Far into the Sagolii desert, well beyond where anyone sensible would have turned back, there was a small camp, just a few tents by a cooking fire with a pot hanging over it. Seated by the fire was a man, but on closer inspection there was something… off about him.

His chainmail was old and rusted, covered in dust and grime, and his skin was unnervingly pallid with a greenish tinge. Most tellingly the scent of rot wafted off of him. It was no secret the undead roamed the desert, and this was clearly one of them.

Seeing someone approaching, the man’s eyes widened and his raised his hands in surrender. “S-Stay your sword! I promise, I'm not like the others. Why, I absolutely despise the taste of adventurer brains!”

He watched the stranger anxiously, looking more ready to flee than attack. When no weapon was drawn against him he slowly began to relax.

“You aren’t going to cut me to pieces? Or run off screaming? You are the first I’ve met who has done neither. All the others run away before I can even speak. Mayhap you were distracted by the way I was eyeing your flesh? I swear to the gods, I was simply admiring your skin tone. I've not snacked on so much as a pinkie finger in days. Days, I tell you!”

The zombie found himself at a loss for what to do. Being dead he didn’t have much to offer a living person by way of hospitality. He shifted awkwardly as he tried to think how to put his unexpected guest at ease.

“My dear friend Sabotendrick gave me a deck of cards. I would offer to play with you, but I'm afraid I accidentally, ah, ate them. But have no fear, it's only a matter of time before they fall out of one of the many holes in my innards. Er, in the meantime, perhaps we could converse? I’m more articulate than many of my brethren, as you may have noticed.”

“You may call me Hab.” He bent slightly at the waist in a polite bow. “I am certain I had a longer name once, but I’ve long since forgotten it, so just Hab will do. If you don’t mind my presence, or my odor, you are welcome here as long as pleases you.”