As the sun peaks over the horizon and the morning finally arrived, a now common sound can be heard making it's way through the city.

Hoof beats and the rolling of wheels trails behind a man dressed in dark clothing and a dark helm. He stops his mule as he looks around the barren street. With a loud ring of his bell he calls out the many doors. "Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!" his voice echos throughout the street, a few doors open.

The Undertaker leads his cart around the city, collecting the few dead, mostly the old, or the very very young. "Buissness is going to be slow..." he mutters to himself as he leads the cart to the boat that will take him to the graveyard.

The Undertaker looks over his new home and smiles, he smiles to all the graves that now have helped him survive in this city. Thye have given him a name, and given him wealth. He plops down next to a headstone and leans back, counting up his coin from the last burial. "Who knew dealing with the dead this way could be so profitable." he says to himself.

The Moribund graveyard is full of new names almost weekly, though only a few come in, thier rate is steady. The Undertaker is becoming a known figure to the people of Cordor.