It has been a long time since I have last committed words to paper. Sadly this was due to an immeasurable reduction in my purse and personal liquidity and not any intention of mine to retire from this life of scholarly wandering.

Broke one might even say I was, poorer than a pauper begging on the city streets with barely a cut copper to his name.

Blame the bandits who had taken it all, I know I do.

Fortunately I did manage to find some personal capital while wandering the roadsides looking for roots and berries to eat, following the lead of my ever present companion, Tyrant, a most irascible yet constant donkey.

Bite and bray all he may, I know he still favors me.

Imagine a scholar such as myself to be reduced to a wandering itinerant, trapped in the garb of vagabondage. But I digress. Forgive me. It has been too long since I have penned a single observation.

My unfortunate circumstances were resolved by a dead man, a corpse to be precise. I was wandering a hillock in the middle of spring when I happened upon a pair of boots poking out from the tall grasses in the distance. Being of a curious nature I ventured forward, unsure of what awaited me. As my bare and callused feet took me closer I saw that the boots had an owner. A dead one. How did I know he was dead by the merest glance?

Well it was quite simple, his skin had begun to bloat as flies and larvae swarmed around his corpse like drunkards at a pie stand during the harvest festival. His skin had turned a blackened grey as lifeless open eyes stared at the vast sky above. I looked upon the man and bile threatened to overcome my throat as the smell of rot and putrefaction set in, clinging to my throat.

He'd been dead quite a while, that much was certain and I could see what had done him in. A blackened line of old blood stained his throat and shirt. His throat had been slit. I looked around for any clues as to what might have happened to the man. Deep depressions of boot and hoof encircled the body. Riders, quite a few judging by the prints. One had dismounted, as there was only one set of boots, boots that had most likely cut down the man, leaving his body to rot.

I considered what to do. Then again what could I do? I didn't know his name, or even his true face, only the bloated remnant of what was now frozen in a grim rictus of fear.

Tyrant waited patiently at my shoulder, nibbling at the long grasses as I bent my head and muttered a prayer. I did not know this man, so I did not know which congregation had laid claim to his soul. So I sent his soul off with the simplest of prayers.

'Let whatever gods have claim to this man take his soul and may he rest.'

Had I a shovel, I would have buried the man. I have done so before, when hapless travelers had met their end, skewered by a bandit's blade. Had I been healthy, well fed and strong I might have erected a cairn for him. But I had neither spade nor strength. So I would have to leave this man here to further rot.

Although I give little credence to the stories of the Risen, the recently and not so recently deceased rising from beyond, it is only common decency that a mann deserves a grave. A place to rest.

Then a thought occurred to me, one of which to this day I am not proud of. What use has a dead man for boots?

They were fine boots, of tooled leather and bound to be worth quite a bit to any second hand dealer in footwear. I patted the man down, searching for anything else of value I could use, while trying not to let go of the few nuts and berries I had ingested. I found no coin purse; probably claimed by the same people who had claimed his life. In his pockets I found a small pen knife, a bit of string, half a cut copper and a few glass beads, the kind which was used in paste jewelry. Not exactly a treasure trove but it was better than what I had, which was nothing except a gnawing at my belly.

Next came the boots. Let me tell you, if you've never taken the boots off a dead man, I wouldn't recommend it. Honestly the stench was worse than Daemon's own flatus. Such a foul concoction of vapors, you'd be hard pressed to find an alchemist to reproduce. Yet worse still, was the dead skin that came off, sticking to the tooled leather in long strips of rotting flesh, exposing white bone.

My stomach heaved and I spewed. Then dry heaved until the spasms subsided and my gut settled. I have seen many dreadful things along the roads of Elyria but that sight coupled with that smell was the stuff of nightmares. I doubt any but the most experienced of gravekeepers or coroners would be able to handle such with no effort.

Yet I took them all the same, desperate and impoverished as I was.

Then I closed the man's eyes and whispered. "I'm sorry, but I need this more than you."

There I had done it. I had become a vulture, a man who stole from the dead to survive. Every man has his reasons for what he does and I'm sure survival ranks highest on the list for even the most vile and base of men, but it still left a bitter taste in my mouth.

Cradling my bundle of treasure I walked back the way I had come to a small stream where I thoroughly washed the boots and then myself. Tyrant followed silently in my wake, as if sensing my anguish.

I hoped the icy cold water would cleanse me, but it did not no matter how I scrubbed. The stain on my soul remained.

Little did I know this was just the beginning. How a dead man's boots would save my life yet perhaps doom me.

I shall leave that up to you to judge.