread desert, beneath the moon’s pale gaze, dead men walk.
They haunt the shifting dunes of the breathless, windless night, brandishing weapons of bronze in mocking challenge and bitter resentment of the life they no longer possess.
And sometimes, in ghastly dry voices, like the rustling of sun-baked reeds, they whisper the one word they remember from life. The name of the one who cursed them to their existence of more than death but less than life.
They whisper the name, Nagash.
While the others returned to the Harvester's Haven, Viggo headed off to play at the Duke. He didn't have much luck plying his trade there - though some of the patrons noticed him, what he overheard about their opinion of his performance wasn't good. Disheartened, he sidled off to bed.
Festag, 13th Pflugzeit
Rising early in the morning, Adelbert led the way back into the winding streets of the Old Town. The Red Moon was still where he had seen it yesterday, looking a touch less ominous in the bright morning light. He could hear stable-hands at work in the alley that led down the side of the old clay-brick building, and the chilly proprietress greeted him at the door.
"Ah," she said, recognising Adelbert immediately. "You're looking for Herr Klammenberg." She paused, running an eye over the others with him. "What shall I tell him your business is?"