WARNING!L Non-graphic mention of pedophilia/necrophilia. You have been warned.
A wanderer he was, that tramp. Othwell Addison, that bizarre little fish-monger who wandered between Bowerstone and Oakfield. A sack of trout over one shoulder and a purse of coins around his waist, with a shovel slung across his back. He was missing an eye, or at least wore an eyepatch, and had a scruffy beard of grey.
Not a single hair on the top of his head, he wandered the highways of Albion selling his fish and doing work on the yards of the upper class and the farmers. Thought not always with their persmission, which could get him into quite some trouble. But he was not a bad person, no. He just couldn't find any one place to settle himself in.
"Oh, dammit!" his shout rang. "I dropped all me damn fish, now! How's suppose am I to make a damn profit now?"
Several passers-by stopped to see the crazy old man scream at himself. He was quite amusing.
"Oh sure, now," he shrieked at them, "ye laugh at the old loon, do ye? I'll show ya!"
By the time he was done, everybody had walked away laughing.
Several days later, Othwell had sailed to Bloodstone, intent on catching some of the rare fish that lived in those deep waters. As he stumbled through the streets of the dank, musky town, he ran across a few of those lovely ladies working on the street.
"Say, ma'am," he said to a scrawny blonde, "how's about I give ya some gold and we take up a lodging at the inn, eh?"
The prostitute just laughed at the poor man, then walked away. Oddly enough, she walked into the arms of a man looking to be in worse condition than Othwell. But it was never a smart idea to cause trouble in Bloodstone, especially if you were an outsider.
"Well just me damn luck, not even a whore'll lemme have a go."
Downtrodden, Othwell found himself in the graveyard just outside of Bloodstone. Or at least part of it. The damn thing took up nearly a third of the Wraithmarsh. Realizing his loneliness, the old fish-monger slung the shovel off his back and ran about the cemetery.
"Which one of these is a girly...," he trailed off as he checked each headstone. His search went for quite some time before he finally started digging. Poor thing died after only twelve years. Quite common for some thirty years ago, though. Othwell was lucky to be as old as he was.
There was a corroded box under all that dirt, and the sad, lonely man pulled it up all on his own, surprising for a man of his stature and weakness. Lifting the lid off of the coffin, there was a green and purple corpse, bones showing through that paper-thin flesh. Blue-black hair as wispy as a cobweb sprawled from the cadaver's rotting head.
"I bet you were a looker, eh?"
Wasting no time, the deluded freak took himself out and engaged the carrion girl in quite the carnal moment. It had been long, so long, since his last encounter with a woman. This was just what he needed. And even better, this one wouldn't judge him.
Tossing the coffin and the girl unceremoniously back into the grave, the wretched old man wandered the paths of Wraithmarsh back towards Bloodstone. He had some fish to catch, after all, and he couldn't well go losing his profit.