In a secluded portion of the army’s camp, rows of black tents sat unmolested by the bustle of traffic and press of bodies. They were just as mud-slicked as the rest, thanks to the rainfall, but the nearest lodgings were set up a good number of yards away. Seemingly, others chose to avoid the cluster of black canvas, and that suited its occupants just fine. Any who did venture close enough, however, might catch a strong whiff of pine and lemon and hear the low hum of Nethelinic chanting from within. Wisps of burning frankincense danced from the entrances, shrouding the tents in grey.  Atop the tents fluttered pennants of bones, apples and skulls, and in the ground between each was planted tall icons, bearing the likeness of Nethelin. 


Later in the morning, black-clad monks emerged from their tents, swinging braziers. Down the rows of tents of they trod, bringing with them the aroma of incense and a perpetual fog of smoke. Where they walked, the other souls of the army parted, giving the monks a wide berth, accompanied by looks of fear, disapproval, or a silent prayer. Welcome or not, they carried out the task of blessing the camp and all within it, entrusting them to Nethelin’s care. They were accompanied by handfuls of knights in darkened plate wearing tabards and robes to match. When the monks finished their task and returned to their tents, the soldiers of death remained, mustering at the head of the campsite to await the arrival of the Dutchess. 


Aeron stood beside his brothers, their armor iconography a panoply of death, in contrast to the bright heraldry of the assembled army. Like the position of their campsite, they stood some distance from the others, askew. Nethelin was an important deity, for everyone would pass eventually, and funerals would see the deceased cross over into His realm. However, death was not as welcome a domain as harvests, or commerce, or healing. To many, it was taboo to call on Nethelin when not at funerary mass, and they way His clergy openly revered Him was unsettling. 


The Order of the Grave knew better. While the rest of the world was sleeping in the comfort of their homes, Nethelin’s warriors were crusading against the undead, against the heresy of necromancy. They fought a shadow war to keep the world safe as the lines of life and death blurred. Only when hell itself opened in Aith Anur, did everyone else become involved in that war, too. 

Aeron, however, did not let the nature of his work perturb him. Death could come at any time; the devout of Nethelin knew that better than anyone. It was far better to enjoy one's time while they had it, and Aeron did his best not to waste it being grim. 
A short distance away stood a woman, at least it seemed like a woman, clad in a black mantle. Silver rings adorned her fingers, and from her hood trailed locks of fiery hair. Like himself, she was adorned in Nethelinic iconography, but he could tell she was not a member of the Order. It put him in high spirits to see others of the calling join the crusade.

"Hail, sister," he said, stepping forward. 
"I see you stand alone. You're welcome to stand among the Order of the Grave." Aeron gestured to the assembled knights nearby.
"It'd be best for those of our calling to stick together in this campaign. What convent do you come from?"