Humans are terrible

Tim stared at the small bundle of cloth sitting at the entrance to the dungeon, and decided that he hated humans even more now then when he had been alive.

That antisocial nature had been his downfall, of course. He'd died trying to solo this dungeon...well. he couldn't remember how many years it had been now. Probably close to a century.

He'd made it pretty deep, at least the tenth level before falling to a pit trap. He'd managed to grab the edge and hold on, but he didn't have the strength to pull himself up in his heavy armor. A companion might have saved his life there. He didn't regret it though. Honestly, he enjoyed being a skeleton guard for the dungeon. Unlife here was simple. He didn't have to worry about food, or sleep, and he had a steady supply of adventurers to help keep his sword skills sharp.

A burbling noise from the bundle interrupted his reverie. Tim clattered over to the bundle and crouched to peer inside. It was as he expected. A small red-faced infant was swaddled in the middle of the dirty cloth. Tim sighed, which was quite a feat without lungs, and picked up the bundle.

Hello child . Tim spoke calmingly into the child's mind. The infant screamed.

Hush . Tim put just a little force behind the words, and the infant stopped crying. That was good. What shall I do with you? He mused out loud. Well, out psychically.

He couldn't keep the child in the dungeon of course. There were far too many potential issues with that. Then again, he had been left in the dungeon. He? The tall skeleton pulled the cloth back for a second. Ok, she had been left in the dungeon. She must have come from the village just down the hill from the dungeon entrance. Could he return her? Or would they just leave her somewhere else to die? Tim really hated humans.

"Whaaat have?" Came a croaking voice. Tim spun around.

Nothing. Tim lied, hiding the child behind his back. He read the text over the speaker.

Garth. Level 15 zombie dwarf Once a highly motivated adventurer like you, Garth succumbed to the perils of the dungeon and was reanimated as a guardian. I'm sure you'll be fine though.

Tim both hated and appreciated the system. It never adjusted its descriptions based on who was reading, so he always got the same text as the adventurers who plumbed the dungeons depths. It seemed like something that should be fixed.

He did appreciate that it gave him the zombie's name though. Tim was terrible with names. Go away, Garth.

Garth leaned to the left to try and look around Tim. "Have foood?" He croaked.

No food Garth. Go away.

Garth, predictably, didn't listen. Zombies were dumb, but they had a sixth sense for anything edible. Sixth, because they definitely couldn't smell food - not over the noxious odor of their own decomposition. He tried leaning further, and Tim leaned with him. Garth tried leaning right instead. He was missing his foot on that side and collapsed. Tim vaguely recalled cutting that foot off as the former adventurer had tried to flee. That had to be at least six months ago.

"Foood!" Garth croaked happily from the ground, spotting the bundle behind Tim's back.

Not food. Human child.

Garth puzzled the statement for a minute. "Same thing." He replied eventually. He scrambled to his feet, which took a surprisingly short amount of time. "Give." He ordered, lurching forward at Tim. Tim sighed, clutched the bundle to his chest with one bony arm, and drew his sword with his other.

"Where going?" Garth asked a few moments later, wobbling down the hallway after Tim.

Deeper . Tim responded. The upper levels of the dungeon here were all dirt, excavated by miners centuries ago. Glowing blue lichen covered the walls, providing just enough light to see. He passed into a small cavern where an underground stream ran. It was only about an inch deep, but the wet rocks were slippery - especially with bony feet. He took his time crossing the narrow stream before picking up his pace.

A loud thumping noise came from behind him. Garth had slipped on the rocks and fallen. The zombie was on his knees in the shallow stream, feeling around for the head Tim had relieved him of earlier. Tim turned, grabbed the head from the water and handed it to the walking corpse. Garth grabbed it after only three attempts, pushing it down on the stump of his neck. "Thaanks." He considered a moment. "Now foood?"

Your head isn't connected to your body. You can't eat.

"Have mouth." Garth protested.

Tim just strode away. An uneven thumping noise told him that Garth was still following.

Tim took a left when the tunnel branched, and sped up to try and outpace Garth. He took several more left branches in the twisty tunnels before reaching his destination. Adventurers never came down this path, convinced, he supposed that so many left turns would loop back. He soon reached his destination - a dead end. He pushed past the cloth that hid his secret room. It was painted with mud, with small stones embedded in it to give the appearance of a dirt wall. He'd tested it with a torch an unlucky adventurer had 'donated', and it had stood up to inspection under its bright light.

The room had once been sleeping quarters for the miners. All that was left now was a half rotten wooden table, two mouldering cots, a rusted iron chest, and a large shelf filled with books. Tim placed the bundle on the table, then checked the infant inside. She was sleeping, her eyes closed and snot bubbles popping rhythmically out of one nostril.

Satisfied, Tim turned to the bookshelf. These were his prize possession, all rescued from overconfident dungeon divers. Most were magic books, of limited interest to him. Some were story books, which he enjoyed immensely. It got lonely in the dungeon, after all. He picked over the titles until he found the one he was looking for. He picked it up, and the system dutifully gave him a description.

Book. A guide to the habits and customs of Firnosians

a useful book if you're planning a trip, or are having trouble sleeping.

The village near the dungeon was part of the nation of Firnosia, and Tim wanted to see if it contained a reason for the baby being left in the dungeon. He found a reason near the back of the book.

The evil eye. Heterochromatic children are considered in Firnosia to be cursed by the Gods, the same as in the rest of the civilized world. It is well known that those with heterochromatia are destined to become evil witches or warlocks, depending upon gender. The method of dealing with this issue varies from country to country, of course. In Firnosia the children are typically abandoned to the elements, allowing whatever God cursed them to enact his or her judgement upon the child.

Tim really, really hated humans. He hadn't noticed if the child had two different eye colors, but it would fit. He turned to check.

Garth stood beside the table, holding his head over the table, inches from the sleeping infant.

Garth! Get away from her! Tim put all the psychic weight behind the words that he could. Garth didn't move. Tim dashed forward, shoving the zombie away from the child. Garth crashed to the floor. And then just sat there, holding his head in his hands. Finally, he placed his head on his neck and turned it towards Tim.

"I... remember some." He croaked.

Tim nodded sadly. I know. That was the real curse of becoming a zombie. Not the rotting flesh, or the insatiable hunger. It was the fact that once in a while, they remembered. Remembered who they had been. And what they had done to other humans since being turned.

"Girl?" Garth croaked. Tim nodded again. "I had...dau..dau..girl." Garth sat quietly for a moment, his rheumy eyes far away from the dungeon. "Loved her. Call mer... Merideth." He nodded his head in satisfaction at pronouncing the name, promptly dropping it in his lap.

If Tim had eyes, they would have rolled. The best he could manage was dimming the red lights in his eye sockets slightly. He helped the dead man to his feet. Foot. Whatever.

Garth looked longingly at the bundle on the table. Not food. Tim warned.

"Not foood. Mer...mer-i-deth." Garth stuttered out.

No. I'm sorry Garth. That's not your daughter. Her name isn't Merideth.

"Is now."

Tim looked, and sure enough, a description popped up.

Merideth. Level 1 human.

Tim put his face in his hands. You named it. Her. Why would you name her?

Garth looked confused. "Good naame. What wrong naame." His eyebrows lowered. "You no like naame?" He said in a threatening tone.

It's a fine name. But we're not keeping her. You shouldn't have named her.

Garth shrugged, his head rolling precariously. "Good name." He said, as though that settled the issue.

Tim sighed. It was pointless to explain anything to a zombie. Let's get you fixed up and on your way. He led the decapitated zombie to one of the cots and sat him down. The old canvas of the cot gave way immediately, depositing Garth on the floor. He didn't seem to notice. Tim opened the iron chest, which squealed in protest, and withdrew a needle and some thread. He started sewing the zombie's head back on. Garth kept trying to watch him work, forcing Tim to constantly force his head back forward.

When it was finally done, Tim stepped back to admire his handiwork. Garth's head was attached slightly sideways. Good enough.

Garth stood, turning his head side to side. "Fix!" He declared happily. Then the stitches tore and his head plummeted to the floor.

The second attempt was more successful, and Garth was able to turn his head easily. Tim pushed the zombie towards the cloth door. Off you go.

Garth dragged his feet. Foot. "No go. Staay." He croaked.

Not happening. Tim pushed harder, forcing the zombie to the entrance of the room. Garth stuck out his arms, bracing himself against the door frame.

The struggle lasted longer than Tim would have liked to admit. Even rotten flesh had a strength advantage over plain bones - even if they were magically reinforced.

A sudden noise stopped the struggling undead. Tim shushed Garth, who took advantage of the pause to shove Tim out of the way and dash back into the room. Quiet. Tim ordered. He listened.

Muffled voices floated through the tunnel. Adventurers, Tim realized. Well, that was fine. They couldn't find his little room anyways.

The voices grew louder, until finally he was able to make out a gruff voice that certainly belonged to a dwarf. "It's down this way!"

"You're sure?" A female voice asked.

"Yep. The footprints are right there."

Tim looked down and found wet footprints on the floor. He looked over at Garth, noticing for the first time that the zombie's pants were soaking wet, leaving a wet trail everywhere he went.