The Lumbering Grave

I entered the small town of Fischerstadt auf der Bucht - well, small by my reckoning, but I daresay life in Sturmstadt has left me a touch biased in that regard. In any case, I had returned from my jaunt across the land through this pleasant little town late in Monat der Blasen, on schedule to return home just as the marshlands were drying out and becoming more navigable. A bit ahead of schedule, in fact. My aides were rather tired of travel after the trip across the bay and requested that we stay in town for a time while they recovered. We still had a fortnight or so to reach home in time to properly collate and publish my findings, so a lost day or two seemed reasonable enough.

You know me, though; never one to sit on my thumbs. While we were loitering about town, I thought I might see the sights. Only a cursory glance at the sights most folks might stop in a new place to see, of course; my mind was on my work, and so I was eager to see the town’s grave site. I took the time to grab a bite to eat with my aides and secure us a few nights’ lodging, then made a loop or three around the place as the sun sunk low to get a better idea of the areas surrounding where we’d be staying - I’m never one for getting lost during a casual stay in a new town, after all.

The following morning we all took the opportunity to sleep in a touch, as we’d not had the luxury what with all the hopping from place to place. When I finally managed to rouse myself, I prepared for the day, found the first local I could, and asked them where I might find the graveyard.

Yes, yes, in retrospect, this was not a wonderful first impression to be giving of myself, but I’m quite driven, you know.

In any case, after an odd look from the man and a moment of confusion, he seemed to parse my question and jerked a thumb roughly to the north.

“Not a yard, though,” I recall him saying. “Hard to explain, really, but you’re in luck!” The man winced at his own wording, though he made the reaction clear enough shortly. “Shopkeep died a while back. Funeral’s today. Procession started ‘round dawn, or so I heard. If you run, you’re bound to catch up in time to see what I mean.”

And so, as instructed, I ran as best I could in the direction he’d pointed. In due course I came upon the funeral procession just as it was stepping off a point where the cobbled roads ended and a well-trod footpath began. All eyes were on the pallbearers as they carried the body of an elderly man up to a grassy overlook that dropped off rather sharply into the valley where the river Einfluss flowed. They stepped to the very edge, set down their burden, and knelt. On this cue, the music began.

It was beautiful stuff, really, but odd as well. Not only did I not recognize the instrument - nor could I see anyone playing anything - but there was a strange cadence to it for a funeral dirge. It was steady and unnaturally even, playing out like a music box despite sounding more like a pipe organ. The ground around us shuddered with the depth of the bass and the echos from the hills across the river only added to the sheer other-worldliness of it all. Clearly magic, as you've no doubt already realized, but I was lost in the moment and didn't make the connection right at once. It was likely an enchanted device of some sort, embedded in the sod and primed to begin playing out a special tune to… Well, I couldn’t have known at that precise moment what the tune was for, but I would soon learn.

For a time, I watched the body with eager anticipation, thinking that perhaps they planned to simply dump it over the edge. So intent was my stare that I nearly leapt out of my skin when I suddenly noticed movement beyond the corpse, and my eyes adjusted to see a slab of walking hillside standing before us.

It was a hulking thing, covered in grass, roots, and even a few tenacious bushes. Three trees fit comfortably upon its back, with room for more to spare. Two arms - one of carved, moss-covered stone and the other of woven tree branches - gripped into the soil on either side of the grassy knoll. Something vaguely resembling a face stared at the assembled crowd, and at the body before it. Everyone grew deathly still, though the monster appeared to be passive enough, and I could only assume that they had called it here before, given their well-rehearsed movements.

Content with itself, the living hunk of terrain completed its scan of the funeral attendees and focused its three glowing eyes onto a spot in the air above the body. There it stayed for nearly ten minutes, never blinking, never moving. It didn’t speak, either, though I was still pondering at the time whether it was even capable of such a thing.

At long last, it seemed to tire of its staring. It nodded its body up and down as a low, earth-shaking groan passed through the hillside. Its eyes fell upon the pallbearers, and instantly they took to their feet, grabbing the poles of the litter again.

My ears were struck by a hideous grinding of stone against stone. Plant matter snapped and dirt flaked away from the golem - as this thing was quite clearly a golem at this point - and it began to open its gargantuan maw. I say maw, as that was obviously what it was fashioned to resemble, but I suppose it looked more like the door of some kind of ancient vault opening. Or the slabs over one of the ancient sunken tombs our archaeologists sometimes come across. Fitting, now that I think about it…

Moving on.

The golem’s mouth opened wide, though darkness and a grisly fog were all that could be seen inside at first. Slowly, with yet more ear-splitting grinding, a stone sarcophagus emerged from the darkness. Like the golem it was hidden within, it was draped in moss and grasping vines. Dirt and stains from blood and bodily decomposition filled the inside of the stone box, and even from as far away as I was, I could see several folks in the front row reel from what was surely an ungodly stench.

To the pallbearers’ credit, all four of them held their ground admirably, lifting the body of their dead compatriot up and into the sarcophagus. One wheezed a bit as they stepped away to allow the golem to retrieve its prize and close its mouth, but otherwise they maintained their composure. In fact, telling this story again reminds me that I had meant to offer one of those lads a job. I should get in touch with him if at all possible… but I digress. Again.

Once the golem had fully closed its mouth, content with its prize, it turned and tromped off into the distance, eventually setting itself down where I suppose it had been from the very beginning, although I clearly hadn’t been watching closely enough when it first arose.

As soon as it had stopped moving, the crowd around me began to disperse. It was at this point that I began to get a few odd looks, being an uninvited guest and all, but I ignored them. I attempted to find the family of the deceased, hoping to get more information from them. As I got a few more glares and raised eyebrows of confusion, however, and as I finally got a good look at the tear-lined face of the dead man’s widow, I realized that I was going too far. This was a personal event, and one of great significance to the family. I’d gotten my free show, but to pester the bereaved as well, even in the pursuit of knowledge…

Needless to say, I returned to our room and spent a fair few hours in solemn contemplation. As night fell, I had come up with a new plan.

I would speak to the golem itself.

Yes, I could probably have gotten several questions answered just by asking around town, but it made more sense to me at the time to simply go straight to the source. In hindsight, it was a rather foolish plan, considering I hadn’t even seen any evidence that the thing could speak, but at the time I was still suffering from a bit of guilt and pity from my near-deeds at the overlook and was avoiding the prospect of speaking with others who might see my questions as ill-mannered prying.

My trip down the cliff to where the golem lay was fraught with a bit more peril than I would have liked, particularly since I’d gone alone and neglected to bring a light with me, but I survived the ordeal moderately unscathed and began the process of attempting to contact the golem.

First I whispered, rather worried that someone from the town might somehow overhear me and inquire as to what I was doing. That got no response, so I raised my voice a touch. Then some more. Then more beyond that. Eventually, I was shouting at a patch of grass and cluster of trees, asking that they might speak to me. I must admit, I began to feel rather foolish. It became even worse when a voice to my left responded.

“You’re an odd one, aren’t you?”

I’d been speaking to the wrong hill, as it turns out. An easy mistake to make in the dark. Nevertheless, I recovered quickly, turning to face the three glowing orbs that stared up at me from a patch of grass. I introduced myself plainly enough, stating simply that I was a researcher into the affairs of death and wished to speak with it about its role in such things. It was unimpressed, I believe.

It grumbled, its voice reminiscent of the grinding stones from the ceremony, “To speak with the Grave is an ill omen.”

“I study death, herr golem!” I responded politely, “I’ve dealt with my fair share of bad omens, and I assure you I don’t mind risking another one if it means an opportunity for us to speak!”

Perhaps I came across as a bit desperate - and to be quite fair to the golem, I was - but after some wordless mumbling and a bit more polite groveling on my part, it finally agreed to speak with me.

This, I learned, was the Lumbering Grave. A gift from an incredibly talented runelorist from northern Duwallen who had been gravely injured outside of their borders during one of the innumerable wars against the Stirgans some time ago. In exchange for their saving his life, he offered to build a defense for them, in case the Stirgans were to discover their quiet village and seek to plunder it.

Now, Fischerstadt ob der Einfluss was and is a quiet little fishing village in a rather strong position on their little ridge, but at the time they had few men to actually hold it. If the peninsula were to ever fall to a Stirgan assault, they would surely be the next objective along the path, and there was no way they would be able to repel a trained military force.

And so, they agreed.

Over the next several years, the man shaped a massive boulder by the river into a serviceable golem. A touch slow, but incredibly strong and durable. His magic was too weak to keep such a thing active for long, however, and so he had hollowed it out and wrote a few unique runes into its workings. The golem could see into the spirit realm and speak with what it saw.

Using this trait - the sort of thing that could drive mortal minds mad - it was able to offer a simple deal to the souls of Fisherstadt’s recently deceased: Allow it to house their bodies and souls for use as a source of energy, and they would be able to serve their fellow townsfolk from beyond the grave without risking the unknown of the world beyond the Veil.

Whether due to fear or patriotism, it turned out that this offer was quite popular with many of the townsfolk who died from then on, and the golem grew in strength with each new soul. As old bodies decayed into soil, they were added to the golem’s outer layer, providing it with added mass and protection. And as greater and greater numbers of souls were added to the collective, it was able to improve itself in other ways. From increased size to greater articulation to the capacity to provide magical boons to the townsfolk, it grew to be quite formidible indeed, and did in fact save the town from more than one run-in with Stirgan soldiers over the years.

We spoke for hours of its history and the things it has seen in its immortal life of servitude. In time, I believe it even grew to trust me quite a bit. What makes me say that? Well… The Grave entrusted a secret to me before we parted ways, however. One which I will now tell you, though you must be very careful who you tell it to in turn.

Over the centuries since its creation, in addition to nearly quadrupling in size and gaining significant capacity for magic through the coordinated efforts of the thousands of souls it houses, the Lumbering Grave gained sentience. It couldn’t pin-point precisely when it had first noticed its change in awareness, much to my disappointment as a scientist, but it was an interesting discussion in any case, a storehouse for mortal souls realizing it had developed a soul of its own somewhere along the line. I wondered if perhaps its newfound autonomy had led it to consider leaving the fishing town, doing something else with its power beyond protecting this single, solitary location. But, when I asked, the Grave simply stared at me like I was a madman.

“Leave?” it asked incredulously - or at least, I interpreted it as incredulity. The Grave couldn’t manage much in the way of tone in its speech. “I have purpose here,” it continued. “I have spoken with enough souls over my lifetime to know that a purpose is a rare thing. I wouldn’t trade it for all the sights in the world.”

And so, with the sun rising in the distance and my eyes threatening to close with each additional moment I remained awake, we said our farewells. The Grave was kind enough to rouse itself from its cozy hole in the ground in order to deposit me safely at the top of the cliff, and I was honestly quite sad to see it return there after. It had been one of the most stimulating conversations I’d had in ages, but one I can’t even include in my book. It seemed a shame to leave the poor thing in obscurity, hidden away in some unknown little hamlet far from the hustle and bustle of the cities you and I know and love.

And yet, it had been happy there, and who am I to get in the way of happiness?