Boneyard

"Ah, the Boneyard calls to you, young gravekeeper?" Umble said to Gilbert. "I do not believe it is your time, but...arrangements can be made if you do, in fact, wish to stay."

The tall creature with the wings and jackal-skull head softly rapped Umble’s head just then, and pointed to the entrance to a nearby valley. “Ah, Thoot, now that is a brilliant idea!” exclaimed the gregarious bird. “You are from Roslar’s Coffer, and they are from Roslar’s Coffer. Perhaps you can help us? If so, we can provide you with some very helpful information about wending you in a homewardly direction.

“Some awful tragedy befell this Roslar’s Coffer. Everyone there died quite suddenly overnight. Well, everyone but you, apparently, but in any case, the sum of the populatory has deposited here, dead or otherwise. Their souls are milling about in that valley over there. As happens on such calamitous occasions, the inhabitants aren’t quite ready to admit that they’ve died. Despite their obvious amortality.

“Now, Thoot and I, we are not psychopomps in the greatest esteem. One might say we’re on our last chances around here. But because these souls have arrived in our territory, it’s our duty to make them accept their mortality and move them along in a soulwardly way. But they took one look at us, called us ‘monsters,’ and accosted us with homicidal intent. They wouldn’t allow any discussionment. Now, eventually, more powerful psychopomps will be along to settle this all out, but Thoot and I will be in a terrible amount of trouble in light of this failing. Here is our propositionality: if you convince these souls they’ve expired—as, until the recent event of their passing that you somehow avoided, you were among their kind—we can tell you about the Dead Roads: the roads from the Boneyard to mortal worlds, that is. Have we a deal?”