Them as knows me, knows I ain't one ta turn up me nose at a bit a honest labor. Truth be told, I'd as soon swing a pick as a pickaxe. An' even them what don't know me ain't got ta be swift as a elfie runnin' from a troll ta catch on that I ain't averse ta gittin' a bit a grime under me nails. Iffin me own mum named me Dirtbeard, ya gots ta figger the name fits. So when old Bloodsmythe called on me one day in the dead'a winter with a task what needed doin' I perked right up. No dwarf worth growin' a beard's gunna pass the chance ta earn some silver an' show a half-elf ya gotta git down close ta the groun' ta 'complish anythin'.

I says as much to that old sorcerer an' 'stead a hollerin' like he's most offin apt ta do, he jes chuckles. An' it ain't the sorta chuckle I likes ta hear. Ain't the sort what a fella gives sittin' by the fire after tossin' back a pitcher of stout an' tossin' down the good porshun of a karnelin. No sir, little pointy-eared boys an' girls, believe you me when Uncle Dirtbeard tells ya that this here chuckle was the sort what wilts them daisies ya fools is always pickin'. We're talkin' bout the sorta mirth that the Executioner likes ta engage in at the end of a long day with his buddies the Undertaker an' the Gravedigger. 'Twas a chuckle that comes from spendin' too much time cavortin' with them nether spirits an' not enough time courtin' the earthly spirits what's found in a good respectable bottle a rum.

"Close to the ground you are, and closer still you shall be," says the uppity master of unholy arts, like he's preachin' ta some crowd when thar ain't but two of us in attendance, 'ceptin' acourse me travelin' menagerie a' fleas, flies, an' other otherwise homeless vermin.

"Fine!" says I, not ta be out done. An' he tells me ta head on out ta the graveyard as there's a fella there fer me ta meet.

So when I's done drinkin' me payment after some hard negotiatin', I heads on out inta the winter snow an' me stout yet powerful legs soon carries me ta the gate out there. It seems ta me that when ya's headin' out inta the snow an' ta the graveyard at dusk ta boot, sharp wits is jes 'bout as useful as a halberd to a halfling, so whiles I's passin' time sittin' at the gates ta the Hell on Earth what's become of our graveyard an' likely waitin' on a rendezvous wid a demonic fiend, I helps meself to a few more sips from me handy flask. Needless ta say, when me appointment shows his face, I's face down in a snow drift wid a grin on me face.

First all I feels is this here kickin' in me side. Then when me wits flits by close enough that I kin grab `em by the hair, I sits up, dusts meself off, and sizes up me visitor. An' ugly cuss he were too! Fully six ungainly feet, blue eyes buggin' outta his head, an' hair the color a' wheat what's beggin' ta git lopped off an' fed ta a mule. Ain't much what's more revoltin' than the sight of some crazed high man late at night with a belly full of brew. Now I'd a beat him good fer kickin' me, 'ceptin' he were twice me size, smelled a durn bit more sober, an' had some kinda wild look in his eye.

The fella weren't from these parts an' didn't speak more than a few words a common, but that "I'd like ta rip apart everythin' what ain't sewed tagither tight an' can't run faster'n me" look a his told me thar weren't much for us ta discuss anyhows. He hands me a shovel an' we starts pushin' on the gate. Which is fine by me. Never was much of a conversationalist.

When we gets that gate open I durn near up an' met the Smith personal like at what I seen! That there graveyard was piled knee-high ta a Troll King wid skeletons an' ghouls what had given up the ghost twice. Thar was heads here an' rotten entrails thar an' bones rattlin' `round like we'd stepped inta one a them wand filled disks what floats around tryin' ta keep up wid scamperin' mages. By Iorak's Sweaty Armpits, I ain't seen so many unholy bodies lyin' bouts since the last Thieves' Guild party. The high man jes mumbles somethin' in that odd language he speaks an' starts a wadin' through the mess ta some tombstones a bit further on. Without much more talkin', he sets ta diggin' up grave!

Now mind ya, I's done me share of gravediggin'. More'n me share, in fact. But ta me mind, ya only oughta be diggin' a grave one time. Once ya got that dead fella restin' sound, thar ain't no call ta go doin' any extra labor. But then I's bin paid in full, so I leans to with me spade an' dirt starts ta fly.

The grave we's workin' at is mighty deep as most of the shallow ones gave up the bodies long ago ta send them walkin' about in the night slobberin' on honest folk an' generally causin' a ruckus. At first I figgers Bloodsmythe needs a body fer some experimentin' wid them forces what he'd best be lettin' alone anyhows. But this here lunatic high man next ta me is shovelin' so fast that I can't believe he's doin' this here for money. More like maybe he's out ta steal some baubel offa the corpse. Or maybe he's one a them folks what worries they loved ones is buried alive. Either way, we's down ta the casket in no time.

Now fer them as don't know, them undead scourges in the graveyard comes outta graves. Don't ask me how, as I ain't got a mind ta know, but seems thar's some foul curse out thar what turns the rest of tired souls ta murderous sleepwalkin'. Somethin' wakes them undead in them graves, they claws themselves out, an' next thing ya knows ya got mummies an' skeletons an' whatnot hangin' offa ya like moss on a halfling's feet. So I weren't surprised when we opens the coffin an' out starts a skeleton with glowin' pieces a coal fer eyes what seem ta have lit a burnin' desire ta rip out our throats.

My big high man friend didn't seem surprised either! Why he lets out a whoop an' breaks inta a big grin as the thing starts chewin' on his leg! I ain't never seen such foolishness! So ta be neighborly, I calls on me rangerly talents ta summon a vine an' throttle this here skeleton. No sooner is the skeleton dead, than the high man up an' starts in throttlin' me! Talk about ya fellas what ain't thankful fer nuthin'!

Well, soon he calms down an' settles fer jes cursin' me, an' since he's speakin' that furin tongue a his, I ain't takin' no offense. After a bit he calms down an' starts diggin' aggin. This time I ain't havin' none, so I jes sits down an' watches the fool, dodgin' the odd dirtclod he hurls at me. Before long he's down to another coffin, his eyes glowin' jes as wild as afore. This time when the skeleton pops out he's clobbered it upside the head afore I even blinks, an' jes stands thar grinnin' at me like he oughta git some prize.

That foolishness went on fer hours an' it weren't till jes afore the crack a dawn when I's back in me bed. Acourse the next day I looks up the sorcerer ta find out what the skinny is on this odd furin friend a his. What do you suppose the old codger tells me? Seems thar's a new lot of wild men in our lands what thinks Lorminstra's told them personal like through her valet Voln that they oughta pound the tar outta every Undead what they sees. Seems they bin tearin' up alla the usual haunts so fierce that them Undead's gittin mighty tough ta find. So some a the more fanatical types has taken ta pullin' Undead outta the ground afore they even gits a chance ta wonder around gnashin' them teeth a bit an' cursin' things.

Looks like Gravediggers is gonna start makin' silver hand over fist so I's ordered me a mithril shovel an' a few crates a' rum!

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