Mother of mecry this site is dreadful for posting anything long. Anywho. Keep in mind this is all the rough draft that I'm willing to share at the moment. I'll split up the gaps in time in the story into parts. This is the second part. [spoiler]Rain pattered down on the roof of the coach as he folded up the letter, slipping it back into its envelope safely where it belonged. The coach bounced and rocked along the old path in the mud as he sat in the dim confines, alone. Coldshore Cemetery. Farther inland from Coldshore Harbour. The cemetery was ancient. A part of old history, having endured for centuries untold. Perhaps, even thousands. It resided in the cold, damp fog of the murky forests that filled the coastline here up north, and since man was always so ornery about rituals in death, Coldshore Cemetery only grew wider over the centuries. Graves built upon graves, crypts, sprawling outwards ever more. Surprisingly, the cemetery was still manageable for one man alone. Although, keeping graves wasn’t exactly a hard pressed job. But Coldshore was unique. The undead were not uncommon across the world. From the scourge of those who fed on the blood of others in the shadows, vampires. To the beings that dwelled farther down south on the opposite coast of the continent in a place called The Shroud. The undead, the undying, were everywhere. Scattered across the world in all of their numerous forms like mankind itself, like the ancient, enduring remnants of magic, and all the forms it could take, alongside creatures of wonder, the undead were a part of life. But what made Coldshore Cemetery so profound, was the sheer number. It was as if the cemetery were a well of sorts. A collection, an indent on the land that drew souls to it. Why, he could think of no other place across all the world where the souls of the deceased walked so freely and appeared in such number. Which was why the long, and storied history of gravekeepers who had called this place home had a reputation. For they were more than just merely gravekeepers. And now, he was stepping in to fill the role. Stepping in to fill the shoes of the man who wrote this letter for his successor. Under the dim light in the coach he listened to the patter of rainfall on the roof and looked outside beyond the windows to dark and fog. The letter, written by Cromwell. The man knew what it was to be a keeper of the dead. Musing on the path that led him here, the long, winding road, tiring to him. A world he wanted to vanish from, and disappear from. The coach came to a sudden stop, lurching him back to things. No matter. He was here now. Slipping on his hat and a thicker coat, he opened the coach door to the black of night, lit only by the light of the lamps on the outside of the coach, and now, the light of an old building, not far away. Before him stood the gates of Coldshore Cemetery in the night, given some shape in the darkness and rain by light that shined through the windows of an old building behind them, ancient cobble and a simple, hayed roof. The sound of heavy iron was heard as a figure pushed through the blustering rain towards the coach in darkness. He could barely see the man as he strode towards him, and was barely even given a greeting as the man spoke up in the rain. “Right, you’re the replacement then?” “That I am.” “Right, I’ll not spend another night here! I’m just a courier for this place. I’ll take your shopping lists and bring you what you need. Get your bags ready. This place is all yours now!” In a hurried manner the man went round to the back of the coach as the driver steadied the horse up front. The driver spoke now. “This place. Spooks horses. Best if we all moved this along.” In silence the three men hauled trunks of luggage out to the only source of light in the rain and dark, promptly dropping them off at the steps of the old home at the gates. Through the light of the windows he could make out the man a little better but never got a chance to say anything, as the last of his trunks were dropped off and in hurried silence, the man quickly went out beyond the gates to the coach. The driver, a man more courteous, stayed behind, if only for a moment, tipping his hat in the rain. “I wish you luck sir. This job is not one so easily shouldered.” The driver held his hand out, and he took it, shaking it firmly. “Did you know the old keeper here before me? Cromwell?” Under the darkness of his hat the driver nodded. “Only vaguely, sir. I am but a ferryman. But I hear the fellow who watched over this place was the one who found him.” “What happened?” The coach driver chuckled. “What else? He died.” With one last tip of his hat in the blustering rain, the coach driver turned, walking back out to the dark beyond the house, closing the iron gates behind him. That was it then. He was the Gravekeeper now. The sound of leather straps and a horse making to move far away from here was heard alongside the creaking of the old coach. He looked out from the dim light that shined through the old windows of the house to the darkness beyond. There was nothing. Only wind and rain in the night. Well. That settled it then. He stood on the stone step to the house, feeling the patter of cold rainwater on his hat. May as well bring his luggage inside for the night. He’d sort things out in the morning. [/spoiler]