10.40 T

Purple burned in the monster’s eyes. The color of terror and undeath. Jewel flames illuminating the eye sockets of a mortal, skeletal head of someone who had reached the end of their journey. Carrion dead, puppeted by a being who knew no pity nor honor, who had come to this world as base and useless as any other being.

—And never changed.

 

“Why are you so…evil?”

 

The skeleton had freed himself, but he hadn’t—not really. He’d gone on an adventure, fought, and grown stronger. He had gone wandering, but always, always come back.

A monster.

 

“You killed them. Why? Why did you do it?”

 

Then he had realized he was unloved, and an even bigger monster had taken him as a curiosity and spirited him away to a terrible castle, filled with bigger, crueler monsters who toyed with his life like he had done to others.

Alone, in misery, except for a little thing he had befriended, a slime. Then a strange child who also wore someone else’s flesh, Maviola, the second daughter of Belavierr the Stitch Witch.

—But then he’d seen an opening and run away. Run, because this wasn’t his place, taking the Healing Slime, Maviola, and treasures with him. The Necromancer had let him go, because he didn’t matter, and the skeleton’s eyes blazed purple.

A monster with eyes as beautiful as distant stars—the [Innkeeper]’s first employee. The first wayward son of The Wandering Inn.

But she didn’t love him. He was just the monster who had made every mistake.

She burned, now, that [Wandering Innkeeper], with the flames of memory, wondrous fire which blazed across a hat on her head.

There was no fire for him. No room in her heart for the skeleton she thought was dead and gone.

So the monster kept running. Running and running.

But now he knew he was running, a skeletal hamster in a wheel that spun so fast that if he stopped, he’d fly to pieces. Screaming as he searched for something he’d never really had.

At least this time—

He had a voice.

 

——

 

Toren, Job-Hunter.

 

He said nothing, which was the odd part. They both knew he could speak, but he refused to. It was sort of annoying, but one of them made up for it with chatter.

“Toren, my feet hurt. Where are we going? Are we there yet? I miss the castle. Are we lost? What do we do now? I’m hungry.”

The skeleton turned, and the Wyvern helmet he wore framed those glowing, purple eyes. He was garbed head to toe in Relics. Magical artifacts, from the gauntlets to his boots, and the [Relic Guardian] radiated so much magic that he made the slime draped around his shoulders like a cape glow twice as bright.

Toren said nothing, but he stared so pointedly at the young undead woman wearing the body of the late Maviola El that it was abundantly clear he was thinking, ‘you can’t feel your feet, and you don’t eat, shut up.’

She pouted at him, sticking her lower lip out in a fashion that had never fit the woman whose body she had taken. This was ‘Maviola’, but not her. It was her body, her power over flame, but the undead didn’t have her soul. She was a child, even more so than Toren.

“Well, I’d have sore feet if I wanted to feel them, but I don’t want to! And we don’t have any of that drink Az’kerash gave us. Can we get more? I like it. Why don’t you talk? I hate having to hear you think.”

Toren ignored that. He kept stumping through the dark cave, occasionally punching through narrowing walls of stone with pure force. Maviola followed him without making any flames. They could see in the dark, and they’d been walking for a long time.

How long, she didn’t know. First, they’d fled the Necromancer’s castle during the Solstice when he was distracted. Toren had said they had to go, so they’d run. She had come with him because she liked him better than other Chosen, this was exciting, and everyone said her mother, Belavierr, was bad, so Toren was better than Az’kerash, who was frightening.

Then they’d just…walked.

And walked.

And walked some more. Usually at night, because both of them would have alarmed any mortals. In the day, they’d dig a hole and sit in it or search for things for Healing Slime to eat.

Healing Slime, the third and only mortal member of their group, was so funny. It jiggled and wobbled and raced around sometimes, and it and Toren were friends. It liked Maviola too, and she’d find Sage’s Grass for it to nibble on. It was far bigger than when Toren had first found it, a starving slime kept by Ijvani in the castle.

It was still pretty small, still able to fit in the skeleton’s rib-cage. He liked to keep it there, for protection. Feeding Healing Slime was a lot of work, though. It needed to eat every day if it could. At least once a week!

This was why undead were superior beings. Maviola missed the castle. She didn’t get why they had to leave. Toren said—well, loudly thought—it was because the Chosen were insane, Az’kerash was losing his grip on sanity, and it was all going to go bad now that Nerrhavia had left. They used to bully him before he beat them up, and Maviola didn’t like most of them.

“But now what?”

It occurred to her, after about a week of following Toren around…that he had no idea. Thusly, Maviola the reborn [Flamesetter Deathchild] learned the lesson all children eventually learned. Adults had no clue either. They just did what they thought was best and stuck to things they believed were ‘right’ when there were no good answers.

So Toren did what the skeleton had always done, ever since he’d left Erin outside of Celum one day and become a drifter:

He searched for new employment. He was, after all, a Level 11 [Barmaid], a Level 9 [Carer], a Level 13 [Sword Dancer], a Level 6 [Tactician], a Level 14 [Undead Leader]…and a Level 33 [Relic Guardian].

He felt like he had good prospects. But the job market in this economy…putting your application in was hard. And the companies ready to employ you just weren’t ideal.

 

——

 

Three miles underground, down through a network of caves, the Champion of the Anguivess Host raised his mace with a howl, his rotted flesh stretching as his face—half a face, the other half was writhing ghastmaggots—contorted in an expression of rage.

The Rotfiend was fast, and the six Crypt Lords ringing the dueling arena kept the skeleton boxed in as he backed away from the swinging mace. It was all bone, covered with some foul flesh that seemed to grow from the undead weapon.

All of it was unknown to Toren. He had never known you could make a weapon out of…undead? It seemed to exude death mana, but he couldn’t focus on that because he was auditioning for the job.

The Rotfiend came at him, swinging hard with both hands, and Toren ducked, kicked the ground with his boots, and blinked left, out of the way. The Rotfiend missed, and his mace chewed a big piece of the stone floor away.

Strong—but not that smart. Toren beckoned with a hand as someone cheered.

“Go, Toren! You can do it! Ra, ra, raaah!”

Maviola’s voice was the only one in this deathly silent chamber. Some of the Crypt Lords turned to stare at her, and she fell silent.

“Do we not cheer here? Fine. Boo! Boo! You suck! Your stitching is terrible, and your face looks like horse poop!”

She shouted at the Rotfiend, which actually stared at her. It was a powerful undead, so much so that it was above Toren’s pay-grade by far. A [Skeleton Knight] like he’d been wouldn’t stand up against an advanced zombie-type undead like this. The Rotfiend was above a Draugr in sheer necromantic strength…but Maviola and Toren were above it in other ways.

They could think. They had levels and personalities, and in that sense, even the Crypt Lords, the bloated amalgamations of corpses who loomed over the two, were inferior. And knew it. That was the only reason they’d gotten the job interview.

Mind you…Toren shifted and raised his shield as the Rotfiend charged again. They were still getting a hard interview from the boss.

The boss being the bloated, gigantic mass of flesh watching from one side of this little arena. It was, oh, thirty feet high, comprised of swollen heads, lashing tails—Drake bodies mashed together. The biggest undead Toren had ever seen outside of Az’kerash’s Bone Giants.

A Crypt King.

The Anguivess Host were a rotten lot. Literally—they were on the zombie side of undead, as opposed to skeletons, and they had congregated deep down in these caves, building their strength. They didn’t roam about rampaging like your average undead, and they hadn’t appreciated the unsolicited callers. Lots of ghouls. Only a small number of zombies—most were upgraded, a deliberate choice by the Crypt King, who was slowly enhancing his forces. Death magic accumulated over time; with enough years, they’d refine themselves into a host so deadly they’d destroy the City of Crossroads and then sweep across Izril with their hordes.

—That was the plan Toren got from the Crypt King’s dark thoughts. It was quite intelligent, and he bet it could even speak, but it didn’t have Toren’s…personality. It was more like a [Strategist] mixed with a [King] grafted onto a Golem’s framework. It didn’t have any deep feelings, save for that constant hatred of the living. It did have a name for its group—the Anguivess Host. It had taken the name from somewhere…perhaps the company who’d died.

So you see, intelligent, but not a Revenant. Not a levelling undead, and the Crypt King watched as Toren raised his shield and blocked the Rotfiend’s mace-strike. Toren shifted, analyzing how the undead fought.

Toren’s shield splintered the air with each blow the Rotfiend landed. His arm didn’t buckle; the air took the damage, and reality fractured a bit, but his arm kept the shield high. Then he stabbed back.

He’d taken a sword made of anti-light, and together with Gauntlets of Giant’s Strength, he nearly cleaved straight through the Rotfiend’s right arm. It was outclassed by the weapons and backed up, glancing at the Crypt King for orders.

It thought—and the Rotfiend charged in, trying to rip the sword out of Toren’s grip. The skeleton’s helmet, made of Wyvern scales, seemed to writhe and twist—he exhaled flames over the Rotfiend.

“Yay, Toren! Get it!”

The Rotfiend charged at Toren, ablaze, howling—it had limited regenerative qualities, but its real abilities were all based on its decay. It could have the maggots spray liquid at Toren, erupt its flesh in noxious boils, even spew a miasma of pestilence at him.

…It didn’t really work on a skeleton, and Toren just used his boots to blink out of the Rotfiend’s way. He kicked it in the rear as it stumbled into a Crypt Lord. The undead shoved the Rotfiend back towards Toren, and it swung wildly at him.

Toren turned to the Crypt King of the Anguivess Host.

I’ve won. Are we doing this? Come on.

The Rotfiend was one of the better fighters the Crypt King had. But the Greater Undead just waited, so Toren sighed, adjusted his head, and swung his sword with one hand as he stepped backwards.

[Perfect Dodge], [Mirage Cut]—it looked like he vanished, then appeared through the Rotfiend, passing through the other side. The Rotfiend slid apart at the chest, eyes flickering. It tried to crawl towards Toren, and a Crypt Lord smashed its torso in. The mace slammed onto the floor as Maviola cheered, and Toren put his arms up.

The Ghouls and undead stared at him, then began to devour the Rotfiend’s flesh, trying to graft it onto their own bodies to enhance their strength. Toren lowered his arms, then felt his chest wiggling. The Healing Slime wiggled out of his mouth now that it was safe, making a faint squeaking sound of dismay. The Crypt King stared at the Healing Slime, then Toren. It thought in terms Toren vaguely translated as:

(Thou. Appointed unto the Anguivess Host. Champion of Rot. Serve. Serve and destroy. The hour of Imlerith’s end nears. Kneel and be grafted with rot. Pluck insignificant living thing’s mana core and offer. Grow. Rot. Kill. Kill the living. Kill the world. Kill it all.)

It made the skeleton pause and clatter his jaw a bit as Maviola sidled over, raising her skirts to avoid stepping in the Rotfiend’s goo.

“Every undead we meet just wants to kill the living. Mother did say they all wanted it, but they’re so…straightforwards. Are we working for him, Toren?”

Toren was trying to negotiate with the boss. No, not the Healing Slime. It was a friend. See? He tried to make Healing Slime wave a bit of itself, but it was shaking in fear.

(All that lives dies. Kill. Offer. Grow.)

It showed him an image of an undead imbibing mana and growing. That’s how it worked, and the Healing Slime was magical enough that the Crypt King wanted its mana for itself. Toren refused politely.

The Crypt King’s many heads opened their mouths, uttering spells. [Deathbolts] formed in the air and showered at Toren, who shielded Healing Slime with his back. They washed over his armor of Adamantium-Truegold, and Maviola smiled.

“Ooh, so refreshing!”

[Deathbolt] was like a healing spell for undead, but the Healing Slime squeaked and retreated into Toren’s armor. He flipped the Crypt King off as the Anguivess Host turned to the defiant skeleton. The Crypt King hesitated—then the mouths closed.

(Serve.)

It seemed to reconsider attacking the skeleton, but Toren had made up his mind. He clattered his jaw as he touched his chest, then gestured at Maviola.

Listen, I appreciate this is a good operation, but the vibes just don’t…work. I’m going to have to decline after all. Come on, Maviola, we’re going.

He took her hand as the Crypt King stared at him. The undead king gazed at the fallen Rotfiend and then the skeleton hurrying away. The Host were utterly confused. They’d never run into an undead who refused to join their endless cause—

The Crypt King visibly hesitated as Toren edged away, pulling Maviola, who was just as confused—then began to run. Then it started sending Ghouls after them. They bounded along, intent on dragging the two back and subsuming them into the horde—

“Oh, Toren, are we not working with them? Good. I never liked them. Can I do it? Thank you! [Fireball]! [Fireball]! Heeheehee—hahahaha—no, I’m not laughing crazy. Mother says you should do it when you’re unleashing your powers.”

The Crypt King saw flames blooming in the tunnels and sensed Ghouls dying by the dozen as the other undead unleashed her powers. It sat there, staring at one of its champions, now paste on the ground.

Sometimes you had a really good prospective employee, and it was all down to whether you, as the boss, could be accommodating too. That was the thing people forgot in this economy. It wasn’t a one-way street. Toren had lots of prospects. Tons.

 

——

 

Toren sat with his head resting against a wall for a good hour after that failed interview. Maviola was busy offering bits of flowers to the Healing Slime, who ingested a few and spat out the ones it didn’t like.

“Can we go back home now, Toren?”

He gazed up at her.

No, we can’t. The Necromancer is bad news. The Chosen are evil.

Healing Slime clung to one leg, shaking. They loved to torment it, and they’d ripped Toren apart every day for…he passed a trembling hand across his face, like a mortal.

This was all some kind of retribution for his actions before. All the people he’d killed, all the trouble he’d caused—now he’d felt what it was like to be helpless around monsters. He didn’t know what the Healing Slime had done to deserve it, but Toren had suffered until he could get them out.

Maviola…he glanced at her. He just didn’t want Az’kerash or Belavierr to raise this young undead. Neither one had good parenting skills.

“My mother is a great mother! She had a daughter before me, and Wiskeria’s actually alive! I think. I want to meet my sister, though mother says we might kill each other. I think I’ll like her.”

Could be. Could be dicey.

“Why? Because I’m dead?”

Yep.

“Wiskeria will understand. She’s my mother’s daughter. Not like other living things.”

Toren didn’t respond to that. Maviola had that disdain for living creatures part and parcel to the undead. In fact—they all had that voice in the back of their heads, didn’t they?

Slay the living. Kill them all. Create more undead.

It was like—their purpose. Only a truly powerful undead could ignore the call, even for the sake of strategy. Az’kerash felt it, and Toren knew he did too. He supposed it wasn’t that crazy.

Didn’t living things have a desire to keep living and to, presumably, make more living things? Undead were in opposition to them, by and large. It just made job-hunting real hard.

 

——

 

Mostly, it was Crypt Lords who were smart enough to have any band worth following, but other undead could lead. The problem was, Toren was overqualified.

The Lich, the advanced version of a Skeleton Mage he interviewed with next, was delighted to have him. It had a warband of sixty-four mixed undead, even a few Bone Shamblers, which were like moving undead collections of parts. Toren felt the vibe was good.

This band moved across the mountains, killing animals and absorbing them. It was nice work that got you seeing the sights, and the Lich was very impressed with Toren.

Too impressed.

It gave him the job and wanted him to take the top position. All the undead wanted him to lead, and Toren tried to explain he wasn’t looking for a leadership role. He’d done it, tried it—he could do it again, but it wasn’t his style. He was sort of looking for temporary employment while he found his feet, you know? Roof over your head, three square meals for his friend?

The Lich didn’t know how to oblige Toren. It sent a hopeful picture of him razing a local Drake village, and he shook his head.

Been there, done that. He showed it Esthelm, and the Lich was very impressed. More of that! But Toren had to decline. He shook the Lich’s hand a few times, slapped a Skeleton Knight on the back since it was the only one in the party, and sighed.

Maviola sat on a rock, seeming bored.

“Toren…”

I know, I know. Toren rubbed at his skull with two gauntleted fingers. This economy…he patted the Healing Slime and noticed it was a bit thin again.

Nothing paid well in terms of what he needed. Which was less of death mana for Maviola and him, and more ingredients to feed Healing Slime. It had a very particular diet, and Toren turned to the Lich desperately. It thought for a while and directed him at a likely employer.

 

——

 

Swamp Undead didn’t like regular undead. Toren’s boot caved in yet another Mushroom Zombie’s head as he beat down a local group of undead in an overgrown marsh, but Healing Slime was zipping around, devouring plants.

It could use different effects in its body to activate powers. It had a Potion of Speed and a Potion of Healing inside of it and was actually faster than both undead when it wanted. It rolled about, eating different flowers as Maviola laughed, tripped, and went head-first into a swamp.

“Aaaah! Toreeeeen!”

Toren was busy squaring off with a bloated Swamp Lurker, whose long arms wanted to snatch him into the water. It was a grabby mass of undeath that liked to pull the unwary into the water and thus kill them.

I don’t breathe, buddy. Back off. 

The Swamp Lurker backed off, sensing this wasn’t going to go how it wanted. Toren sighed as the Healing Slime’s fading glow brightened again. He picked it up and cast around.

The marsh was a smaller one near the High Passes, full of insects and magical plants and such. He saw a giant slug oozing towards the water as Maviola poked it.

“Toren, this place is gross. I don’t want to stay here.”

He was thinking. There might not be any work, but Healing Slime was clearly feeding off the mana here. He lifted it up and eyed the slime critically.

You need to feed yourself permanently, buddy. You can’t just keep starving like this.

Healing Slime sort of understood him thanks to their [Bond: Telepathy] Skill he had as a [Carer]. It wobbled up and down in a kind of nod. It was hard being a Healing Slime. Regular slimes just existed on mana and whatever they were made of, but it was, well, a Potion Slime. It needed a lot of stuff Toren didn’t have.

Like Eir Gel. The Healing Slime sort of understood what it wanted, and it projected an image of some yellow goo in an [Alchemist]’s shop at Toren. He scratched his head.

Does any of this stuff work?

Healing Slime went around from plant to plant, showing Toren the ones it had liked, and he obligingly pulled more up, roots and all, for later and put them in his bag of holding. He reckoned this place might feed Healing Slime for a while and was about to tell Maviola this was where they were staying—when Healing Slime, zipping towards a funky-looking bush with nuts on it, was struck by a gigantic, screaming bird with six wings that tried to rip the mana stone out of it. Toren and Maviola charged at it, and Toren shoved the hawk-thing away. He stowed the trembling Healing Slime in his chest and sighed.

Maybe…maybe he wasn’t going to find easy employment among the dead. He sat with his head in his hand, and Maviola approached.

She lifted her dress, which was now so badly stained and tattered from two weeks on the move that it was holey—but then she sat without a word.

“Toren…”

He knew she was bored and lonely, but Maviola shook her head earnestly.

“I like you more than the other undead. Even Mother. You’re funny. And cool! Just—do you really want to work for a stinky Crypt King?”

A skeleton’s gotta work.

“…Why?”

It confused him. In truth—he didn’t know. He’d been created, his first real memory, and been given work instantly. He’d been made for Erin Solstice to have someone to help her. He supposed his entire life had been a job, so he didn’t have any idea what to do without that. He’d been so unfocused after leaving Erin. Free, happy for a while, but—ultimately, he’d gone back because he hadn’t known what to do.

Maviola sat with her head in her hands, thinking about this.

“Mother says a woman should have a purpose, great or small. Freedom is terrifying. I get what she means, I guess. If we could feed Slimey, what would you do, Toren?”

If they could do that? Toren sat back, staring up at the cloud of gnats trying to bite them and realizing they had nothing to really eat. His jaw opened.

What do I want in life? Well—if he was honest—his eyes flickered red for a second.

Vengeance would be nice.

“Revenge? I thought you didn’t want to fight Erin anymore.”

Oh, that was true. He and Erin were—done. But there was a part of the skeleton which still held a lot of resentment towards his previous place of work. Especially towards his former co-workers. And…him.

“Who?”

Pisces.

“Your dad?”

A weird thought. It made Toren uncomfortable, and he half-shook his head, but then he thought about his goals. Began making a list.

Yeah. Yeah! There had been a lot of people who made his life miserable, hadn’t there been? Lyonette, that stupid girl. Mrsha, who’d gotten him tumbling into the dungeon, the Redfangs, that silver [Knight]…Maviola clapped her hands, brightening up.

“Mother says revenge is always worth the time and effort! Just so long as you don’t die in the process. ‘Take it slow and make them suffer whenever is most painful’.”

Healing Slime wiggled out of one of Toren’s eye sockets and gave Maviola a look, then Toren. It was far less intelligent than either undead, but it was growing under Toren’s influence. Az’kerash had done some spellcasting to upgrade Toren’s abilities, including giving him that voice he refused to use and refining Pisces’ far more limited bindings. There was a limit to what Az’kerash could do with Toren without unmaking him, but the [Necromancer] had also expressed interest in the Healing Slime.

“Fascinating and potentially useful—if I were alive. I’m no slime expert, but I don’t think you can just make Potion Slimes. The [Innkeeper] must have had a powerful cooking Skill. If you, Toren, have a [Carer] class, it might well grow as intelligent as one could hope. A fascinating experiment. Do let me know the results.”

The Healing Slime had no idea what that meant, but it remembered the words and thought of them, like it thought of Mrsha and the Defenders of the Cave and of its short life and—everything else. It nudged Toren, feeling like this wasn’t the best of ideas, but the skeleton just patted it on the head.

I’ve got nothing else to do, and I do know Liscor. Doesn’t the inn have a shop with that stupid [Alchemist]? We pop in, pop out, stab a few ex-coworkers, and see where we are.

Maviola clapped her hands in delight, and Toren warmed to the idea. After all—when he thought of The Wandering Inn, he still got a bit mad.

He’d heard from Az’kerash it was more prosperous now, that it was thriving. That they had some [Head Server] and other employees and—and—

They’d replaced him. Replaced him, the original, the first.

Time for the prodigal son to return home and see how good these second-rate fill-ins were. Toren checked his sword and grinned.

Vengeance was a good drive, especially if he didn’t have anything to do. He only hesitated when the Healing Slime squeezed his ribs, but Toren patted it softly.

It had just as much reason to hate the inn as he. Maviola beamed.

“My first revenge. How lovely! Can I steal their clothing? Mine’s all nasty.”

 

——

 

Toren, Job-Hunter.

Toren the Vengeful One.

 

It took a while to head north, especially since both undead couldn’t use the door. Then again, they could march hard without sleep or rest, and the High Passes meant they didn’t have to worry about being seen.

Just in case though, Toren prepared. He’d taken a number of artifacts from Az’kerash that the Necromancer had stockpiled, and the most handy were illusion spells such as his Chosen used to go around.

They were so adept—beyond [Greater Illusion]—that they’d pass through even most cities’ detection spells. Toren wasn’t stupid, though; he’d heard Az’kerash warning his Chosen not to try Pallass or any other Walled City.

So walking it was. He was good at walking. Maviola was not.

“Toren, wait for me! How do you—how do you do that?”

He was hopping from boulder to boulder with ease, teleporting from spot to spot where he couldn’t make the leap, so fast that even at a run and scrambling up boulders Maviola wasn’t even half as fast as he. Even when he lent her the Boots of Blinking, she couldn’t do it.

“They don’t recharge fast enough!”

Well, duh. He was a [Relic Guardian] now, an advanced form of undead, and he had [Artifact: Double Charging]. So functionally any artifact he had could be used twice as often.

Plus he was just…nimble. Maviola was quick, but Toren did a backflip off the boulder; she tried one and landed on her neck.

“My body’s not as nimble as yours!”

[Sword Dancer] and, well, he’d always just been good at most things he put his mind to. Toren had never thought about it, but Maviola sat up.

“I don’t think any undead can just master a sword or do backflips. Mother says that life informs death.”

Belavierr would know about undead, so Toren tilted his head. Maybe it meant he’d been nimble in his past life?

Past…life? He’d never thought about where he came from, actually. Maviola brushed at her dress.

“I come from Maviola El, who was a [Lady of Fire]. I suppose it’s why I can make so many flames. Who were you, Toren?”

Healing Slime poked its body out of his chestplate, and Toren stood there, bemused.

He…

He didn’t know. Did it even matter? He knew he had used to have four bones of Archmage Nekhret in his being, and she had been in his soul until Az’kerash had used the bones to make Nekhti, a new Chosen. Which was definitely not ominous and the reason why Toren wanted to get away from Az’kerash. However, most of his body had been…

…How had Pisces made him? Toren felt at his skull. Human.

He vaguely recalled Erin mentioning a skeleton? Toren didn’t know. But when he felt at his bones…

On the way to Liscor, he had a dream.

 

——

 

In his dream, the skeleton couldn’t breathe. He’d never had lungs before, but the stifling, agonizing sensation as they refused to work was torture.

He was stumbling around, knocking things over. Chairs and…fumbling against the walls, screaming without a voice.

Dying.

Everyone was dead, and that was a tragedy. Huge, blobby tears were running down his cheeks as his hands opened and closed. Big hands, covered with flesh, callused from work, fumbling with a cabinet he’d made himself.

Embossed Runes of Preservation on the edges, his best piece yet. Fingers traced down them, then he took a bottle of wine out, stoppered with gold leaf foil on the top. He uncorked it and poured himself a drink.

Barely tasted it, and when the bottle was done, he cast it aside and went upstairs to sleep. He lay down…and it was all so bitter as drums beat in the distance. A city going to war.

Necromancer. He lay down, lungs trying to work, and slept, tears on his cheeks.

In his inn, the [Innkeeper] slept for the last time.

 

——

 

Toren woke up. No, he hadn’t been sleeping, not really. He’d been marching along and—the memory had come across him like a wave. It broke, and he jerked, slipped off a wet boulder, and crashed down.

“Toren, you silly skeleton!”

Maviola thought it was a joke. Toren sat up, feeling at his face, his bony body. He was so shaken she stopped laughing.

“What?”

Was that a dream about—his past life? The skeleton was disturbed, and Maviola listened to him recounting the memory. She tossed her head airily.

“Oh, I have dreams like that all the time. The old me. She got so old. Yuck!”

He gaped at her, disbelieving. The feelings of bitter remorse and desperation—then resignation as he lay down—were still filling him up. So vibrantly painful that the skeleton couldn’t take it. Maviola was balancing on the boulder he’d fallen off of, arms outstretched.

“Well, they’re just living-people emotions. Who cares? They’re inferior, Toren.”

He hucked a stone at her, and she squealed and tossed flames back. He got up, then patted Healing Slime as it poured into his hands. Toren stared down at it, and it was worried. He was getting more upset the closer he got to Liscor.

Maybe this was a bad idea, but now it was a compulsion seizing him. He…he had to know. How had the inn done when he was gone? Surely it had fallen to pieces without Toren, who could shovel all the snow around it in a night. Who had gathered blue fruits tirelessly, pulled that damn sled, found firewood, guarded the inn—

She couldn’t replace him. Not him. Toren knew Erin had moved on, but she couldn’t do better without him. He’d made the inn; it should be worse in his absence. Because that meant he had mattered.

Surely, he had.

 

——

 

It was late spring when Toren and Maviola arrived. They had to leap from hill to hill before they found bridges that spanned the hills and used them to locate the inn. When they got there, Toren stared around.

Oh.

Oh…

It was gone. He knelt amidst the shattered foundation, the blackened stone and pieces of wood—and the terraformed hills and dirt fortifications now collapsed to form a huge valley around this spot.

He could tell people had died here; the death magic was so vivid that Maviola was twirling around, drinking it in. But the Healing Slime and Toren were just…lost.

Their home was gone.

Toren sat down hard. Suddenly, he was filled with remorse as the Healing Slime got out and rolled around, a prismatic slime mournfully trawling the ground.

So that was it. He knew she’d rebuilt after him, but in the end…without a Toren, the inn truly had fallen apart for the last time. Toren got up, covered his face, and then searched around.

Where was she now? Was she even alive? There weren’t even any—markers for this place. There should have been.

Flowers. Wasn’t that what you did? It was all so wet and dismal—he hunted around and realized he needed to put something here. A stone, flowers, something. So he found Maviola.

They needed to enter Liscor. She brightened up at once.

“Hurray! Can I buy clothing?”

 

——

 

They had to buy clothing; when they entered Liscor’s gates, the [Guards] were astonished by the duo. A Human [Knight] wearing artifacts and a disheveled [Lady]. That was their guise, but the illusion spell tried to avoid adding in superfluous details, so their attire was the same; Maviola’s dress was ashambles, and they pointed her to the nearest clothing store at once.

Toren helped Maviola pick out new clothing, sighing as he counted coins into the Drake’s clawed hand. He didn’t have much—coins were not Az’kerash’s priority, nor his. But Maviola was delighted, and it gave Toren time to inquire about flowers.

By which he meant, Maviola did that. He didn’t like speaking. But Maviola was charming, so the Drake pointed her towards a likely place that might have flowers.

“Though, honestly, you’re unlikely to get much fresh from anywhere here given the rains. Celum’s more likely to have plants.”

Yeah, I’ll just run down to Celum and back. Idiot. Toren rolled his eye-flames in his head, and Maviola retorted.

“Yeah, we’ll just run down to Celum and back, idiot.”

“Excuse me!”

The Drake was offended, and Toren slapped Maviola’s arm, which got him a reproving look. The [Shopkeeper] huffed.

“What I meant was, sir, miss, there’s a door. Everyone uses it—how have you not heard? I believe you came from the south, the state you two were in!”

“We walked.”

“Past the Bloodfields? Even with the road—dead gods! There’s a magical [Door of Portals] in the inn—use that!”

Toren…stopped as he ushered Maviola towards the door. The what?

“The Wandering Inn.”

When she saw Maviola’s jaw drop open, the [Shopkeeper] clarified.

“It’s not walkable from here, at least, you shouldn’t do it. The door’s in Shivertail Plaza—just use it and go to the inn from there. Though I warn you, it’s not a place to be right now. After the Goblin King and all that business—”

She glanced out the window, and Toren scratched at his head. His [Dangersense] had gone off on the route here, but he and Maviola hadn’t been looking at the moon or doing anything else, single-minded as they’d been.

“But we were at the inn! There was nothing there!”

“Oh, they moved it.”

They what? Then Toren’s tour of vengeance was back on. It only grew worse as he and Maviola began to ask people about the inn, and he realized it wasn’t just thriving—he bought some parchment and a quill.

He was making a list.

 

——

 

“Top employees at The Wandering Inn? Er—hm. Server Ishkr, definitely. He’s the only Gnoll there who works in the inn proper. I think the grumpy [Doorgnoll] is hired by the city? The rest of the staff are all Antinium or Goblins. No, wait, I hear they got a bunch of Humans now. I can’t keep up. Some other Gnolls used to work there, but they quit once it got weird.”

Ishkr. Toren had heard the name a dozen times when they’d asked about the inn, and he underlined it again. He was getting mad.

Who was this fellow? It offended Toren to hear some Gnoll [Server] was top of the inn. Lyonette? Half the people there claimed she’d inherited from Erin.

That spoiled [Princess] who couldn’t even clean a latrine without screaming? Unbelievable, they were running it into the ground. But he realized in a weird way his hatred was higher for this Ishkr than Lyonette. It was how they talked of him.

“I’ve seen him doing that floor-skating trick. He can zip anywhere he wants or even teleport. I think he levelled up; he was appearing in front of City Hall a dozen times. Fantastic. I wish I had that kind of employee.”

The [Shopkeepers] on Market Street loved to gossip, and Maviola piped up, fanning Toren’s flames of rage.

“He sounds amazing. But does he do security? Who protects the inn?”

“Er…I don’t know. There’s too many to count! Elia Arcsinger; that strange singing Antinium, Bird the Hunter; those [Knights]—”

Bird? Toren remembered Bird. He dismissed Bird, and whomever this ‘Elia’ was, but when he heard [Knights]…what [Knights]? He had been Erin’s Skeleton Knight. The [Shopkeeper] wasn’t too clear on the details, not being an actual guest of The Wandering Inn, and she hemmed and hawed.

“They wear shiny armor. I’ve seen them a few times. Their Order…it might be the Knights of Solstice? You’ve heard of them, surely, miss? A personal [Knight] order which defends the inn? Ser Normen would be their leader—now there’s another reason why the inn’s better existing than not. Did you see him fight Arcsinger’s Bows? Or when he stood up to the Bloodfeast—”

Another [Shopkeeper] joined the conversation, leaning out of his stall.

“Shh, that’s not a topic I want to hear of. But yes, certainly. The bravest [Knight] I’ve ever seen, and I wasn’t ever a fan of them until I saw that.”

Ser…who? Toren was twitching. So the inn had a [Knight] and a [Server]? He was the Skeleton Knight and original server! He nudged Maviola until she asked.

“Um—what about the skeleton that used to work there? Don’t you remember him?”

Toren half expected to be forgotten, but his head rose and he smiled as one of the Gnoll [Shopkeepers] snapped his fingers.

“Of course! Well, er, which skeleton? There are loads. I remember there only being one back when it was pulling that sled around, but these days—there’s a reason people don’t like visiting, miss. I daresay there are dozens working on rebuilding it, even in the rain. Mind you, I don’t have a problem with the [Necromancers]. Pisces, that Gold-rank adventurer, came from Liscor, you know.”

“Hah. There’s a nuisance—”

Maviola glanced at Toren, excited until she saw how still he’d gotten. Then it went from personal grievances to truly dark emotions.

They had…skeletons?

 

——

 

He didn’t use the magical door because he didn’t want to enter the inn. It kept setting his [Dangersense] off. So Toren made Maviola actually hike across the damn Floodplains to their destination.

It wasn’t hard to move as an undead. Water didn’t drown you. Most creatures avoided the hell out of you. You didn’t get tired. Toren stared at the huge mass of undead milling around the inn and felt betrayed. There were two piles of black marble outside the inn, and one was aglow with death magic, infused with it.

No wonder the undead were so active—though there were also at least two dozen [Necromancers] hanging out at any given moment.

[Necromancers]. Undead.

He’d thought she’d quit after him. But here they were. Toren sat down as Maviola patted his shoulder.

“Toren?”

He looked up as she wiped rain from her sympathetic, too-pale features. Maviola bent down and offered him a hand.

It had a knife. He stared at it, and the Healing Slime writhed against his chest. Toren got up slowly.

The inn might be dangerous to approach via the door—but he was a skeleton who’d clawed his way out of the Necromancer’s castle. He turned to Maviola, and his purple eye-flames narrowed.

Where were these employees? Everyone took breaks.

 

——

 

Target One: Ser Normen of the Order of Solstice.

 

Drassi Tewing was interviewing Ser Normen outside of Esthelm, and he was looking, well, nervous. The [Knight] who had faced down the Bloodfeast Raiders and Draugr without fear was terrified of the microphone in her hands.

He kept fidgeting with his helmet, despite her trying to reassure him. Drassi put the microphone to her mouth.

“Keep it together, Normen! Ancestors, you’ve had fistfights with Grimalkin! Pull your tail up and smile, you hatchling! Okay, in two, one—hey, everyone! I’m with Ser Normen, [Grandmaster] of the Order of Solstice, now! He’s walking me through candidacy into this new [Knight] Order—Ser Normen, what makes a [Knight] of Solstice?”

They’d rehearsed this three times, but when Ser Normen turned with a glassy smile and saw his reflection in the scrying mirror, he froze up.

“Ah. Hello.”

That was all he got out before turning into a piece of wood. Behind him, Jewel covered her face. She started forwards, but Antherr and Durene held her back.

“He’s gotta do it, Jewel! Don’t go in there, you’ll Jewel it up—you said so yourself!”

“Someone’s got to say something! Durene!”

“I don’t like publicity!”

“You were dating an [Emperor]! Antherr!”

“I am petrified with fear, despite my vow of determination. Vess?”

“I’m not doing it! I’m from Hectval! At least Ama’s not here.”

That was a benefit. Ama was not here; she was training her necromancy with Rheirgest. She was like…anti-charisma sometimes. She could be nice as could be, but she’d probably bring Sillias out and make some comment about humping undead, and there would go their reputation.

Drassi was trying, anyways. She nudged Normen with a smile.

“Look at that, the [Grandmaster]’s a bit camera-shy. A new term, that. Er—Normen. You and I go back to the founding of the inn. Relax. It can’t be worse than fighting people with nothing but a hat on. Tell me about fire.”

“Honor?”

The Drake covered her face with her hands, but this wasn’t going the worst, you know. There was something charming about the tongue-tied [Knight] appearing so shy. She was pestering him, and he was hyperventilating as the audience watched.

“Let’s walk through your origin, Normen. You were a [Thug]—a member of the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings? No judgement, but I remember you being hired onto The Wandering Inn as security. Way back! Of course, I was the first [Bartender] for the inn and one of the original employees—”

She was bragging a bit, smiling as she spoke of the ‘good old days’, which were really just a year and a half ago. As if she’d been there at the start.

As if she were original. The first [Bartender]?

He’d served drinks right there.

Ser Normen was saved from his paralysis by someone marching past the camera crew, ignoring the duo of Drakes trying to shove him back.

“Hey! No autographs or—hey!”

They tried to stop him, but he shoved them aside so hard one tumbled across the ground. Normen glanced around, and instinct made him reach for his mace.

“Excuse m—”

Toren clocked him so hard the [Knight] hit the ground, Demas Metal armor or not. Toren stomped on Normen’s chestplate and was annoyed the metal didn’t bend. He drew a sword as Drassi exclaimed.

“What the—hey!”

“Normen!”

The Order of Solstice would have charged this strange [Knight] who came striding forward and hit their leader, but Normen waved them off. He saw Toren pointing a sword at him, a fantastic blade of black light, and holding a shield of prismatic glass—Toren’s armor was Truegold mixed with Adamantium and could negate spells, his helmet made of Wyvern scales, and his boots seemed to flicker—and he had more artifacts on. Normen coughed and stood.

“You, Ser, have a funny way of challenging me. Stand back, Drassi. I think I’ve received my first challenge to a duel.”

Toren smiled gleefully as Normen got up. Drassi backed up, casting around.

“Wh—is this normal? He just came in and hit Ser Normen! What about the Watch?”

It was Antherr who answered for the Order of Solstice.

“This is normal, Reporter Drassi.”

“It is?”

“Of course. Random [Knights] challenging one to duels is a hazard of our class. Normally, one slaps one with a glove, but I have studied my profession intensely.”

“…So you just get into fights randomly?”

“Naturally. I believe Archmage Valeterisa refers to it as ‘random encounters of adversity’. For instance, I, myself, am quite used to people throwing things at me during my time as a Soldier. It happened at least four times a week when I was in Liscor.”

Drassi opened her mouth to reply to numerous parts of Antherr’s logic train when the duel began. Normen swung at Toren, fast and heavy. The skeleton appraised the ‘new’ protector of Erin’s inn.

He sneered as he caught Normen’s wrist, and the [Knight] swore.

Weak.

 

——

 

Stronger than Toren had been. But weak compared to the [Relic Guardian] with all of Az’kerash’s artifacts. Toren didn’t even bother with a sword. He just began punching Normen so hard the [Knight]’s armor rang like a gong and began to bend in places.

He put up a good fight, but the green flames didn’t stop Toren’s punches from hitting their mark, and Toren had every advantage. He was nimbler in his enchanted armor than Normen and swayed out of several decent punches. Every time Normen got close to throw a counter—

Toren blinked behind him, waited for Normen to swing around, then clocked him with a full swing across his jaw. The [Knight] fell down.

Toren waited for him to get up. Then he kicked Normen as the [Knight] was rising. Drassi was shouting.

“Foul! That’s so foul—”

“That’s how the Order of Solstice fights. Don’t worry, if he tries to hurt Normen, we’ll get him. Normen, do you want a hand?”

Durene shouted, cupping her hands to her mouth, but Normen waved her off. He was bleeding from the mouth and nose and clearly in pain. Jewel was vibrating, wanting to jump in—but they held back.

Toren brushed at the green flames clinging to his armor, contemptuous. His eyes were burning in their helmet; to Normen, seeing the illusion, he just saw violet eyes staring out of the [Knight]’s helmet.

“I don’t know what I’ve done to offend you, sir. But—”

He rose, threw an uppercut that actually got in, and headbutted Toren. The skeleton barely felt it; he drew his head back and headbutted Normen. The [Knight] stumbled, and Toren advanced.

You weren’t there at the start. You’re nothing! Look at me! If she’d kept me, she would have—

He was going to beat the [Knight] down, and maybe then he’d feel better. Until Normen couldn’t even move—Toren’s next swing should have hit Normen and knocked him flat with the strength of a giant…but the [Grandmaster] moved back just in time. Toren swung again—and Normen moved around the fist and punched him back.

It didn’t hurt, but the skeleton was confused. He was slower? His arms…

Green flames were covering his arms, and he realized his armor was aflame. And the flame of honor was—heavy. Normen’s eyes blazed as he raised his fists, and Toren lifted one arm. Despite his gauntlets, he was so heavy—

The next punch caught him so hard his helmet spun slightly, and the audience cheered. Toren backed up, trying to fend off the damn flames. But he was suddenly losing this fist-fight. Punch, elbow, kick to the crotch—

Normen fought as dirty as he did! The [Knight] advanced as Toren fell back, stumbling now, and Normen reached for one arm, intending on throwing this mysterious [Knight] down and kneeling on his chest to punch his face in.

Then a hand caught Normen’s arm, and he felt that strength and cursed. He tried to pull away—but the hand yanked him forwards until he was face-to-face with that [Knight], two burning purple eyes behind the mask covering his face. And he heard a voice.

“WEAK.”

It echoed, a thunderous voice compressed into a whisper. The contemptuous gaze held Normen, then the hand flicked him back. Normen went stumbling back, and the [Knight] drew his sword. He advanced—and the Order of Solstice was there.

Vess pointed his wands at Toren as Durene and Jewel flanked him. Antherr was at Toren’s back—the skeleton glanced around as Normen rasped.

“I don’t intend on bleeding for your sense of odd honor, sir. Either identify yourself and tell me what your quarrel is or lower your blade.”

Each [Knight] was glowing with flames. Toren felt the weight of green fire on his arms and regarded it.

A pure, beautiful flame. It clung to him with an idea he had never had…he thought of Erin and gazed at her chosen [Knights]. His hand rose to his purple eye flames, and he whirled.

 

——

 

The mysterious [Knight] strode away, and Drassi’s mouth hung open as Normen wiped at his nose with a handkerchief. He snorted some blood out, then turned to her.

“So, as I was saying—a [Knight] may be called upon for any situation that arises. Much like that, the Order of Solstice is used to chaos.”

“Wh—wh—that just happens?”

He gave her an odd smile as his two good eyes twinkled at her.

“You and I were at the inn, Drassi. You have to be prepared for the strangest of things. So, my flame is honor…”

It was a great interview, you had to admit. Random [Knights] coming in and punching the heck out of you—several outraged Terandrian [Knights] wrote into Drassi’s show to say how unconventional that was and how dishonorably done it had been. But there were a lot of fans of this Izrilian style of knighthood.

 

——

 

Target Two: Ishkr the [Head Server].

 

Five on one was cheating, anyways. This ‘Ishkr’ wasn’t made of hot stuff. The moment he saw Toren coming at him, he ran for it.

Possibly he’d seen the scrying mirror altercation—or he just saw an armored figure pushing people out of the way in Liscor and had a good enough understanding of geometry to trace the line of approach. He started skating away, and Toren chased him.

…The Gnoll was fast. He skated down a street, ignoring the red traffic light and the wagons that halted, and Toren ran into one.

The wagon cracked as he blasted through the rear of it, and Ishkr peered over his shoulder.

“Hm. That’s not good. Help, Watch.”

He was so…casual that it annoyed Toren. Casual was Toren’s thing. But the Gnoll just skated into an alleyway and spread his arms.

“So why are you after me? Which group’s sent you?”

Toren balled up a fist, not dignifying this with an answer. Ishkr shrugged as Toren swung at his face.

Then he vanished. Toren looked around, then began swinging wildly around him—but it wasn’t an [Invisibility] spell. Ishkr was just—gone.

Toren spotted him two more times in Liscor, both times clearly shopping for goods. Each time, the Gnoll caught sight of him, warned everyone to get clear, and skated off. The second time, Toren came at him in disguise; the Watch was searching for him, so he adjusted the illusion spell, but the Gnoll noticed Toren making a beeline for him and fled.

“I don’t know who you are, but if you told me, I’d at least have a reason to stay about! You could visit the inn!”

That was bait. He hopped through the [Door of Portals] and waved at Toren; the skeleton eyed the doorway, felt his [Dangersense] go off, and backed away.

Damn…[Servers]. That teleportation trick wasn’t that impressive. But Maviola was annoyingly agog.

“He’s so fast, Toren! I like him. Maviola El liked him too. Do you have to beat him up?”

Yes, shut up. Toren’s fourth attempt was the most subtle. He changed his appearance again and then just loitered around. Shopping, checking displays…slowly getting closer to Ishkr.

 

——

 

The Gnoll was on alert today, but he didn’t see anyone coming at him, and he did have to shop. Frankly, he suspected it was some kind of Terandrian kingdom making a statement after the Goblin King. He hadn’t done more than tell Vaulont and Ser Dalimont because Lyonette didn’t need this kind of stress.

He was buying sugar for Calescent when someone caught his arm, swung him around, and kissed him. Ishkr almost teleported away—until he realized it was Onieva.

“Onieva, you scared the fur off of me! I thought you were—I thought we wouldn’t meet until the weekend!”

That was normally when she appeared, but the Drake wore an expression of guilt and pleasure and sadness. She laughed as she leaned against him.

“Hello, Ish. Sorry, I had to see you. Something’s come up. I…it’s been a hard month. Notice, um, anything different about me?”

She had on some of those new trousers that Magnolia Reinhart had made trendy with that shop of hers in Invrisil, a tank top—she smelled like alchemy, and she seemed nervous. Very nervous. Ishkr frowned at her.

“No…the clothing’s new.”

“Yes—nothing about me?”

“You look nervous. What, have you broken something in the inn or upset Lyonette?”

Onieva fidgeted and bit her lip.

“That’s good. I guess I’m not that different. I, uh—I—can we talk?”

They were talking, but the way she worded the question made Ishkr’s heart sink. Either this was a breakup or something was wrong. He glanced around, but the street was just busy, no avenging [Knights], so he nodded.

“Sure. What’s wrong?”

“Well…the [Palace of Fates] thing happened. I, uh—I heard about it from Saliss, and there was something that happened that affected me afterwards. Him and me…”

“Oh, the Faerie Flowers.”

Ishkr cursed, and Onieva’s claws tightened on his arm.

“Yeah. I—well, listen. I have a confession to make. A few. The easy one is…I have to go, Ishkr. I’m heading to the New Lands.”

“You what?”

He was astounded; she hadn’t mentioned this at all, and her face was agonized.

“I didn’t—know. That’s the easy part. The other part—I—I don’t know if you ever questioned anything about me, Ishkr. I…Ancestors, this is hard. Did you ever—did I ever strike you as off?”

She was, he realized, terrified. Her tail was curled in a knot, and he thought she was shaking. He tried to answer honestly.

“I…knew you were unique. High-level.”

“Nothing else?”

She gave him that piercing stare that was so knowing—someone he wanted to know. He frowned.

“I knew you had some secret. A high-level [Alchemist] who was Saliss’ cousin and Chaldion’s granddaughter too? No one liked to mention you. So I thought…you were a convicted criminal. That’s why no one sees you. You get out under Saliss’ parole deal. Which wouldn’t bother me.”

He hastened to assure her. Her face lit up, she laughed, and then her face fell.

“Hah! That’s good. Grimalkin should take notes from you. Close, but…I…I think I need a drink and to tell you in private. Please. And I’m sorry. If you don’t want to see me again, I’ll make it happen, but please don’t—give anything away. Please.”

Ishkr was feeling entirely apprehensive as she glanced around, and he nodded.

“Onieva, I like you. I’m surprised you like me when I know you’re—above Level 50. You have to be. What could—”

She swung around as a Gnoll walked past him, a Gnoll who smelled like nothing, and threw a punch. Onieva blocked it, kicked the Gnoll—and the [Knight] reappeared. Ishkr groaned.

“Oh, come on.”

 

——

 

Ishkr. Not a fighter. Unique abilities, but Toren could beat him down with one hand tied behind his back.

…He wasn’t expecting the girlfriend.

She was fast. And unlike Normen—Toren had always known he was a better fighter than anyone he met. Even the Rotfiend—there were only a few people who exceeded him in pure fighting talent.

Erin arguably being one of them. However, whomever this was—

The flying kick knocked his head back, and he swung a fist, but she ducked under it, and her second kick from below actually sent him off his feet. The skeleton was still in armor, but he checked that Healing Slime was okay.

“Hey, listen. Whatever’s up with you, I’m not in the mood right now. Back off or I’ll rip your helmet off and feed it to you.”

The Drake snapped, and Toren adjusted his head. He used the [Blink] spell to get around her—

She was facing him when he appeared. Toren’s mouth opened. She grabbed one of his legs, yanked up—dumped him on the ground, and began stomping on his face.

“Onieva! Calm down! Don’t hurt him!”

Ishkr tried to stop Onieva until flames blasted up from Toren’s helmet. He rose, annoyed, and this time, Maviola jumped in.

“I’ve got her! [Flame Wall]!”

Maviola could cast any number of fire spells. The two launched flames, trapping the Gnoll and Drake together. Onieva hissed.

“Ishkr? Teleport back. I’ll handle this.”

“You’re sure?”

“Teleport!”

He vanished. Toren and Maviola’s flames crossed the Drake, and Toren cursed. Time to get that damn Gnoll. The inn after a—

Onieva walked out of the flames, completely ignoring the fire. Her eyes were narrowed, and she grabbed Maviola by her throat and slammed her into the ground. Then the Drake turned to Toren. He drew his s—

Toren tried to cut the four vials, but he only got two. The enhanced vials of [Sticky Webs] covered him in such a cocoon of webs that Maviola had to burn him out, and it still took her five minutes. Then they had to escape the Watch—the [Alchemist] hadn’t even bothered to stick about.

Toren was beginning to get upset. The [Knight] was one thing. But the [Server] had a Named-rank level girlfriend? But he—

He—

He was still Toren. Still the greatest [Barmaid]—the greatest protect—

He was the best skeleton. Maviola was crying and trying to get him to give up, but the skeleton’s ego was wavering.

…Right?

 

——

 

Target Three: Some Random Skeletons.

 

It was night. The only things moving around The Wandering Inn were skeletons hard at work on the new foundations, working under a tarp canopy. A few Bush Shamblers patrolling the hill.

…And a skeleton who emerged, naked as he’d first been raised, out of the water. The other undead seemed to notice him from afar.

He wasn’t one of them. He was better than they were. And he was going to prove it.

Toren mimed cracking his knuckles and neck as he approached. Maviola and Healing Slime were watching from afar with his stuff. The plan was simple. Walk over, beat down some skeletons, walk back.

Pride proven. The problem was that Toren hadn’t accounted for the watchers of the inn, including some Thronebearers and a Vampire. Or the fact they were hypervigilant after the Goblin King incident.

He never even made it to the inn’s hill. He was walking up a hill a few away from the inn when someone spoke.

“That’s the damndest thing I’ve ever seen. Leithe, you reckon it’s natural? It doesn’t look natural, but with that death-scar near Liscor, I’d expect anything.”

A quartet of [Necromancers] was standing on the hill. Toren froze. They’d been invisible until now; he didn’t even know how until he realized they’d been hiding their death magic.

Elosaith, Leithe, and two other younger [Necromancers] were watching Toren with a cluster of undead, including a Skeleton Juggernaut, who was seven feet tall and thick. Toren saw Elosaith’s clear power and felt a moment of fear.

No, not again. [Necromancers] were a natural counter to the undead. They could control him—if he didn’t fight it.

But they didn’t try, not right away. The woman frowned as she peered at Toren.

“He’s somewhat well made. He seems like an amalgamation of work. Fine techniques and…all roughshod. As bad as your work, Ama.”

“Hey! Sillias is a masterpiece!”

One of the [Necromancers] had a bone cat. Leithe rolled her eyes.

“Beautiful carving work doesn’t replace the fact that you had to hand-enchant each bone to be articulated how you wanted and pattern each movement you wanted. It’s obsessive, not efficient.”

“I thought we were beating down this random undead, not me.”

“Yes, yes. The Wandering Inn doesn’t need this right now. But I do want to investigate it after we’re done. I haven’t had a good undead matchup fight in a while. I’ll go first! Go—Skeleton Juggernaut!”

The [Necromancers] were having a grand old time. Elosaith pointed, and the Skeleton Juggernaut charged at Toren. It was a hobby of Rheirgest’s own to find random undead and, well, either capture them or see how their own undead stacked up.

The Earthers were fascinated by the concept, and none of Rheirgest’s people quite knew why.

 

——

 

Toren without his armor was weaker, far less durable, far more…

Pathetic. The Skeleton Juggernaut was everything he wasn’t. Taller by a foot, bones reinforced and made of Gargoyle femurs in places, even animated with more magical force.

It came punching hard, impervious to the fists Toren threw—but the Skeleton had two advantages.

One, he was faster. Two—

He had levels.

“Whoa! It is strong! Look at that!”

Toren’s [Lesser Strength] let him hold the Juggernaut back and force the undead behemoth off him. His [Daring Charge] slammed him into the other undead, and he tried to shove it over—but Elosaith was rooting for his undead.

“Skeleton Juggernaut! Use [Surge of Strength]!”

The damn undead grew stronger as Elosaith activated a Skill, and it threw Toren off. It charged, swinging wildly, and he caught a series of curses as he backed up. No sword, no shield—he did a flying dodge from a swing and thought tactically.

Skeletons were skeletons. Toren kicked a stone up and grabbed it. Then, as the behemoth raised its arms for a smash, he jumped.

[Hi-Jump]! Then—he used the stone and activated [Shield Bash]. His stone cracked the skeleton’s head, and Toren dug his fingers into the crack as he landed on the behemoth’s neck. It flailed, and Elosaith shouted in dismay.

“No, no! Get it off! Get it—no!”

His skeleton crumpled as Toren ripped enough of its skull free to destroy it. Elosaith hung his head as Leithe smiled.

“My turn!”

She wanted to send forwards a new Bone Horror, but Toren pointed, and the Bone Horror whirled, leapt at Leithe—

Two of the [Necromancers] blasted it instantly; Leithe ripped out a bone, and it collapsed. She blinked.

“That was a control ability. This is some kind of Skeleton Commander, Elosaith.”

“Pity. Those are too dangerous to keep. Alright, let’s—”

“Elosaith, let me, let me! I want to try beating it!”

Ama jumped from foot to foot as Toren, mentally panting, searched for a way out. The [Necromancers] were too casual; he signalled Maviola, hoping she could get close with his Relics. He could kill or escape this lot easily with his armor on…

His attention wavered as a third challenger appeared. Elosaith and Leithe took a second to ‘ward’ it against Toren’s authority, but the [Relic Guardian] wouldn’t have used his powers even if he could have.

Not on this.

Not on…

Scotty the Skeleton rose and gave Toren a jaunty wave, taking his head off, nodding it, then flipping it back onto his head. Ama’s second-best creation, the skeleton who had outrun even Facestealer, Scotty, the acrobatic skeleton, was reborn.

His eye-flames were yellow, and he did a jig before putting a hand out and beckoning. Ama was rapidly commentating.

“Do you see how cool he is? Look at all his moves!”

“He is rather well-made. Better than Sillias.”

“Hey!”

The skeleton, the myth, the legend—Toren’s eye-flames actually went out as his exact duplicate stood there, arms folded. Then the flames of [Terror] bloomed, and Toren’s desire for vengeance became true bloodlust.

“Watch out. It has an advanced [Fear] effect—”

Toren forgot Maviola, forgot Healing Slime, forgot everything else. He went for Scotty.

Diediediediedie—

Scotty swung out of Toren’s way, and the spinning backhand made Toren’s own head rotate. Scotty did a backflip as Toren caught himself and tried to swing again. Then Scotty cartwheeled away from Toren before doing a spring-kick that sent the skeleton tumbling head-over-scapula backwards.

Wh—wh—

Toren had never met a skeleton more acrobatic than he was. Scotty was doing a mocking walk back and forth, and he swayed at the hips, dodging a furious punch. He was so—

“Mobile. We should incorporate that into our undead, Elosaith.”

“Bah, he’s the work of over a decade of insane control spells. Ama has to control his every move.”

Indeed, Scotty was being manipulated by Ama as he threw counters, performed crazy dodges—even combination attacks that sent the mysterious other skeleton stumbling backwards. Ama was grinning as she twiddled her fingers.

“This other skeleton’s tough! I think it’s regenerating?”

Indeed, cracks that Scotty had given the other skeleton were slowly healing, and Elosaith was growing more excited.

“We have to capture it. Or deconstruct it. Ama, go for the kill.”

“Alright. Scotty, Attack Routine 6! Get him!”

Scotty’s fists rose, and he began punching like a [Boxer] from one of those movies that Ama had seen in the [World’s Eye Theatre]. He came in hot, doing a Dempsey roll—and the mysterious skeleton went still. Toren reached up—and caught Scotty’s fist.

 

——

 

Madness. It sank over Toren again. Madness—rage.

Is this all I am?

He was a levelling undead, praised by Az’kerash for being truly unique. A gateway to the future. He had empowered even the Chosen.

But was this all Toren was? Inferior to a single skeleton controlled by a [Necromancer]?

No.

No—his eye-flames burned as Scotty’s yellow ones glowed. Toren actually…felt Scotty’s presence. The undead was under Ama’s control, but they were still kinds of undead. Tamed…Scotty’s personality was as cheerful as his act. A loyal servant beloved by the [Knight-Artisan of Bones].

Loved and beloved. It burned Toren worse than the flames of honor. No one had ever loved him. Not like that Drake and Ishkr.

Everything I am, I made myself. You think you’re better than me? Scotty reeled back as Toren released him. Scotty paused—then leapt into a flying roundhouse kick, imitating Ryoka Griffin.

Toren leaned under the kick. Scotty whirled around, the yellow flames brightening in astonishment. He kicked sideways, instantly, and Toren—front-flipped over Scotty.

“Whoa.”

Ama caught herself as Scotty received a kick from the spinning skeleton in the air. Her skeleton caught himself as she reinforced his bindings, throwing a spinning backhand—

Toren parried the backhand, then twirled along Scotty’s arm, and his own backhand slapped the skeleton’s head so hard Scotty’s jaw cracked. He stepped back as Ama cried out.

“[Repair Undead]! Scotty—Attack Routine 18!”

The [Necromancers] had gone silent, and Scotty began to dance from foot to foot. Left-right, left right, faster—then he leapt at Toren, punching and swaying, poised to dodge any counteratt—

Toren’s hands flicked the punches aside. He held still, blocking, diverting each blow coming at him—for a second, immobile. Then, as if mocking Scotty, he took a step as the skeleton tried to leap back—

They were skull-to-skull, purple and yellow eye-flames blazing at each other. Scotty tried to evade, using the magic in his brain to pivot, leap left—Toren was with him, matching move for move.

“Scotty—”

He leapt, springing into the air, and Toren was on top of him. They hit the ground, and now their bones were jumbling up, trying to gain leverage as they grabbed at each other—Toren tossed Scotty off him as the skeleton tried to put him in a headlock. Toren did a handspring—and kicked Scotty as the skeleton was trying to do the exact same move to him.

Scotty hit the water and vanished into it, thrashing. Ama’s mouth was open. Now, Elosaith’s face was truly wary.

“…That’s no rogue undead. This one’s thinking. Who…is this one of your cabal, Ama? The bones have a similar style to yours.”

“It can’t be. Unless—”

Ama knew the failed coven she’d been leading, and no one had the ability to make a half-decent skeleton. The only other person who would have a similar style to hers would be—

Pisces? However, then Ama saw Toren turn, eyes glowing purple.

“Stop it!”

All four [Necromancers] put up their hands, and his neck cracked as they tried to rip his head off. The surest way to kill an undead—but the skeleton caught his head and refused to let it bend. Elosaith’s staff rose, and the tip glowed as a scythe of magic appeared—then Ama sensed something powerful in the waters.

“Watch out!”

Sillias, her bone-cat, threw itself forwards, a silent yowl of rage as something in the waters made of death magic, even stronger than the skeleton, spat flames at them. Steam boiled upwards, and the [Necromancers] cried out.

“[Bone Wall]! Where—?”

Leithe saw Elosaith whirling the steam away, and all their undead were rising. But when the steam cleared…they saw no skeleton. No enemy.

Just a cleared patch of wet soil, the rain—nothing. Leithe paled as Ama whirled, eyes wide.

“But they were just—!”

“They’re masking their death mana. Sweep for—”

Elosaith sent his undead into the water, but they didn’t find the skeleton nor the other mysterious undead.

They were gone.

 

——

 

They left. Not even a footnote in the annals of The Wandering Inn. No one really remembered him.

Not even Ser Normen, who was punched, but who had been punched many times and took it less like a personal week-ruiner and more like stubbing a toe. Forgotten, especially after Normen sat in a bar in Esthelm, having a drink to celebrate the good interview, and a man with a hat walked in, glowing with two flames…

The [Necromancers] kept their own counsel, and while they had suspicions, one had to admit that a single skeleton, even a hypothetical levelling one, wasn’t much of a threat on the ‘Goblin King and Mortemdefieir Titan’ scale of concern.

As for Ishkr, the most perspicacious member of the inn who could, arguably, put together all of the hints and knew the old lore of the original inn…well, even his usual flair for stories and events was incapacitated by being glued to Onieva in his room that evening during an apology—and goodbye.

So the skeleton left. Realizing…he had never been important, had he?

Had he.

 

——

 

They called the city…uh…Pilossan. Or something.

It was a Drake city down the road from Liscor, one of those ones in the same region as Hectval, where the war with Liscor dragged on. It was, doubtless, regionally important because it was a city, but it was not, in the broad scheme of things, like Liscor now was, which was ironic.

Maviola didn’t care. She hated it here. She sat, sulking, as Toren stood in a shop where an [Alchemist] was giving him the second degree.

“Listen, if you can’t talk and you’re some foreigner without even a passport to show me, why should I hire you? I don’t care if you think you can work, this is a delicate job.”

He was trying to get a job, and the skeleton’s head hung low as he stood there. He was sad, Maviola knew, and she played with Healing Slime, who kept wanting to go inside and eat tasty things. But she didn’t get it.

Why was he so sad? She’d been all set to go and fight the [Necromancers] or do something interesting, but he’d left.

It was like he…he…didn’t actually want vengeance. But her mother had said it was so important. Yet if things were like fire—and Maviola did believe they were—the skeleton’s thirst for it had guttered out, a flame with no fuel.

Sometimes, she thought like Maviola El had, and the memories got jumbled up. Belavierr, her mother, had said it came of inheriting a body so recently deceased and strong. Belavierr had only been sad she couldn’t use Maviola El’s actual soul. Because that would have been a fitting vengeance.

The two looked like Drakes at the moment, this being almost exclusively a Drake city. Maviola skimmed some rocks into the gutter as people eyed her, and the [Alchemist] paused for breath.

“Alright, alright. I can see you want the job. Let’s see you stock something. Do you actually know ingredients? Grinding isn’t hard, but you have to clean the mortar and pestle—I’ll give you half a day of work, and if I don’t like it, I’m not asking you to come back tomorrow. I’ll pay you eight coppers if you give me any work.”

Then he worked. Maviola grew so bored sitting there for two hours, watching people go by, that she got up and went around the city, asking questions and trying to entertain herself with Healing Slime.

But she didn’t really…care why the [Butcher] sliced bodies up, and she offended him by saying it was just like Drake bodies, only a different species. Why did a child cry? Maviola El would have cared.

Maviola the undead stood in a city of the living, and her only fascination was the flicker of flames in a [Baker]’s oven, or the graveyard of the sadly consecrated dead. She didn’t notice the watchers, nor care for the world of the living. In some ways, she was far more perfect an undead than Toren. In others, especially if you understood their instinctual drive to kill, their boredom with the living—so inferior, for all the Witch of Webs had made her.

Toren? Far more fascinating to watch the skeleton grind up ingredients and perfectly stock the store after hearing instructions once. He seemed almost…happy.

 

——

 

If he worked, he could stop thinking of the inn. If he worked, he could feel like he was doing something, especially since he could buy Healing Slime things it wanted to eat.

Working was good. Maviola hated it, she hated this city, and she was bored, but to Toren, there was something here he had missed.

Az’kerash’s castle filled with the undead was so dull. Even dust was more interesting, hence Toren sweeping it up. The thing about undead was that they never…changed.

Think about it. Until their levels, the Chosen had been master-crafted Golems in all but name. They fulfilled their functions, they had personality, but as Az’kerash had despaired—they had no real spark, like Toren.

It never occurred to them to take Relics to win a fight. They didn’t cheat or lie, save for their master’s directives. Toren, now…Toren realized he was a bit of a degenerate.

A bit of a living-phile. A…vitaphile?

He liked watching them. Not in any creepy way like the sex stuff, but just how they changed. Even the [Alchemist] at work was a bundle of contradictions. He worked, but he grew bored. He varied his routine, he experimented—and the poof of pink dust meant Toren had to clean everything off twice, but that was fine.

It was interesting. It was like him, in a way. Toren could do repetitive things, but he liked when challenges arose. His favorite memories were of having to beat down Shield Spiders when he was patrolling outside the inn or digging all the snow up and waiting for Erin to be so impressed…

But she never was.

Up and down. Every time his spirits rose, she appeared like a hammer and brought him down. His mopping of the counter slowed, and the [Alchemist] scolded him—then realized what time it was.

“Well—well. Well, I suppose you’ve earned this. Here. Come back tomorrow right when my store opens. Eight o’clock! Er, what’s your name again?”

He was handed a silver piece and six coppers instead of the eight, and the [Alchemist] ran a finger along the shelves and was amazed to find no dirt on them. Toren smiled as he nodded and held up his name on a little piece of wood.

He’d invented the idea all by himself: writing when he didn’t want to use his voice. He was very proud of it, and the [Alchemist] nodded. Toren went to find Maviola, who instantly began to complain.

“Toreeeen. I was so bored. Can we go now? All these Drakes keep trying to pick me up. Which mother says I’m too young for. Healing Slime was bored too!”

Healing Slime didn’t seem bored. It had been rolling around in Maviola’s arms, as fascinated as Toren by the city. He hugged it, and it seemed to realize he was feeling better.

I must work here. 

“Why?”

Because…because Toren had realized something during his retreat from Liscor. The Wandering Inn gave him nothing. There was no real vengeance to pursue; he didn’t care if Lyonette was alive or dead. Tormenting her had been fun, but what had it brought him?

Nothing. Only regrets, really. Killing—it was something Toren tried to explain to Maviola as they left the city and sat in a nearby forest to wait for dawn. It was dark and they didn’t have much to do, so he sat and polished his armor while staring at the moons. The green one had a bunch of cracks in it. He wondered when that had happened.

Maviola was entirely bored here too. She amused herself by burning a small anthill, ant by ant, digging them up and setting them aflame. Healing Slime found that semi-distressing, so it tried to climb a tree, first rolling up it, then streeeetching up to try to reach a branch. Toren felt like it was learning: it was trying to make suction cups to go up the tree as he spoke.

Killing wasn’t fun. No, wait, it was. But—and this was what he tried to get across to Maviola.

It didn’t give him anything, not really. Levels? Sure. But he’d killed and killed, and in the end, he’d gone back home because it was sort of pointless. Like the Crypt King down there. Say he managed to kill this City of Crossroads. Then what?

“Then you make a huge army and kill the next city.”

Then what?

“Then the next. Then an entire kingdom!”

Maviola spread her hands, smiling wide, and Toren just sat there.

It sounded sort of dull. It sounded like a lot of work. Even if you were working with undead, at some point, you’d have such a big army you needed someone to delegate it. Which meant you were then managing the managers, and you had to organize each horde and probably do supply lines—

“Supply lines? Toren, are you silly? We’re undead!”

Weapons, armor, ammunition—Toren got a mild headache just thinking of it all. Maviola flopped onto her back.

“Toren, you’re not being fun anymore. Leading is hard, but killing is fun!”

Was it? He remembered how terrified he’d been when Venitra was ripping bones off his body, piece by piece, or he was shielding Healing Slime from Ijvani. If something tried to hurt Healing Slime…

“I’d burn them to ash! Because we like Healy Slime. But other things, Toren.”

He didn’t know. Toren thought of it. He could have killed Ser Normen with his sword, but he just sat there and remembered strangling an [Innkeeper] with his hands, each second feeling wrong, watching her die…something irreplaceable. Something you couldn’t undo, not with a thousand zombie Erins, and he’d tried.

Maviola went back to burning ants. Toren articulated the second reason mentally, which she found as silly as the first.

“What do you mean, ‘you don’t own your Relics’?”

The [Relic Guardian] played with his sword. It was a beautiful, anti-light weapon that could cleave through a tree in a moment. Healing Slime squealed as its tree went over with it halfway up, and Toren slapped Maviola’s hand and grabbed it back.

It was his.

Yet he did not know who had made it. He didn’t know its name, all that it did—he had some sense as a [Relic Guardian], but he had taken it from Az’kerash. He hadn’t earned it.

“It’s yours now. Mother likes theft.”

Belavierr also believed in deals, fair deals, because stealing only got you so far. Maviola rolled her eyes as Toren pointed this out. She flounced off, and he sat there, unconcerned for her wellbeing. She was more powerful than he. With the Relics…

With the Relics, I am powerful, but without, I’m just a weak skeleton. 

Toren wanted more. He wanted something he had achieved.

Maviola didn’t understand. She was very unhappy with their current arrangement, but she hadn’t decided to split ways or overrule Toren. Just complained like a child, really.

It didn’t seem to occur to her that she could just go on her own path. Sometimes she whined and asked if they could go ‘back’ and find Az’kerash, but the idea of just heading off to find him didn’t occur to her. Toren almost imagined she’d grow afraid and nervous without support.

Belavierr had made Maviola as a daughter, and the young undead’s reliance and need to learn meant he was her caretaker. But she didn’t understand anything he valued.

Healing Slime seemed to know how Toren felt. It rolled over the anthill of burnt ants and sat a while. Toren thought it was digesting the ants until it saw Healing Slime spit a few out, completely healed. It saved dozens—then they flocked around it and began to bite pieces of it off!

Toren began stomping the ants as the Healing Slime fled, wailing slightly. He gathered it up and sat there. It was a good slime, but the world was not kind to innocent slimes. Evil skeletons…evil skeletons could survive.

He resolved to buy Healing Slime all the ingredients it liked and made a list of the things that the slime would eat, by taking it inside of him when he worked the next day. Maviola sulked in the forest, but brightened up when he bought her pieces of wood to burn and candles to melt.

 

[Barmaid Level 12!]

[Skill – Swift Cleaning obtained!]

 

——

 

For two whole days, Toren worked happily. Then, of course, it didn’t last. It never did. For he had forgotten that Maviola was a young undead, not a skeleton questioning his life choices.

Belavierr’s second daughter was exactly as she had been made to be. The Watch questioned her on the third day and pressed her about a Drake passport, which neither one had; they just jumped over the walls where no one was looking.

She grew angry. Toren glanced up as he heard screams. He raced outside, an apron on, and saw her laughing and setting flames to Drakes rolling around on the ground.

“Look, Toren! Look! I found something to do!”

She clapped her hands, twirling in delight, as he stood there. Then the Watch came for them, and Toren might be powerful, and she was Belavierr’s daughter, but there were far too many of them.

Again, he ran.

 

——

 

And now for something completely different.

Issk. No, it wasn’t a Drake name. At least…probably not. But yes, Issk.

Last name Issk. First name Doren.

But Issk was what was famous. Actually, ‘Issk’ wasn’t that famous aside from if you lived in a few cities in the upper north section of Izril.

Cormeng was the real name. And even that was a degree of famous, but it was the only important thing.

Cormeng, as in…Cormeng’s Grand Emporium of Antiques and Pawnshop, the mysterious building that could appear in your city! Many cities in Terandria, in fact, wherever you wanted! Come in and see all the wonders of a giant pawnshop! Marvel at all the useless trash people sold for copper pennies and buy it at a 350% markup!

Ignore the shopkeeper. He didn’t matter. Get bored, leave. The shop wouldn’t be there the next time you looked for it, but who cared? It truly, absolutely, made no difference in your life.

Except once—but that had been an Incident, one of six over Doren Issk’s entire life. He knew better than to think it meant anything.

Doren. Balding. Overweight from sitting at the counter all day. Unhandsome, which was not to imply he was too ugly, he hoped. Just…completely unattractive, and his demeanor did him no credit. He was dour, depressed? Oh, yes, but also just tired and worn down.

He had long jowls. Like one of those dogs that drooped at you. He could tell you the price of anything in the store because he’d had to label it, and he could point out any section in the sprawling, enchanted shop. But nothing here was fancy.

You’d think ‘magical pawnshop’ and expect the leavings of a desperate Archmage, dangerous objects piled next to malfunctioning wands. But that hadn’t really been the case since Cormeng had been alive, nine generations back.

It was all just…old maps. Quill sets no one wanted. Fake glass jewelry. Clothing—dead gods, so much clothing, some of it half-decent, but none of it brilliant for bargain-hunting if that made sense. Old signboards. Furniture—and again, you could find a decent set, but nothing magical.

Any of that stuff was snapped up because it was valuable or Doren had orders to set it aside for the family to check out. So the pawnshop was room after room, three floors of…of…crap. People wandered around inside, and when they left, the shop spat them out in the city they’d come from.

You couldn’t be cute and use it like Liscor’s [Door of Portals]. You entered, you left from where you came from. Even Doren couldn’t change that rule; he just popped out in his home city. He didn’t have time to travel; he had to mind the shop. He worked five days a week. He’d used to work eight, until he collapsed. Even then, those three days off left him so aimless he’d often work six or seven days a week. Not enough time to enjoy his decent pay. He’d forgotten how to do interesting things on his time off.

The shop made money, though. A surprising amount. On a bad day, he was pulling at least a dozen gold pieces. It was just sheer customer volume and the fact that his customers came from so many cities; he didn’t run out of people willing to toss down some silver or coppers on a trinket just for the novelty.

Now, if this all sounded dreadful, well, it was. Doren didn’t lie about the job, but no one really asked. No one paid attention to him, even if they realized the nature of the shop. He was the ninth generation of shopkeeper to do this job after Cormeng, the founder and the great magic-user who had made the store. Damn him.

Only one person had ever stopped and asked Doren about his job and she…well. He’d heard she was dead or in Baleros. An exciting woman, but she’d forgotten about him, and he couldn’t blame her.

Sometimes, he forgot about him.

 

——

 

Doren was hanging up a second cork billboard next to the first one, covered in notes from visitors. There was a big note at the top which read:

 

Leave a note of your city and class for other visitors to see! Cormeng’s shop has served over a hundred and twenty cities and counting!

 

It was—it was just a thing. The [Innkeeper] had begun it. Now, the board was covered in notes, and Doren sometimes made sure they weren’t overlapping or falling over each other, but he liked the look of it. The second cork board was because the first was running out of space.

He studied it, the shopkeeper, not smiling…but he glanced over at some visitors who slowed as they came into the door and the bell chimed. They glanced at it, and he watched out of the corner of his eye as he turned on a scrying mirror, waiting to see if they got it.

He was a shopkeeper, by the way. Not a [Shopkeeper]. He didn’t have the class; he wasn’t allowed to. He didn’t like this job. When he was sixty, he’d retire. Seven more years. Seven…dead gods. He’d done this job for forty years, ever since he was twelve. So long he’d become numb to how it felt until she’d come in and asked him if he wanted to change things.

Erin Solstice. He’d been so upset at her, but he’d kept the board she’d started. Sometimes, he’d read it before closing up, smiling at a comment left by someone interesting or just finding the city on a map.

Sometimes, the board was a curse and he’d read complaints about the shop, comments about how it was a let-down, about him, or just—boring comments and he’d feel the weight of apathy on him like one of those damn Grimalkin weights that someone had sold him that he had to lug into the store—like a bar pressing against his chest, squeezing the life out of him—

Thus, Doren.

—He had an interesting visitor today on the glorious day of Beithday, the first day of the week. He’d forgotten to check the calendar, but there she was.

“Doren! Collection time!”

His aunt swept in, all smiles, and he sighed.

“Oops. I forgot to count out the coins. One second, Aunt Markine. How’s things?”

Her smile twisted a bit as she wasn’t actually here to socialize, and she waited, sighing.

“Oh, very well. I’m hoping to make an investment in a local player’s guild—you know, theatre? Do hurry up, Doren. The rest of the family is w—Cousin Stenman!”

He came in, since the shop could be open to multiple cities at once, and he had a smart vest on.

“My favorite day of the month! Hello, Doren, how’s business?”

“I’m getting the coins. One second.”

He had to divide up the store’s profits among seven different groups. Cormeng’s shop made good money—enough so that seven groups of Cormeng’s prolific family could make a very, very healthy income off of the money. Some just lived off of it, others augmented their own jobs, but it made them wealthy. Hence Issk being a small name up north. Doren, incidentally, got the seventh portion; an equal ‘share’ given he was one man. But he did all the work. That’s how it worked in the Issk family. One person worked until they were sixty, then they were able to retire and get the same payout. Once he was sixty, he’d go travelling, maybe. Start a family.

Sixty…far too late to find someone. Markine had given up on telling him to ‘find someone’. Find someone with what days off, Aunt? Who wanted to marry into a seventh-share of this store?

“You know, Doren, the profits are down a bit these last few months. We’re not saying it’s low, but do you have any inkling why?”

Uncle Stenman rested a friendly arm on the counter as more cousins came in, gossiping and talking. Doren was short with him.

“It’s the New Lands. Everyone’s either invested in that or the food shortages, and sickness has made prices rise too high to spend on trinkets. It’s still a good amount. Besides, gold’s losing a bit of value. Someone tried to pay me in new currency in Terandria, but I don’t know the rates.”

He was sorting gold pieces out, and Stenman’s eyes lingered on them before frowning.

“New currencies? If you can get a Terland Tithel, they’re all the rage, but I don’t want any…foreign coins. No Drake stuff or Terandrian. As for famines, what famines, Doren? I haven’t heard any of them.”

“They’re not in big cities. Towns and villages went under. As for plague…it’s mostly around middle Izril.”

“Dead gods. Well, take care not to catch anything! We can’t have that.”

“And don’t bring any back with you, Doren! Dead gods, I imagine you might catch something foreign from all those Drakes and Gnolls.”

Aunt Markine’s voice was a bit too loud, and Doren glanced up at the customers, who were Drakes, Gnolls, in equal proportion to the Humans—even a pair of Dullahans.

Must be Pallass or a port city. He could tell who was who by their attire sometimes. Markine turned back to Doren and scooped up the first amount of coins before he was done.

“Aunt—”

“I must go. Kisses, Doren! Oh, and I thought we’d move up the percentage to 400% on each item.”

“What? No! No one will buy that!”

Doren panicked a bit, and Markine turned, exasperated as the other cousins murmured.

“We’ll vote on it later.”

“No, no—I’m the one who has to adjust all the prices, Aunt. All of them. It’ll take me months!”

The family voted, another system which meant Doren sometimes had to do things like that. He tried to explain.

“Now is not the time to raise prices.”

“Doren, some of us need the coin. This is a very stressful start to the year, what with the Goblin King rumors and King of Destruction—please be reasonable.”

“Yes, listen to your aunt, Doren. We all voted to buy you that scrying orb.”

Another cousin put in, far too presumptuous, and Doren glanced at the scrying orb he stared at all day. He protested.

“But 400%—”

“Maybe a fee at the door? I really can’t stay; I have to meet with [Actors].”

“Oh, that’s fascinating! Markine, I’ll [Message] you about it! Wistram sells these long-use [Message] scrolls!”

Then everyone was grabbing their money and hounding Doren about profits or asking him how things were—without really expecting an answer because they were gone so fast. Just like every month. He sat there, picking up a few copper coins off the ground when it was done, and sagged back in his chair. His back hurt.

He hated his job. He’d told Erin that. Especially because a requirement of the job was to be as Cormeng had been: levelless.

Doren had no levels. He was a Rulebreaker, but as far as he’d been concerned, you didn’t get to break any more laws for having no levels. Fewer, actually. It was the requirement of Cormeng’s shop: to run it, you had to eschew classes as Cormeng himself had. But unlike that fantastic magic-user of the past, it was a curse upon everyone else. Being the only person without Skills in this world of them…

Slowly, Doren sat back in his chair, letting his feelings, those inconvenient things, wash away. He tried to smile as the door opened and another visitor strode in.

“Welcome!”

“Oh, hello. I, uh—I never noticed a shop here before.”

“We get around. Please, look at everything. But—if you break it, you buy it.”

The Drake nodded a few times, and Doren experienced the smallest pleasures he had, of watching the Drake put his hands in his pockets and edge away from some fragile glass gems near the door. He watched them trying to figure out why they’d never seen this shop before, and if he was screaming inside, it was such a long, weary voice that he’d tuned it out in his heart.

Then the door opened—and a pair of Drakes burst into his shop, one shoving the other.

“I didn’t mean to, Toren! I—”

Doren flinched as someone blew past the protection spells and an alarm began to ring in his head. He pushed away from them, reaching for a club under his desk.

Oh no. Nonono—an Incident, an unexpected moment in his routine, and a bad one. Cormeng’s shop was enchanted to let no one of ill intent in. No one—but Cormeng hadn’t been a spellcaster on par with an [Archmage]. He’d been levelless; the fact he’d made this shop at all had been a miracle. Cormeng’s shop had limits, and sometimes a high-level person could come in despite the wards. Like right now.

These two were clearly on the run from something. The Watch? Doren hid under the counter, his head sticking up as one of them lifted a sword.

He looked like a dangerous man, this Drake. They were both Drakes and seemed young—eighteen, nineteen? This Drake had dusky green scales, short neck spines, but what stuck out most was his sword, a glowing artifact—and his face.

He had an intense face and eyes that seemed to stare right through you, bright purple; his posture was tense, his body lithe, dangerous. A young man in his prime.

The female Drake, by contrast, was beautiful, even if Doren wasn’t an expert. Her scales were flame-red, and she stood poised and elegant, like a [Lady], which belied her childish expression of petulance. Blue eyes—and the odor of smoke around her. Smoke and danger.

They were both not breathing hard, oddly, but clearly stressed and watching the door for the pursuers—who never came charging in after them.

Shop must have moved. It did that in times of danger. Doren wondered if it’d spit them out in the same place or they’d actually go with it. Either way, the door was gone, and he flinched as the male Drake, silent, purple-eyed, stared around and saw him.

“I—I—this is a shop! We’re almost out of gold! I don’t want trouble here!”

His voice trembled, proof he was a coward, like the last time a [Thief] had managed to get in. The male Drake, ‘Toren’, lowered his sword, and the female one spoke.

“Oh, we’re not trouble. We’re not, are we, Toren? Or can I burn—”

He swatted her so fast Cormeng barely saw it. The female Drake covered her head.

“Toren! I said I was sorry! What now?”

He didn’t speak; instead, he nudged her a few times, and the Drake turned to Doren. He got the impression she was somehow speaking what he wanted.

“Sorry, sir! We came in by accident—why is the Watch not following us?”

Doren wasn’t fast enough to lie, so the stupid name popped out wholesale.

“Th-this is Cormeng’s Grand Emporium of Antiques and Pawnshop. It’s a magical shop. It moves from city to city. Normally, you wouldn’t be allowed in—y-you should leave. Please.”

The Drake glanced at the door and sheathed his sword, to Doren’s relief, and the female Drake spoke.

“I’m Mavi—Mavi. This is Toren. We can’t leave, sir. The Watch was after us for a tiny mistake.”

He glared at her, and Doren didn’t want to know. He nodded a few times.

“If you’d like to leave…?”

They tried the door, and it was—locked. Maviola seemed worried, and Doren cursed.

“It—it must be locking you two out. Don’t force it! It’ll reset after an hour. Just—just look around, and please, no violence.”

“Fine! I like this place, Toren. I said I’m sorry, don’t be mad—”

To his utmost relief, they actually became normal visitors, and the male Drake just wandered around with Maviola, checking the place out. Doren was still sweating bullets, though.

If they cause violence, I’ll run out. Check the shop later. But there are people inside! Shout at them to leave and—

It was hard to get the Watch to enter because the shop wasn’t one they knew. In theory, he was protected by every Watch, but in practice, none. Doren had to wait for a visitor, you see, so convincing one to get to the Watch…

 

——

 

He was alert for the entire hour, so stressed he just sat there or got up and walked around adjusting things, peeking at the duo, but they just walked around—after an hour, they came back, and Maviola showed him a broken butterfly ornament.

“I’m sorry! I broke it!”

Toren had money, but Doren was so relieved, he waved it off.

“I’ll waive it. Good day! Thank you for not causing trouble!”

She was ready to go, but the male Drake was glancing around the antique store. He nudged Maviola a few times. She began to pout.

“No. I don’t want to!”

Nudge, nudge. Doren’s eyes swung between the two, and Maviola sighed gustily.

“Um—excuse me, mister? What’s your name?”

“Doren.”

“Mister Doren, Toren here wants to work for you. And me too. Wait, me?”

She grew even more upset, but Toren was looking around the shop, and Doren raised his hands.

“I, uh, I don’t need help.”

“We’re very cheap, sir. Toren says your shelves are a mess! And it’s all dusty!”

It was dusty, and things were unorganized because he couldn’t keep up; things got piled into rooms and left there. He tried to organize, but if he ran out of space in one area, for instance, he had to start another collection elsewhere. Doren’s back twinged just thinking of it, but he couldn’t hire these two dangerous people.

He was protesting when in his agitation he tried to push himself off his stool—and misjudged where he was sitting. His legs kicked out against the desk, not the floor, and Toren and Maviola saw him drop. Hard. Maviola beamed and Toren winced as Doren made a gasping sound and felt something crack.

Doren would have suspected they’d arranged for him to break his arm…but he really doubted they needed that coincidence. When he woke up from the shock, Toren had bundled him into his bed and set his arm, and Maviola was sitting at the counter, beaming at people.

He groaned…and his first new employees got to work for the low, low rate of four coppers a day. He’d thought they’d quit or argue, but neither one seemed to care.

And he soon realized—it was a bargain beyond his wildest dreams.

 

——

 

Toren, Job-Hunter.

Toren the Vengeful One.

Toren, Employee #1 of Cormeng’s Grand Emporium of Antiques and Pawnshop.

 

Toren liked his new job. He hadn’t just taken it out of desperation; there was something compelling about this pawnshop, and not just the magic within. It had people from all over! It had things! And most of all, it had dire need of him.

The more you searched around, the more higgledy-piggledy the antique store really turned out to be. Oh, it appeared okay on the surface, but then you’d start finding objects in the wrong places, courtesy of shoppers who picked something up and stuffed it wherever. Missing price tags, dust—oh, the dust.

It was a mess, and Toren’s cleaning bones began to itch; he realized he missed this. He started in one far-off room and began to organize it. Take every item out, clean it from top to bottom, then begin to organize each item in there systematically, according to his personal system.

It was a real challenge too, because he realized not every room could fit every item, so some rooms needed to contain two sets of items, but he didn’t realize that so he had to move everything out of the room and re-assign the category…

This was the kind of thing an obsessive skeleton with nothing but time could get behind. Maviola liked it too, mostly because she could sit at her counter and ask whomever came in questions. They had plenty of time for an attractive Drake.

Healing Slime liked it because it could roll around the store and, aside from a few guests, they could claim it was a pet. If someone broke something, well, they paid for it.

It was unclear if Doren enjoyed any of it, at least at first. He was scared of them, but he quickly seemed to realize Toren was serious about cleaning this shop, and he began giving hesitant orders.

“No heavy goods in the back. They’ll never lug them out. And, uh—the light catches jewels right here. I want a display cabinet by the counter, okay? Most Drakes see fake gems and they’ll stay. Gnolls get overloaded by too many smells, so anything aromatic goes in the back—”

He knew a lot about his shop, but he was fascinating to Toren because he was a rare example of a Rulebreaker; a levelless man. Doren explained why the shop had its quirks, and soon, he was talking nonstop.

When you got him going, it turned out Doren would talk and talk—if he had someone to listen, and the two undead had nothing but time. Maviola got bored and hated work and would skive off, but Toren would listen as Doren spoke and complained and…well, got surprised.

Maviola setting fire to things whenever she wanted was shocking to him, more from a power sense than a flame-one. There were automatic extinguishing spells in the shop, so he let her burn some cheap candles or things she liked as her ‘pay’. Toren…

Toren knew that he unsettled Doren. It was the sword. Doren was no idiot. He knew Toren was dangerous, and the skeleton was a bit awkward around him. He levelled up twice as a [Barmaid]—no Skills sadly—before he decided to try and be more friendly.

…Toren didn’t know friendly. He’d never been a great Erin-employee in that sector, and while he had a voice, his personality was just—mean, sometimes. He had a long think about it.

 

——

 

The seventh day of work, Doren saw the two employees emerge from the rooms he’d let them convert into guest-rooms and greeted Maviola. Then the female Drake with breasts walked out and saluted him, and he spat his cup of coffee straight onto a wall.

“Wh—whb—what?”

 

——

 

Toren had forgotten she could pull this trick. All it took was a bit of cloth—or a helpful Healing Slime—and a shirt and her alternate personality appeared!

[Sword Dancer], adventurer—friendly, mysterious. Breasted. It was more of a mental switch, really. Arguably, it was even a downgrade because having breasts and mopping? Not easy, but after Doren had gotten over the shock, Toren thought he liked the change.

Back in the dungeon, he’d always resented the ‘other’ Toren coming out, and the two had fought over who was in charge. Part of that had probably been because Nekhret’s personality had come out more in female Toren…or so he’d thought.

But she was still here. The friendlier skeleton who liked masks, not killing people—had Nekhret’s ghost left her behind? Had he been changed by her presence? Toren didn’t think too hard about it.

Sometimes you just hated being who you were, because you were a miserable person, in a bad mood, or just tired. So why not just find some cloth, toss on a mask, and become someone nicer?

He, she.

She, he. Similar and different.

Maviola thought it was strange and didn’t like female Toren as much, because she wasn’t as ‘cool’ as Toren. [Sword Dancer] vs [Relic Guardian]. But Toren just enjoyed the reaction Doren gave her, and he certainly appreciated her brighter personality.

Or maybe just staring at her. The skeleton alternated personalities every few days. When she was Toren, she’d be welcoming, if silent, holding up written notes to greet people, showing them around—

Male Toren was obsessive about the organization project and would grudgingly point out items before shooing people away so he could work. And both realized—they were enjoying life.

In fact, so was Doren. The first time he saw a fully empty room in Cormeng’s Grand Emporium, he just stood in it, breathing in and out, not coughing from the dust.

“It’s…beautiful.”

It was. Cormeng’s enchanted shop was, when you removed all the crud, the dust, the wall-to-wall objects, made of those rich, old boards of wood that didn’t squeak or show their age. Sunlight shone down from a window against the slanted roof, and Doren ran a hand across some shelves.

“It’s almost a crime to fill it up like this. We could leave some rooms open…more rooms appear as you need them, I just can’t keep track of them all. But what could we put in here?”

He gave Toren a helpless look, and the skeleton ran off, waving his arms wildly. When he came back, he had…a chessboard. He had to take the pieces off a second board since both were incomplete, but they weren’t going to sell them, anyways. And a bunch of chairs, all mismatched.

Add a table and suddenly, you had a games room. Doren saw Maviola appear with actual interest.

“Are you making a room? I want to help! Not that chair, Toren! This one is more fitting!”

They put some curtains in, a few of the plants that Doren hadn’t even known were still alive, and then you had a room to play chess in. Doren pulled up a seat and saw Toren sit himself down and move a pawn up. Doren blinked and tried to remember the game…

He and Maviola lost a combined 11-0 against Toren and gave up, but then Healing Slime crawled up onto the table, and Doren worried it would eat his pieces. But it clumsily moved a pawn piece forwards, and he stared as the world’s first chess game involving a slime ensued.

Healing Slime lost, obviously, but it seemed to enjoy playing, and that was how more than one visitor would walk in, see the Healing Slime rolling around the table, and sit down and play a slime in chess.

…They almost always won, but then Doren had the brilliant—and shopkeepery—idea to put a little bowl of alchemy reagents the Healing Slime liked out. Pay a few coppers to feed the slime and it would play you in chess all you wanted! He had to go to his local [Alchemist] for them, but Toren had a list, and it actually increased sales; people would see the little slime, win a game, and insist on leaving a note on the board about it, run to get a Mage Picture or someone to illustrate them playing, or find a friend.

And that was the first addition.

 

——

 

Money wasn’t something Toren actually cared about. He never had, except that Erin had wanted it. In the same way, he realized Doren was as close as you got to an undead’s ideals in many ways.

“Money’s never made the family happier. My aunt’s been remarried once, and that’s average for the family. Some are on their fourth marriage. At least I can avoid going to weddings because of work. If it made them happier…I think I’d see it. I used to think I could earn enough to make everyone like me more. Instead, they just expected me to keep it up. No one’s grateful when you work harder—not them. Only the customers, sometimes.”

That made sense to Toren. Erin was never grateful. But sometimes…a Goblin would be fed and look at him, and he’d be the person who’d given the pasta, and that mattered. But the money didn’t.

Still, how did one cater to every customer? Cormeng’s store being across Izril meant that you even got objects which were species-exclusive, like chairs.

Toren quickly grew sick of customers asking why the chairs looked funny. They meant some of the chairs had weird gaps on one side near the base—that was for a Drake’s tail. Humans never considered other species might have different needs and grew almost upset when they found chairs they wanted but were ‘made wrong’.

Also, Doren was absolutely right that the customers’ enjoyment was a benefit, but small and fleeting. If you went out of your way to show them something, they might smile and thank you, but they could be upset a minute later because they’d broken an item and it wasn’t their fault.

It was a thankless job. Maviola kept telling Toren she didn’t know why he did it. But he found them fascinating.

Doren told Toren not to get attached.

“I used to have regulars. I still do. They come in every month, some of them weekly. I think the store remembers or…I do. You get to know them. They’re like family, almost. I know so much about some—then they stop coming in. And I never know if they’re dead or moved away or…”

He rested his weight on the counter, appearing tired.

“Lady Bethal Walchaís loved to come here. I don’t know why she never came in from her city; she loved to come when she went to Invrisil. I haven’t seen her in months. Maybe it stopped mattering.”

Because he was the shopkeeper, and of the many things in other people’s lives…he would always be first to go. It was fair, but it hurt.

So! Toren’s takeaway from that was that if you did something, it had to be because you wanted it. Even if no one would ever thank you for it.

In a way, it was liberating. Because that meant he became a little god in this store. He’d greet you and do all the things he was supposed to. But unless he liked you—unless he valued you, Toren would let you be that little customer. When he saw you and you mattered—he would make the shop turn around you.

In a good way.

It was the [Goths] that did it. By now, the Healing Slime’s chess corner was a miniature attraction, and word must have been getting around, because one day, a pair of strangers entered the shop.

“Ah! It so cute! I’ll die. Stab me and put me in a coffin!”

A group of young people watching the Healing Slime play chess and trying to pose for a [Mage Picture] turned, and several older guests were horrified. But the girl wearing black makeup, eyeshadow, and a gothic maid’s uniform—and carrying a midnight umbrella filled with razors—didn’t care.

The tall, bookish young man nudged her instantly, embarrassed. He had spectacles and pushed them up as if they were odd on his face.

“Gothica, shut up.”

“You shut it, Inkpaper, or I’ll stab you. This is my vacation.”

“Chieft—the boss said to be good. Or you don’t get any more.”

“Yeah, yeah. Oooh! What’s that?”

Gothica instantly found some skull-themed ornaments that weren’t real bone—Toren knew bone—and grabbed them. It seemed there had been more…interesting clients in Cormeng’s store, because there were some rather ghoulish objects. Gothica wanted all of them.

“This is for my altar. This is for my coffin…Inkpaper, help me!”

She screeched at him, but the other visitor was studying all the books. They had a lot of money to throw around, and Toren watched, rubbing his hands and anticipating a sale. But the young people were more interested by the girl’s attire.

“Excuse me, what are you wearing, miss? And where are you from? We’re from First Landing.”

Thanks to the entry board, they were aware she wasn’t necessarily from First Landing, so Gothica spoke with a huge, sharp grin.

“Death’s clothing. You like?”

“It’s horrendous, miss. You look like a Noelictant tart! Ugh! Is that what they wear wherever you come from? You look like someone dumped ink all over your head.”

A young woman was trying to make fun of Gothica in that way you did to make yourself appear better, and Toren glowered. He hoped she broke something. He thought the strange girl had good style. And taste! Those were very well-proportioned skulls she was holding.

Several people laughed, but a gaggle of slightly younger children who might have been Drakes coming out of a Drake school fell silent. Sometimes, visitors clashed like this, especially if they recognized each other. About football, ironically, as well as politics.

However, Gothica’s smile only grew confused for a second.

“Oh, you’re trying to be mean. You so cute.”

She pinched the young woman’s cheek hard and got a squeal.

“She cut me! Mantel!”

She fled to her boyfriend, and the young man went to push Gothica. He put a hand out—and she moved her umbrella in the way. He yanked his hand back and stared at the cuts on his hand.

“Aah! She’s got blades on it!”

Gothica took a bow, and her eyes glittered with delight.

“My name is Gothica Midnight. How d’you do? Stab out your eyes for me, please, you rude fools. Don’t fight me; my blood is black, and my soul is shadowed. I’m a [Goth], and I’ll kill you if you annoy me.”

She was—something. Toren would have laughed, and certainly, some people did, but it looked like a fight. One of the people on the First Landing side heaved an object at her, and Toren caught it.

“No fighting in the store!”

Doren shouted, but before he could get close, one of the other young women—who turned out to be [Ladies]—snuck up behind Gothica.

“[Hefty Slap]! Take this, you little weasel!”

She slapped Gothica and broke her hand. Only Toren saw her hand strike the dark aura around the [Goth], which twisted it. To everyone else, it seemed as though there were shadows from under Gothica’s umbrella that formed a wall as hard as iron.

Well—getting the party out of the store became Toren’s task, which wasn’t fun, but when he came back, a bunch of people were asking what Gothica’s class was, and she was explaining.

“Being a [Goth] means you like gloomy things.”

“Like a [Necromancer]?”

“They sort of cool, but no. It means…you ever want to lie in a grave?”

“What? No!”

Gothica shrugged.

“Then it not for you. If you ever want to kiss a nightmare—that makes you [Goth]. And it gives you cool powers. Also, we have good music. Apparently.”

She hadn’t actually gotten any of the good music yet, but she winked at some of the Drakes and showed them her ears, which had piercings. By the time Inkpaper got her and led her away, there was a small buzz around her.

Toren thought little of it—until he saw Gothica come back another day because she liked all the ornamentation so much. At first, she just brought another person from ‘her group’ who also wore black and had facepaint on. But then he saw a girl standing in a corner of the shop, day after day, with a black umbrella, glancing around and asking if he’d seen another girl matching Gothica’s description.

 

——

 

“I—I’m Lady Isbeth Wellfar. I heard you broke Lady Tiri’s hand.”

“Oh. You want to fight too?”

“No! I, um—someone showed me a picture of you, and I thought you looked so interesting. I bought this umbrella. May I see yours?”

Gothica was very surprised to meet the tanned, barefoot [Lady] who was apparently nobility. But Wellfars were sea-farers and as far from Gothica’s style as you could get. However…Lady Isbeth had apparently seen Noelictus, and Gothica was all over her at that.

“The Kingdom of Shade is the best. You have pictures of them?”

“I—I could get a book. Have you heard of the Court of Dusks? It’s all midnight tiles, and the Hunter’s Guild—”

“You show me! You do that and I’ll, uh—I’ll give you my umbrella! No, wait! I’ll decorate yours. You do mine!”

Over the next week, Lady Isbeth, who became ‘Isby’, met with Gothica and a growing number of younger people who had decided the look Gothica was sporting was fascinating. Well, not just that. The first time a very nervous Drake with scales painted white and black walked in, Toren stared at the clumsy skeleton on one arm.

“I like [Necromancers]. I think Pisces is the coolest member of the Horns! No one else likes him, but he’s the best one!”

The two girls turned to the Drake boy, and Gothica grinned.

“[Necromancers] are pretty good. You want to sit with us? Maybe we get drinks? Inkpaper, can we have drinks?”

“No eating in the store!”

That came from Doren, but Toren took a look at the Drake boy’s clumsy illustration, and he heard that name.

Pisces.

Pisces. The name hurt—but Toren guessed he was glad his creator was doing well. It wasn’t Pisces’ fault, how it had turned out. No—it was. He’d been a bad creator, but Toren didn’t hold that against him as much as Erin.

Because he’d observed…or rather, failed to observe a single [Necromancer] or undead being who was happy. Maybe Rheirgest was an exception, but Toren had never met an undead happier than he was.

Maybe Scotty, but Toren was sure he had some kind of intrinsic trauma once you got to know him.

The Necromancer wept for the life he had. Pisces had been a starving [Necromancer] stealing around Liscor’s outskirts. The Mother of Graves was a coward hiding in her room.

And so on.

But these [Goths]? Toren hurried over and had a quiet conversation with Doren where he begged for a favor. That was how the trio of [Goths] saw Toren lugging over a table and chairs and making motions of entreaty.

He set them up in a side-room with no windows—which of course they liked—and they had a splendid time. The next time they came back, they found he’d put all-black and red decorations in the room and filled it with a profusion of more ghoulish items.

There were actually quite a few [Goth]-friendly items. You had to consider that things that were actually mundane became rather disturbing when isolated from their inciting reason of creation.

For instance…taxidermy.

Why? Well, some noble fancied that his particular dead Corusdeer deserved mounting, and then you had a horror staring down at you whenever someone decided they had too many deer heads.

Skull drinking mugs—some of them actual skulls of one’s foes—did not look good in the inheritance. And clearly, there were times when necromancy had been in vogue.

If they cleaned up after themselves, Doren allowed the [Goths] their space, and they were actually very good about it since they recognized the value of the area. In return, the shopkeeper caught Toren’s bug of enthusiasm and fetched something out from the back.

“I’ve been holding onto these because the family thinks they’re worth something, but they can’t be sold. It’s silverware—real silver—but see the theme?”

They were death-themed forks, knives, even plates. An entire cutlery set—in honor of the Archmage of Death. Toren felt like a lightning bolt of surprise had hit him as he saw a rare, complete Perril Chandler dining set.

The [Goths] loved it, though they got in trouble one time when Gothica showed them how to brew poisons and turned a cup black. And they were levelling.

It wasn’t obvious at first, but then the Drake boy, who called himself ‘Sawtail’ among his friends, announced he’d passed Level 10 in [Goth]. Toren was astounded. The kid was a kid! And it seemed the others levelled just as fast.

“Don’t listen if they shout at you. [Goth] is all about fucking off the man.”

“…Which man?”

Lady Isby grew nervous about that, but Gothica had to clarify her grammar.

“It means if someone says ‘you’re wrong’, you level. I’ve told many people to eat shit. Niers Astoragon, Erin Solstice, Watch Captain Zevara…”

She polished her black nails on her dress as they oohed and aahed. Gothica was a mix of mature and young; for all she acted like a child, she could somehow have that world-weariness that began to attract older people.

“Honestly. This is a disgrace, no? Someone should tell this Drake’s parents!”

An angry Gnoll from Oteslia was one of those regular clients that had observed the [Goths], and she liked to peer at them and try to talk a few of them out of this ‘bad path’. Toren and she were sitting in on a meeting—well, he was sorting a bunch of fake gemstones.

Maviola was with the [Goths] because she loved their talk about death and destruction. Gothica was fielding a question from some Humans who’d joined Isby—but not from her city. She’d gotten a few of her friends into the movement, but their parents were clamping down on it.

“It’s hard being a [Goth], Gothica. My parents say I’m wasting my potential. What’s…what the point of our class?”

“Ignore them, Shadowcat.”

“I’m trying. B-but my grandfather told me that he was going to die soon and I needed to be a good heir. My mother was crying and—”

A wide-eyed boy had cats drawn under each eye, and he was shaken. Toren gazed up. He didn’t know what it was like to have a concerned parent, and the Gnoll mother whispered at him.

“See? He’s snuck out to come here! Just to worry his parents?”

Gothica considered the statement seriously, and instead of a trite remark, she seemed troubled. She played with her claws, then regarded Shadowcat.

“The point? The point…ask your grandfather if he happy, Shadowcat. What’s the point of [Goth]? What’s the point of [Tailor]? When he dies, are you going to be sad?”

“Yes. Sorry, Gothica. But I will be.”

The voice was so quiet. Gothica stared up at something.

“That’s right. Being sad doesn’t make you not [Goth]. I’ve been sad. Very sad. Everyone I love died. Parents. Friends. Headscratcher. I was his…follower. The sky falls. Then, even if someone tries so hard—everyone dies. Now, in the future. She told me, my boss.”

Her eyes flashed.

“She’s seen it.”

They all sat silently as Gothica’s eyes lifted again.

“So I guess it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. In the end, you die and worms eat you. But you can either be sad and hide from death, or love the reaper. Someone told me they’re very cool. And nice. So tomorrow, if someone comes to kill me—”

Her teeth flashed.

“—I won’t be afraid. If a hole opens up in the sky, I’ll say, ‘what took you so long?’ Because nothing can hurt me. The world’s misery, and I like it. When I’m gone, I’ll be a hole in the world and drag it with me. It’s a promise. Why [Goth]? Because I’m darkness and gloom and scary smiles in the dark, and I like it. And liking it makes me able to do this.”

She lifted a hand, and the lights in the room turned off. Two red eyes glowed in the night, and they gasped. Toren felt the girl’s aura whirl around him. He could see; he had no fear of the dark. But when it was done, Gothica had a room of respectful silence.

She was not, incidentally, the end-all-be-all definer of what her class was. Just a certain point of view, a forerunner in the space. A very good advocate, though, because her little speech not only worked, but convinced several other new members to join.

Not only did Shadowcat report happily that his grandfather had accepted a certain macabre when he combined his [Goth] and [Tailor] classes into [Shadow Weaver]—but one day, Toren saw a certain Gnoll mother with dyed fur sitting with the [Goths]. Mostly because she had a bunch of music she wanted them to try and listen to.

[Night Singer]. [Midnight Goth]. [Shadow Weaver]. [Fright Lady]—the classes were unlike anything that Doren or Toren had ever heard of, and they seemed to keep coming. All this to say that by the time a month had rolled around, the ‘Goth Corner’—or as they referred to it, the Twilight Sanctuary—was pulling in steady clients, even if their purchases were modest at times. Well, Gothica seemed to have a lot of money.

And there it might have ended. This was not to say that it would have been a small thing. The [Goth] class spreading had already had a small, but substantive effect on multiple places in Izril, but for the grace of Toren, it would have stayed there.

However, he, or rather, she, had observed that Doren’s shop wasn’t just a powerful, random shop much like Erin’s inn. She hated to admit it, but Cormeng’s Emporium…was more powerful than even Erin’s current inn.

After all. It could appear across Izril where Erin could barely reach five hundred miles. And more than that?

Cormeng’s Grand Emporium of Antiques and Pawnshop served two continents. You had to wonder just who the man had been to do this all without levels.

 

——

 

Terandrians didn’t enter Cormeng’s shop often, despite the boast that Toren had read on one of the old flyers on the walls. She asked Doren about it, and the shopkeeper grimaced.

“I, uh…I don’t like Terandria, so I often turn it ‘off’. I can choose where the shop goes. They’re a bit of a pain.”

A pain? Toren was glancing at Maviola, who was reading a newspaper she’d bought from the Drake city they were in. The Pallassian Times, or whatever Pallass issued; there were newspapers in a lot of major cities and nations. Toren kept wanting to read them, but she’d grab all the gossip sections and hoard them.

It was a rare fight between the two employees, so Doren was only too happy to distract Toren as she polished some brass up to a shine.

“We actually sell better in Terandria since Cormeng’s doesn’t appear there. I can do…a third of the kingdoms? All on the lower half of the continent.”

Isn’t that impressive?

Toren held up a note—she was more talky than male Toren—and Doren sighed.

“Yes, very. And it does sell well…but it’s just less pleasant.”

Why?

“Have you ever met a [Princess]? Or a [Knight]?”

Female Toren admitted that she might have, once or twice, and Doren scowled hugely.

“They get peculiar in their nations. Most Izrilian cities don’t bother the shop except to have the Watch ask some questions. Drakes can get opinionated, but Cormeng’s is on their books most of the time, and if it’s not, I just don’t let it appear in that city again. But if you get the wrong noble or royal in the north? I’ve had [Knights] come in and try to confiscate my goods, like all the [Goth] stuff, for being ‘disruptive and conducive to sentiments of ill morality’. As for royals—they either buy up everything in the store, order everyone out so they can walk around in peace, or take offense to someone and try to have them arrested—or flogged—”

All that sounded unpleasant. Doren’s strategy for trouble was to usually just convince someone to leave the shop. Even if they called the Watch, they’d never find the door again, but his sixteen minute rant about Terandria got Toren thinking.

What if…they opened the shop to a few Terandrian kingdoms? Toren was a likable skeleton. Some [Knight] came in here and started trouble and she could either talk them down or stab them.

She didn’t say that other part to Doren, but their business had been good for half a month now, and he drummed his fingers on the counter.

“I could add a bunch of Terandrian cities to the list. But why, though?”

Toren glanced at the [Goths]. She…just thought it’d be really funny to see Gothica’s group run into some hoity-toity Terandrians. Plus, now she thought about it—wasn’t there a business opportunity here?

“It’s not like our antiques are that much more interesting across continents. Some Drake and Gnoll stuff, yes, but everyone’s got furniture.”

Yes, yes, but what about things that were just—interesting? Toren had worked with Erin, and she snatched an object up and presented it to Doren.

“Hey! Torena! I’ll set your butt on fire! Give it back! They have a funny story section now!”

He blinked at the newspaper as Toren waved it in front of him.

“Newspapers?”

 

——

 

Think on it. Everyone got the scrying orbs, but that was worldwide news. Now you were more aware of people in Baleros or Chandrar, there was a big interest in maps and travel. The New Lands especially added to that; Toren couldn’t keep the maps in the store from flying off the shelves, even the old ones.

However…no one could get a newspaper from another city and all the hot gossip or latest events easily. You could pay a Mage’s Guild to scribe it down for you, but that was the kind of thing only a very wealthy person could do, and it wasn’t…convenient.

You know what was? A little stand of newspapers, sorted by city, that cost a mere silver coin per newspaper! Which was a great margin because Toren could get newspapers from each city for a fraction of the price.

Doren objected, not to the little stand that Toren and Maviola had built, but to one crucial problem with the plan.

“Cormeng’s can’t let you hop into another city, Toren. He was big on not being a transportation mechanism, a way to let someone evade the law, or even to send soldiers around. I can’t bypass it.”

Damn. Well, could they…get someone to deliver newspapers to the shop? Doren’s face said he didn’t want to have to pay and manage a bunch of Street Runners, nor could he always guarantee his store showed up in the same place.

Toren had a big think on the matter as the first Terandrians began coming into the store. They were mostly like the Izrilians—you got more half-Elves, Dwarves, and they had a lot of funny reactions to seeing a Drake or Gnoll walk about, but they were surprisingly normal. In fact, they had less of a reaction to the [Goths] than Toren (and the [Goths]) had hoped.

“Oh, Noelictans. Dead gods, this truly is a magical store. What’s this?”

A Calanferian woman observed and inspected the single newspaper from Pallass on the freshly-painted rack. She was so interested she bought it for a silver coin.

“This might win me some points in the courts! I say, you don’t have more of these, do you?”

Doren apologized that it was a work-in-progress and he didn’t have more, and the woman pursed her lips.

“Calanfer has a Royal Press that announces events of note, you see. They’re quite cheap! You should have some stocked here. In fact…I had a copy on me about Princess Seraphel’s continued absence. The Cursed Princess, you know.”

She rather proudly talked up Seraphel as Toren peered at the news story detailing—in glowing terms—the 4th Princess and her history.

“Three marriages? And she curses her husbands to death? Can I read it?”

Toren had an idea as Maviola excitedly saw more of the news. He snapped his fingers, and the woman jumped, then the skeleton waved his arms around. Maviola had to translate, and the woman blinked.

“Sell you the newspaper?”

That was it. Doren saw the idea as Toren began to write on a board. With a few brushstrokes, he had converted his idea.

The newspaper stand wasn’t just ‘buy a newspaper from another city’. If you came into Cormeng’s, he’d buy your local newspaper at twice what it was worth!

Then turn around and sell it for four times what it was worth, of course. But it was a novel idea, and Toren began pointing out the stand to every person who came into the shop. Most people were only too willing to walk out, buy a dozen newspapers, and earn a small sum, and within the week, Toren began finding visitors who knew the store coming in with several newspapers, then judiciously browsing the rack to pull out other newspapers.

—In fact, he didn’t know it, but he’d started something far more than a mere newspaper exchange.

 

——

 

Female Toren had good ideas about the service industry. Toren was experimenting, putting on the mask, taking it off, and Maviola was complaining.

“Toren! You’re not actually changing personalities!”

She was getting into the character of it. See? Female Toren traced a smile on a simple clay mask she’d found in the store.

Happy and nice Toren. She took the mask off and checked Maviola’s king.

Mean and cool Toren. Maviola overturned the board, and Healing Slime raced around collecting the chess pieces and spitting them out in the right order. Female Toren leaned back and steepled her fingers.

Now, with her genius and sociable mind…! She drummed her fingers on the table. Both she and Maviola gazed around. It was quiet in the store at the moment, a lull around lunchtime. Doren was watching the scrying orb, and Toren saw the newspaper rack was pretty full.

Everyone was talking about some royal who’d walked away from their wedding with the groom waiting to be married. All the Izrilians hadn’t heard of it. The newspapers weren’t covering it; Toren expected to see the article next week at the soonest, or, if it was that big a story, a rush release, but she and Maviola were disappointed to realize it wasn’t ‘big’ news, so no one was covering it on the channels Doren had available.

It’s too bad no one else knows about this wedding fiasco. Aside from anyone who talked to the customers, of course, but they didn’t mingle as much. Toren drummed her fingers on the table, then snapped her fingers.

Slime chess room. The Twilight Sanctuary. Why not…?

She leapt up, and Maviola leapt up too. They waved their arms around, and Doren glanced up from the scrying orb.

“Um. What is it this time?”

 

——

 

The Gossip Lounge. That was Toren’s name, and Maviola shot it down.

“That’s stupid, Toren.”

She couldn’t help it if she had inherited Erin’s bad naming sense! The skeleton glowered, and Doren and Maviola put their heads together.

“How about…the Grapevine Trellis?”

Toren didn’t get the name, and Maviola had to explain that gossip was like grapes on the vine, which she supposed made sense. If you were stupid.

However, the purpose of the room was for people to come in and write tidbits of gossip on pieces of paper and hang them up for people to get news from all over the world. Toren and Doren took one of his weekdays to get some cheap wood and paint and made a rather artistic grapevine you could hang things from, and when Cormeng’s opened on Beithday…

The trick was to prime the audience by making it seem like someone had already participated in whatever you wanted to do. Toren remembered Erin, and while it hurt, the female skeleton used Erin-style tactics.

Be in the room as someone walked past it, have a few pre-written gossip pieces hanging up, and…Toren peeked at a fascinated [Merchant] who strolled into the room, read a few pieces, chewed on a lip, and then wrote furtively on a piece of paper and hung it up.

 

Gaiil-Drome. 

Regarding the wedding, the bride, Marchioness Antesce, didn’t just quit the marriage out of love. She was already with child! 

—An Observant [Merchant].

 

Ooh. Oooh! Maviola leapt around excitedly when she read that, and within the hour, every Terandrian who had walked in and seen the note had left dozens of ‘replies’ to the message, disputing the allegations, adding their own proofs of salacious rumors—

Naturally, all this free paper and ink cost money, and unlike Toren’s newspaper scheme, there wasn’t any way to make money here. Doren pointed out his family would hate the initiative, so Toren did some thinking and came up with an obvious solution.

Scrying orb, every teapot, cup, and piece of silverware that wasn’t too gothic, and Maviola in an old maid uniform. She served tea.

A copper a cup. Cormeng had its own supply of water from an enchanted sink that ran into a reservoir that Doren thought ran on rainwater—though where the actual store got the rain was a mystery.

Add a cheap heating rune, courtesy of Wistram’s fancy new magical services at their guilds, and Maviola would pour you a cup of tea while you could sit, chat with other people, watch the scrying orb, or read a newspaper.

Toren rubbed her hands together as she saw Maviola perk up and ask questions of the guests who mixed and mingled in the room—which coincidentally was very close to the Slime Chess room. Another low-income, high-customer satisfaction room. A copper for a cup of tea?

Heh.

Heheheheheh.

There was evil like leading an undead horde on Esthelm to slaughter the innocents, and there was getting four coppers out of guests only too willing to come in from the cold and fork over a copper for an hour of conversation. Then Toren had the idea to sell snacks.

 

——

 

There was a limit to how much Doren wanted this to be a tea parlor, but with Maviola, they could accommodate the second room. Again, they weren’t always filled up, but each new attraction of Cormeng’s was like an island of respite from staring at the overwhelming number of items on sale, and someone selling an object to Doren might walk in and spend a bit of the money they’d just received.

Rather to Toren’s surprise, the [Goths] liked tea. They’d sit in full macabre outfits, having tea in those skull-cups, and they horrified the other guests, which Toren suspected was the point.

He soon got used to an outraged visitor pointing them out to him, but the skeleton wasn’t inclined to evict their loyal customers. Toren advised visitors to talk with the [Goths], and thus, he often heard variations on the same conversation.

“Excuse me, Noelictan or not, I must object to your attire, sirs and madams! Excuse me? What do you mean you’re not from the Kingdom of Shade? Then that’s even more horrific! Are you one of those necromancy-enjoying degenerates I’ve heard of, from Izril? [Goth]? What, pray tell, is a [Goth]? Oh my, your aura!”

Not that quick, of course, and any number of Terandrians left in a huff, but what Toren hadn’t realized was that the royal-loving continent of northerns had a thing about auras.

They were considered a mark of prestige; something only a noble, royal, or at the very least, a [Knight] would have. Rather like having a fancy cape. Thus, the Izrilian [Goths] got more than a few people asking how they had this rare ability—not that they wanted the class! They were just asking…

Rather like skeletons, it turned out there was a dark, gloom-loving person in a lot of people. Toren encouraged it, mostly because he enjoyed watching Gothica and her crew intimidating newcomers. So he’d offer them free cups of tea if he saw someone easily offended coming in, then direct them towards the Grapevine Trellis.

Doren found it almost as amusing; he and Toren were people-watchers, and every time they saw someone come in, they’d go and find each other. One time, they even had a young [Prince] come in—then a group of [Knights]. Watching Gothica trying to persuade a rather dumbstruck [Prince] to put on black lipstick was a sight.

And he thought Doren began to liven up and move around the shop. Then came the day Doren laughed.

 

——

 

“I don’t know what the family will say when they hear about it, but I think…it’s worth doing. It might be a pain, but I don’t mind it.”

That was Doren’s conclusion after one late day when the [Goths] had begged to stay past closing time, singing eerie tunes with some of the Singer of Terandria’s song crystals. Toren was nodding as he checked the shop’s prototype redesign plan he’d written up. He was halfway done—which frankly amazed Doren given how much Toren had shifted around.

Doren was chatting to Toren when they heard a scream—and a poof of black dust. The [Goths] came running out, yelling; one of them had made some powder so they could toss it down and create a smokescreen whenever they wanted.

It worked—a bit too well. They emerged, coughing and covered in dust.

“My room!”

Doren was horrified, but the stuff wasn’t permanent—it just meant the Goths were all nearly invisible shadows they were so coated. Toren was entirely amused and felt like laughing. He slapped his chest as his mouth clattered silently. Maviola was giggling; she’d gotten out of the way just in time. The Healing Slime was jiggling up and down, just as amused, and Doren—

Doren laughed. It was the first time Toren had heard him laugh, and he laughed—well, a bit like a mule. He did that hee-haw thing and seemed to rev up his laughter until it exploded out of him.

“Hee—heh—heheheheheh—hawhawhawhaw—”

It was such a funny way of laughing that the [Goths] started laughing as well, and then Cormeng’s Grand Emporium of Antiques and Pawnshop echoed with it.

 

——

 

Doren kept laughing even when the [Goths] left to clean up. Toren was dusting the room down, and he heard the man chuckling.

“The dust—”

The shopkeeper laughed like a dam bursting, as if decades of it were spilling forth. He chuckled, chortled, and then—Toren heard a sob.

The skeleton poked his head back into the opening hallway and saw Doren sitting there, tears streaming down his face. His head was in his hands and tears were dropping into his hands. He pressed them to his eyes, but they would not cease.

The skeleton came out and didn’t know what to do. The Healing Slime rolled over, anxious, but there was nothing to heal it could find. It crawled up the counter, and Doren covered his face, sobbing until he was hiccuping.

Toren stood there until the shopkeeper gently pet the worried Healing Slime, which was squeaking at him.

“I’m sorry. I’m—gods. What a mess of my life. What a waste.”

That’s all he said. He was so upset he forgot to say ‘dead gods’. Toren stood there and felt like he saw something in Doren he didn’t like. But something that called to him.

 

[Carer Level 13!]

[Skill – Deflect Projectile (Ally) obtained!]

 

——

 

A month in the employ of Doren and Toren was tidying up the backrooms when he heard an altercation from the front of the shop. Maviola was sulking; she didn’t want to work. She was playing catch with the Healing Slime by throwing a ball of paper it was tossing back at her by undulating its body to shoot it back.

When Toren heard the female voice shouting, he realized it wasn’t an ordinary upset customer and came out, holding an ornamental skeleton head. He found a group of men and women, all upset, and Doren, who seemed more nervous than Toren had ever seen.

“Aunt Markine, I broke—well, I fractured my arm. They’ve been amazing. Have you seen the shop? Let me show you—”

“Two employees, Doren? You didn’t tell anyone! And what’s this about—[Goths]? What kind of a class is that? When one of my friends, a very highly-placed [Socialite] in First Landing, told me Cormeng’s was serving them, I told her to her face that there was no way we’d be involved in that kind of thing! And a monster in here?”

“They’re steady business. We don’t endorse them. We just—they’re buying all the macabre objects. The stuff that never sells.”

Doren caught Toren’s eye and motioned him back, but the woman swung around, and Doren had to introduce Toren.

“This is Toren, everyone. He doesn’t speak, but he’s excellent—”

Uncle Stenman gave Toren one look of clear distrust.

“A Drake. Are you serious, Doren? They caused havoc in the north last summer! If word gets around we’re employing one of them—”

“Half the continent’s Drakes! Don’t be stupid!”

Doren snapped, face red, and the family recoiled.

“Doren! How dare you speak to your uncle this way! You have—I don’t even know what’s come over you! With all we support and care for you, this is unacceptable.”

“The store’s never been better, Aunt. I needed help—and I’ll have it! I have your gold, right here. Isn’t that what matters?”

The shopkeeper furiously slapped some bags he’d pre-calculated with Toren’s help on the table, and some of the family wavered, seeing how much fatter they were. His aunt’s eyes lingered on the bag, but then she snapped.

“We will vote on this matter, like Cormeng’s heirs intended, Doren. And we may let these employees stay, but I think we shall have to censure you for these—these unauthorized uses of our funds! Everything you pay for in the store comes out of everyone’s income!”

“Take it out of mine. It’s my shop, and I stand by it.”

The shopkeeper set his jowls determinedly, and Toren’s imaginary heart rose—then drooped as Aunt Markine’s voice dropped.

“Excuse me? Your shop?”

“I just meant—”

“This is not your shop, Doren. This is the family’s business, and before you get any stupid thoughts in your head like your great-great Aunt, I remind you that nothing here is yours! The Issk family worked for everything you have! Without us, you wouldn’t have this job!”

Doren’s face was red, then white. His reply exploded out of him, and Toren knew just how he felt. The skeleton was shaking with indignation. And something else.

“Oh, really? In that case, why don’t you take it over, Aunt? Or you, Stenman? Golli? No? You can’t. I’m the only one who can even open this place because I have no class. None of you can run this place! Do you know how hard it is not to level? Don’t tell me it’s not my shop!”

They drew back in the face of Doren’s wrath, shocked, appalled, and ashamed, Toren thought. But he saw several of their expressions change, and he thought it wasn’t just indignation at Doren shouting at them. It was…

“They’re afraid.”

Maviola had appeared to see what was going on, and the Healing Slime jiggled in her arms. Toren gazed back.

Afraid? Oh, he saw it now. A trace of fear appeared on Markine’s face, and then it transmuted to fury. Doren was smiling as he shook with relief and satisfaction.

She backhanded him, and her hand had rings on them that cut his cheek open.

“How dare you.”

“Markine!”

Several of her relatives pulled her off him after she slapped him a few more times. Doren sat on the floor, hard, and stared up at her as she hissed at him.

“You think this is your store? How dare you. This is our place, not yours! You just run it, because—that’s all you’re good for! Yes, you.”

She pointed at him.

“We all knew it. You didn’t have the wits, the charm—do you think we just gave it to anyone? You’re the fool who had to run it, and you’re too ungrateful to even realize what a blessing it was! Do you think you could have levelled without running the store? You wouldn’t even be Level 20!”

“You chose me?”

He stared up at her, face pale, holding his bleeding cheek, and the rest of the family appeared terrified now. But Markine was overdosing on fury.

“Yes we did. And it’s all you’ll ever be good for, you useless fool. You think you’re essential? We’ll replace you! We’ve done it before and we can do it again! So go ahead! Try this little stunt, and we’ll show you just how worthless you’ll be without Cormeng’s Emporium! You are a talentless, selfish child, and you’ll never be good for anything.”

Toren waited for Doren to say something, anything, but the man just sat there. Blood was oozing down his cheek, and all the anger he’d had—

It went out. Much like Toren’s thirst for vengeance, it seemed to drain out of him. He sat, head bowed, staring at his aunt’s feet. Looking…lost.

He didn’t even have tears in his eyes. He could weep, and he didn’t. It was as if even tears wouldn’t fill the gap in his heart.

His aunt was still going. She was smiling, now. That half-smile of furious victory with which you rode the opposition down and took no prisoners, even if you had to execute them while they surrendered.

“And another thing—do you think it’s pleasant associating with you and your dreary—everything? My last husband detested you and all my efforts to involve you in my life! You are a drain on the family, but because you do fulfill this role, we involve you, try to give you all these things you’re so incapable of seizing for yourself! Without us, I daresay you’d have crawled under a table and passed away years ago.”

“…Just to spite you. But I couldn’t do that.”

He murmured, and she snapped.

“Aha! It’s that spiteful backtalk that—what are you doing?”

Doren thought she was talking to him until she swivelled, and he saw the familiar Drake, mouth open but voiceless, standing at Markine’s side. He had tapped her on the shoulder, and when she went to shove him away, he caught her hand.

“This filthy Drake—Doren, call off your employee! Call—”

Toren hit her with the skeleton mug. It didn’t shatter, but the woman slumped against the counter. She tried to speak.

“Wh—wh—”

A cousin reached out in horror, stupefied, eyes wide.

“What are you—”

Toren raised the mug and began hitting Aunt Markine with it. The third blow came away bloody—and then the rest of the Issk family tried to grab him. They reached out—but he was too strong.

“Toren? Stop. Stop!”

Doren breathed, at first almost gleeful—but it turned to horror. Toren didn’t stop, even when the mug broke. He began punching at the weakly flailing woman, then the others. Swinging a bloody fist around as Maviola began laughing.

“Insane—call the W—”

“Doren! Doren, do something!”

His family were screaming at him, but even when he tried to stop the skeleton, Toren ignored him. Toren was kneeling over Markine, striking her face. Shaking her—her head was lolling, and her mouth was open. She was jerking—Doren seized his arm.

“Stop! Stop! Toren—”

The man’s purple eyes found him, and he saw something flicker across the Drake’s face.

Tears?

They seemed to burn down like purple wisps before vanishing. The strange employee was shaking worse than Doren. He raised a shaking fist, then peered down. Doren grabbed him.

“Stop. It’s not…worth it.”

That was all he could think to say. Toren glanced at him, then covered his face with his hands. He said nothing as Doren looked down at his Aunt.

“Someone get a [Healer]. Healing potion. I…”

When he came back with the last one in the shop, he saw only his aunt lying on the ground. The rest of the family had run—the shop was closed because of the lockdown protocol. And Toren…

A skeleton was kneeling on the ground, covering its face. Doren froze—his back hit the wall, and he almost dropped the healing potion. But Toren just looked up as purple flames burned down from his eye sockets.

“Toren?”

Maviola and the Healing Slime were touching his shoulder. The skeleton wept for the shopkeeper, who stood there, stunned. Tears for the man and his empty life in service of those who didn’t deserve him. His skull cracked, and he took it off his head as if wanting to remove his thoughts.

But he couldn’t die. He was too high-level. Doren stood there with the first employee he had ever had. A weeping skeleton.

The next day, Toren left his shop with Maviola and the Healing Slime.

 

——

 

Nearly murdering your boss’ family wasn’t how you stayed employed. Toren just sat all night; Doren was gone, probably having to check on his aunt or talking to his family.

When dawn came, Toren had packed the few things he owned, and Maviola was waiting at the door.

“Good! I was bored. Um, but I know you and Slimey liked it.”

She was trying not to smile. As far as she was concerned, the ending had been great. But Toren…didn’t feel better. He felt broken again. As if he had never healed from—from Erin.

It wasn’t that Markine looked like Erin or was in any way like her, but it had felt like he was watching Erin beat down Doren—him.

He’d never be better. This was the best job he’d had and—and—Toren’s hands were shaking.

They would have left without saying goodbye, but Doren walked in as they were going out. The shop’s bell jangled, and he stopped when he saw them.

The illusions were back, but he stared at Toren and Maviola as if picturing Toren’s face. Then he nodded to the Healing Slime.

“Is that…a slime? Or something else?”

Toren shook his head, and Doren relaxed. He seemed like he hadn’t slept, which he confirmed.

“Good. I was wondering if I was patting a head or something. I was—I had to send a lot of [Messages] since no one would come into the shop. My aunt’s at the [Healers]. She’s not dead. But they’re worried she’s been addled.”

He delivered that without much inflection. Then he eyed Toren, and the skeleton saw him glance at the empty rooms, beds neatly made up.

“They’d have forced me to make you quit. The Watch is going to sweep the shop. I…I’m sorry.”

Toren shook his head. He’d done this. But Doren just stood there.

“You’re…no. Hold on.”

He walked behind the counter, pulled a drawer open, and began putting coins on the counter. Gold ones.

“Here. I don’t know if it matters much. But that—you—where are you going? The shop will spit you out where you were.”

Toren knew that. They’d flee the city. They had illusions; it had been a month. The [Guards] would never notice. He didn’t know what came after that. He shrugged, and Doren regarded him.

“I’ll keep the Twilight Sanctuary open. And the chess…it won’t be the same.”

His eyes slid to Healing Slime, and after a moment, he spoke.

“I could keep it. No one will make me get rid of Slimey, and it will be safe here. If…”

The Healing Slime and Toren peered at each other, astounded. Maviola protested.

“Not Healy! We can’t!”

Here?

Toren looked around the shop and remembered how much Doren could make. Healing Slime wouldn’t be hungry here. It was already a bit fatter and far brighter. He put it down on the counter, and the Healing Slime instantly lunged at him and stuck to his ribs.

It didn’t want to go. Doren nodded. He leaned on the counter, face…blank? Not blank, just closed. He gazed at Toren as the skeleton held out a hand. Doren didn’t take it.

“I don’t know…what you are or why you came to my shop. As far as I’m concerned, you were two Drake drifters.”

He half-smiled.

“The Watch can ask me questions. Their Skills and magic won’t work in Cormeng’s shop. Not if I don’t want it to. I…”

He trailed off, then turned around.

“Goodbye.”

That was it. Nothing else. He kept his back to Toren, though the skeleton saw the shopkeeper was staring into the blank scrying orb which was a handy mirror. So Toren let his hand fall. He bowed once, deeply, and left the gold coins on the counter. Maviola called out.

“Oh, um, fare thee well. Until we meet again.”

The Healing Slime lifted a little part of its body and waved as Toren strode out the door. The skeleton stepped out into a bright street in a Drake city. When he turned his back—Cormeng’s was gone.

 

——

 

Doren waited until the door closed before he turned his face back and wiped at his eyes. He sat, tears dribbling down his cheeks, and then stood and looked around.

Half-organized, his shop was bright and clean and friendly, welcoming. The back halves messy. And he knew he’d never have Toren’s obsession for detail. Never have his…drive to fix this place up.

The man walked around the store for a while, waiting for the Watch to arrive. When they came, he answered their questions, explaining how difficult it was to find anyone, and how Toren and Mavi were gone. Then, when they left, he locked the store and stepped into his city.

His city.

It wasn’t like he knew it well. Doren aimlessly walked the streets he hadn’t truly lived in; he lived in his shop. His glimpses of the outside were of countless streets, so he barely knew the one he was on.

He tripped his way to the Driver’s Guild and waited in line. The [Receptionist] gave him an arch look, but when he put down gold pieces in stacks, the man scrambled over himself to help.

Doren was like a sleepwalker. He arranged a pickup in forty minutes, then went out and found a local [Trader]. Gold pieces—he had lots.

Then a [Merchant], who sent a City Runner storming towards a local [Farmer]’s. It took closer to fifty minutes for Doren to get in the carriage—but the [Driver] was surprised to see the man get in without any of the gigantic amount of crates or sacks he’d seen piled up.

He’d been cursing at having to load them all, but a well-paying client meant you did everything. The man was a driver who drove people and had a tuned carriage that moved fast. He was no famous roller like Termin, but…

“No Chest of Holding, sir?”

The man…didn’t have a bag of holding either. But Doren just spoke.

“I’m fine. I’ve stored everything.”

“Er, as you say, sir. And where are we heading?”

“Um. Anywhere will do. A city south of here.”

“…Any one, sir?”

“How about one that’s less-travelled? It doesn’t matter. Just not Reizmelt. I have family there.”

That made sense to the [Driver] in a weird sort of way. He offered Doren a map, and the shopkeeper aimlessly pointed at one.

“Is the population over, um, forty thousand?”

“Er—I could check.”

In the end, they settled on a place called ‘Ivolethe’s Landing’, which was some new city in the Unseen Empire. Far, but the [Driver] knew it, and it was actually renamed.

Fairly derivative, actually. First Landing, Ivolethe’s…whatever. Doren napped as the carriage began, snoring weirdly, but it wasn’t a bad ride. The [Driver] was going to be paid well, so he stuck to the main roads, no detours, no fuss.

No [Bandits] or monsters. Thank goodness for that.

 

——

 

The [Fast Travel Driver] got Doren to the new city, and the man realized he’d actually passed the [Guards] on duty as well thanks to his very expensive carriage ride; the [Driver] had done all the inspection stuff.

Doren walked around the city and saw a lot of weird things. A pole of wood with eyes on it, a message from an [Emperor] to arriving citizens—some very nice young women wanted to get him settled in.

“We could help you, sir, if you wish to give us your name, purpose, and—”

“Oh, I’m fine.”

“Do you need lodging?”

“No, I’m just…I have somewhere to be.”

“Are you sure, sir? Rooms are very hard to come by, but His Majesty is working to set this city up properly. You are under Lady Rie Valerund’s domain, and you’ll find it’s a very pleasant city thanks to her Skills!”

Indeed, for such a provincial city—or so the [Driver] had thought—everyone here looked rather sophisticated. High-class.

It was perhaps how they walked or the lift of their chins, a refinement to them that suggested any passersby might actually be aristocracy, even people who were clearly common folk. It surprised and unnerved Doren a bit.

“Is, ah, is this some custom here?”

“Oh, we play into it, but it’s all due to Lady Rie managing our city, sir! [The Changing Citizenry], courtesy of His Majesty, Emperor Godart. Everything is far more refined—and beautiful! You’ll like it far more than Margravine Mavika’s territory. You might grow feathers!”

“Though I do hear some can see in the dark or hop from branch to branch. I imagine they eat worms too.”

The two were shuddering, and Doren…had no clue what this meant. So each city had a theme and you got aristocratic manners here? He wasn’t sure he wanted that and frankly doubted he’d be here long enough for it to matter, but the two young women wanted to engage him in a lot of questions.

One of them had very pretty green eyelashes, and Doren was flustered as she smiled at him. He gestured ahead of him.

“I’m, uh—I appreciate the offer for lodging, but I have a place already. Just here, see? Thank you.”

To their astonishment, he pointed to a shop door, which he unlocked with a key he took out of his pockets. One of the [Greeters] whispered to the other as they frowned.

“I’ve never seen that shop. Have you?”

“No, I—”

When they turned back, both man and shop were gone. The [Greeters] exchanged looks, then went to report that to Lady Rie’s people. She was always on the lookout for high levels.

 

——

 

Doren sat down in his regular chair, passing by the wall of stacked crates and bags as he did. He fiddled with his fingers and nearly vomited.

But it felt like normal, didn’t it? He’d spent a huge amount of gold—but he was back in his shop. Same old Doren.

Just—in a different exit city. Not that it mattered. Unless you were trying to find him, in which case, suddenly, he was gone, and no one but the Driver’s Guild would even have a clue where he’d disappeared to, and he hadn’t given them a name and had paid for anonymity.

Plus…he didn’t have to leave the shop unless he was hungry. Doren stared at the crates and sacks of food. Supplies. Cooking oil—Cormeng’s had a kitchen that Toren had cleaned out. Actually, he’d bought way too much of everything. The [Merchant] had taken his gold and just loaded it all up.

Was he doing this? Doren sat in the shop, and fiddled with a gold coin. But—then he spoke.

“No visitors from Reizmelt, Calthigec, Illgorne…”

He rattled off a series of cities before he checked himself.

“Wait, what am I doing? Ignore all that. No family.”

That was all you had to say. Doren had never used the power of this shop before. Never like this, but he swore Cormeng’s seemed to constrict around him. Not in a painful way, but almost like an embrace.

Then—he gasped, blinked, and the door swung open. Someone halted in the opening, and Doren peeked up.

Toren?

Gothica Midnight walked in, peering at all the boxes.

“Hey, what all this? Morning, Doren. Where Toren and Mavi?”

“They, um, they quit.”

“Oh? That bad. I liked them. Okay, I go to Twilight Sanctuary. Thanks!”

—And there it was, the incurious caring of the customer. Doren almost relaxed. He still wasn’t happy. He still didn’t know how to answer the skeleton’s tears, but at least…he got up and sighed as he began to lug some of the boxes towards the kitchen. Then he had an idea.

“Excuse me?”

Doren opened the door, and one of the [Greeters] showing someone new around the Unseen Empire actually screamed. But he just waved her inside.

“Could I…hire a few [Laborers]? To move some stuff around. And a [Cleaner].”

It could get expensive, but then again, his working funds had just…what’s the word for six-times increased? Doren sat behind his counter then, breathing in and out.

Same old, same old.

But doing it just for him. He sat there and wondered where that skeleton had gone. Then Doren breathed in and out. In and out.

He was fifty-two. He felt old. He had just burned bridges with his family, and his aunt was lying in a [Healer]’s. His best employee had quit. He had no home.

He felt…alive.

 

——

 

Toren didn’t know what happened to Doren when the door closed. He stepped into the street, and his head was hanging low.

Someone grabbed him. Toren drew his sword fast—but a clawed hand shoved his hand down, keeping him from drawing the sword.

“Toren!”

Maviola cried out, and he expected flames—but when he pivoted, he saw two huge, intense eyes staring at him. He tried to move—but the woman, the Garuda, just stepped with him, keeping his sword sheathed.

And Maviola—wasn’t attacking. She held Healing Slime, who was shaking like a leaf, but the person standing next to her didn’t even hold onto Maviola. She was merely—inspecting the young undead.

Toren recognized her and froze. The Garuda holding his sword-arm stopped, and the woman turned her head, her brown chin tilting up. Her eyes flashed, and he almost knelt. The single look of regard from the Immortal Tyrant, Nerrhavia, was like a physical blow.

“Skeleton. You do amuse me. Of every venue in the world, this one was hardest to reach after making use of the owner once.”

Her. Az’kerash’s greatest ghost that he’d ‘caught’. The most powerful woman that Toren had ever met, save perhaps Belavierr—and the two of them were friends.

The Immortal Tyrant who had founded an entire nation in her death, Nerrhavia, stood there. Ten levels lower than she had been in her final hours.

Merely…ten levels lower. She beckoned, and Toren hesitated.

The female Garuda, another former ghost, Falamizural, [She Who Summons Victory], was alert. A warrior without peer—much like the smiling, gaunt Stitch-man standing next to Nerrhavia. Astival. The [Puppetmaster Sadivictus] who had commanded her armies.

“The Necromancer let the most valuable being in his castle escape. And Belavierr’s second daughter.”

“Hey!”

Maviola protested, but even her usual spirit was a guttering candle when Nerrhavia glanced at her. The Tyrant inspected the Healing Slime, then addressed Toren.

“That I sought you out speaks for itself. I have ignored Djinni who prostrated themselves on the road where I walked. Come with me, and I shall be the master you desire. I recognize your worth.”

I recognize your worth. The skeleton gazed at the greatest woman of her era, a legend. She regarded him, denuded of his armor, trembling, him…and beckoned. So he went.

He had nothing else, and she looked at him, Toren who had not even a last name, and he second-guessed himself later. But truly, he had no purpose, and she…

The Immortal Tyrant sat down in a black carriage that pulled up for her, and a nervous woman spat to the side.

“This your guest? I’ve waited fucking long enough for—”

“Karsaeu-Dequoa. Take me south at all speed. Along the westernmost cities. We shall stop once at Manus; then towards the New Lands. I shall require transport to the region of the Bloodfields soon, so do not stray far.”

Karsaeu, the Djinni who drove the Unmarked Carriage, the fastest underworld transport in Izril, swallowed hard.

“I have clients, and my boss—”

“Shall wait. Or would thou care to enter my service as well?”

The head barely turned to give the Djinni the merest flick of Nerrhavia’s peripherals. Without a word, Karsy pulled her cap low and set the carriage to such speed they were away from the Drake city in moments. Toren sat with the other members of Nerrhavia’s entourage as Maviola bounced up and down in her seat, happy.

“Hooray! I missed you, Queen Nerrhavia! Are we going to kill something?”

“Be still, Maviola. It appears I must take your education in hand. You shall listen; you are both child and not. As for you, Toren…”

Nerrhavia’s lips quirked up as he sat there, Healing Slime shivering in his chest like a beating heart. Nerrhavia studied him and the slime, and her eyes seemed to pierce the veil of time and see past it. Nerrhavia, envisioning a future of this world, saw that it included him in some way.

“…you shall do nicely.”

 

Toren, Job-Hunter.

Toren the Vengeful One.

Toren, Employee #1 of Cormeng’s Grand Emporium of Antiques and Pawnshop.

In Service to the Immortal Tyrant: Toren.

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

It’s not a short chapter, you’re short!

Sorry, that was harsh. Unless accurate. I was having fun writing this chapter and the next one. I’m working on the second already—I stream on YouTube, and the Discord readers watch along and give me motivation. I think I’ve mentioned this before, but it’s a good gauge, and I think they were into it.

Toren today, Toren next chapter, and boy howdy, there might be Toren for three chapters! (I’m aiming for two, but maybe three?)

It feels good writing it all, but another part of it is coffee. Coffee aba rides again, and after a month without drinking it, I can write 20,000+ words in a day. Which kills me the next day, but so long as I’m fresh on energy, I like it, and it helps me get ahead.

The next chapter seems promising according to early reviews, and with editing, better yet, hopefully. Let me know how you like our skeleton after so long, and hope you enjoy the next one!

 

 

Lyonette and Toren by DuchessIvory!

 

Duck Toren by Tiger!

 

Healing Slime by AuspiciousOctopi!

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/auspiciousoctopi/

DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/auspiciousoctopi

 

Toreen Mirror and Bunny Toren by Chalyon!

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/chalyon

 

Toren by parrafin!

 

Toren by CarolCM!

 

Pisces by KaDragInn!

 

Toren and Erin by Lime!

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/recapturedlime

Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/arcticlime.bsky.social

Youtube: https://youtube.com/@recapturedlime

Artistree: https://artistree.io/arcticlime

 

Glory, Erin and Mrsha, and Toren in the Dungeon by LeChatDemon!

DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/demoniccriminal

Stash with all the TWI related art: https://sta.sh/222s6jxhlt0

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/lechatdemon/

 

Giants Duel by Ashok!

 

Azkerash Appraisal and Toren Dance by mg!

DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/henodus2

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/henodus2

 

Toren by Gridcube!

 

Undead Rave by Moerchen!

 

Slime by Yura!

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/yurariria

Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/yuraria.bsky.social

 

 

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