The busy roads of the small village surrounding the manor estate bustle continuously with passing servants and keepers of the grounds. SOme entering the displayed shops distantly placed from one another. Multiple rail tracks run through the grounds bearing the heavy metal carts filled to the brim with rock and silver ore. The carts are pushed along by dark-skinned, stout Duergar accompanied by at least one well-armed guard. The Duergar pay little heed to those around them, maintaining their anti-social natures for the world to see quite clearly.

What passes for an Inn for travelers upon these grounds is kept up for only a few, though most seem to be passing through without hesitation or pause. None within the populace seem phased by the presence of the rotting damned in their near-human forms. Most of such creatures are clothed as living beings with minds and personalities as though nothing of their existence had changed, save for the drive to serve this manor estate. The Inn is quite obvious for those searching; a symbol of a bed is etched upon a wooden sign hanging overhead its doorway. Few pass in and out of the structure save for those who are likely employed within the establishment. Not far off from this building is another with a sign bearing a symbol of a dagger with some hint of fumes rising from the blade. Across the road from this building stands a structure with a pot and sack of grain upon the sign.

The man in the graveyard continues gently stroking the slightly curved edge of his spear while puffing softly upon the tobacco in his pipe. His feet hang a few inches from the tallest blade of grass emitting upward from the soft earth of the dead to whom the headstone belongs. He is quite, making little noise other than the sharpening of his blade. He glances up, noticing the large muscular female heading more in his direction. Whether she seeks to speak with him, he is unable to currently ascertain. Thus, he continues with his quieted efforts upon the headstone.