Surrounded by air that was thick with the scent of freshly turned earth, Azrath surveyed the newly expanded graveyard on the edge of Grin Hollow. It was a barren place—quiet, eerie, and perfect for a Necromancer like him. Azrath had been deep in thought, contemplating the future of his dark craft, when a figure appeared on the misty horizon: a traveler, hooded and cloaked in tattered rags, walking with a purposeful stride.
The traveler approached Azrath with a knowing glint in his eye, like someone who understood the power of silence and the weight of secrets. With a raspy voice, he spoke, “I have something you might find useful, Necromancer.”
Azrath raised an eyebrow, intrigued but not immediately speaking. His power over the dead was vast, but even he knew there were places where knowledge, or perhaps power, could be hidden—places beyond mortal comprehension.
“A map,” the traveler continued, holding out a parchment. “A map to the Forbidden Keep. I’ve heard whispers of a vault there, one filled with relics and treasures… dangerous things. Perfect for someone like you.”
Azrath stood still, considering the traveler’s words. The Forbidden Keep. A place of legend, long lost to time and myth. For centuries, none had dared seek it out. Yet, this stranger claimed to possess a map that could lead the way. Without a word, Azrath extended his hand to take the map, his long, bony fingers brushing the parchment.
Before he could speak further, a voice rang out from behind him, breaking the tension.
"Azrath! There you are!” Potabeau’s voice was laced with exuberance, and his steps were decidedly less ominous than those of his companion. He arrived, breathless, holding a clipboard and a set of colorful campaign posters.
“You know, I think Grin Hollow is finally ready for change! I’m *this* close to securing the mayor’s seat!” Potabeau continued, puffing his chest out with a flourish. “I just need to get the undead vote, and we are in! We’ll have *such* a fantastic turnout, you’ll see!”
Azrath turned slowly, his face unreadable, as Potabeau rushed forward, not noticing the traveler's lingering presence.
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“Look at this!” Potabeau handed Azrath a poster with exaggerated flair. It was a picture of him, dressed in an absurdly ornate mayoral sash, smiling widely beneath the words, *"Vote for Potabeau: The Charm You Need!"*
Azrath raised an eyebrow. “You’re still campaigning?”
"Indeed!" Potabeau beamed. “And as a candidate, I intend to cater to *every* demographic. Even the dead ones. Do you know how many zombies are lurking around here, neglected and ignored? It’s an untapped voting bloc! And with my charisma, I’m sure they’ll come around.”
Azrath was no politician, but Potabeau’s antics always amused him in their own strange way. He looked back at the traveler, then down at the intricate map he had just acquired. "I'll leave you to your... *campaigning*, and purchase this map." Azrath said with a dry tone, clearly uninterested in the mundane politics of the Hollow.
But Potabeau had already begun to hatch a plan. "No, no! You *must* help me, Azrath! I have the perfect idea for boosting my approval ratings. We will go around the Hollow, and I’ll—” He grinned with mischievous delight. “I’ll dress the zombies as *voters* and have them vote for me. Who will dare refuse an undead constituency?”
Azrath blinked, his mind momentarily boggled by the sheer absurdity of the proposal. “You’re going to dress *zombies* as constituents?” he asked, deadpan.
“Exactly!” Potabeau clapped his hands together. “And I will dress up the villagers as zombies! You’ll see, my friend! This plan will surely win me the election!”
The Necromancer sighed, turning back to the traveler. “You know what? I’ll be...watching from afar. Good luck with your ‘campaign.’” With that, he gave Potabeau a long, exasperated look before he walked off, the map crinkling in his hands.
**Nonetheless, in Grin Hollow...**
The following days were an exercise in pure chaos. Potabeau, unable to contain his enthusiasm, set about his campaign with zeal, putting his plan into motion. Zombies were pulled from their shambling rounds, their rotting forms now dutifully dressed in shabby town attire—coats, boots, even top hats. Each zombie was placed at a “polling station” (a rickety table with a cracked, makeshift ballot box), where villagers dressed in tattered clothes and smeared face paint staggered about, pretending to be the walking dead. Potabeau gave each “zombie voter” a pat on the back, making sure they “cast their vote” for him, and then proudly paraded them through the streets.
The scene was pure chaos—zombies stumbling through Grin Hollow's narrow streets, confused villagers half-heartedly waving their arms to mimic the undead, and Potabeau, in his campaign attire, making speeches to the “citizens” of his ever-expanding, eccentric constituency.
"Remember, friends!" Potabeau cried out, standing on a box and addressing a group of zombies. "A vote for Potabeau is a vote for prosperity, charisma, and humility! No more mistreatment of the undead! Together, we will lead Grin Hollow to a brighter future!"
At that moment one of the zombies, confused by the prospect of being elected to office, managed to grasp a nearby flowerpot and began using it to “vote” in the most literal way possible—by smashing it over a fellow zombie’s head. The two undead brawled clumsily, sending flower petals and dirt flying everywhere.
Potabeau, oblivious to the mayhem, continued his speech, “No more apathy, no more corruption! A new era for all of us—dead or alive!”
In the background, Azrath observed the spectacle from the safety of his newly constructed dark tower, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips. The map to the Forbidden Keep would wait for now. After all, in Grin Hollow, there was never a dull moment—even for a Necromancer.
