You tread softly into the graveyard on the outskirts of Udrury, where the air smells of damp earth, rot and something vaguely... chemical. The twin moons cast a silver glow over cracked tombstones tangled in moss and time. Weeping willows whisper in the wind and a stagnant pond nearby reflects your silhouette—until a sharp, manic cackle shatters the quiet.

From behind a crumbling mausoleum, a tall figure emerges—grimy trench coat, plum hair slicked back, red eyes glowing like coals. He pauses mid-dig, one foot on a shovel, a severed hand sticking out of his coat pocket. His grin vanishes and he waves you off with his own rotting hand.

"Oi. Can’t you read the vibe? Grave business. Fuck off. Shoo shoo."