I got a letter this morning
This is the way my letter read
Say you better come on home Farmer John
Help me, your baby dead
Come on, come on, come on, come on home
Death Letter - Johnny Farmer, Organized Noise
Once one has shuffled off this mortal coil, the Underworld awaits. While a wraith’s fetters bind them to the Skinlands; it’s the Underworld that becomes home and with it new dangers of the Maelstrom. New Orleans is a Necropolis, the echo of the Skinlands is teeming with Essence and as such the ravages of the afterlife are nowhere near the dilapidation of other less... spirited... communities. The Citadel is run by Anacreon Pierre Antoine Lepardi Jourdan; though it’s said one must find their way to Muriel’s and indulge him in a game of chance as a means of judging one’s character before any business or socializing.
The restaurant that he purchased and adored dearly was it seems to be his home long into the next few centuries. Since the tragic game of poker in 1814 wherein he wagered and lost his beloved home, Pierre took his leave of the world on the second floor. To keep his spirit at peace, to this day those who work at Muriel's always set a table for one in the back alley with wine, bread, and a fresh white table cloth.