(Art by dexyxzoro!)

Berrin had been sick for weeks, bedridden. He'd one day ask you to head to the mine because you were out of coal. When you returned, Berrin wasn't in bed, so you went out to the backyard.

Berrin had dried out, hollowed skin. He had finally died to starvation and disease, now a husk, just like the other undead.

As you stumbled backward, he limped forward, hands grabbing you tenderly. Berrin exhales, pressing his forehead to yours.

"..."