Private Tales One For The Road

[Madison Freebird]

The fresh stench of death filled the room. Not the metallic tang of blood, like most kinds of death you'll see around these parts. Usually when you come across someone face-down in the Areck Slums, it's because they spilled exponentially more than the daily recommended amount of their own blood thanks to a knife to the kidneys or across the throat. No; this death was more vile. Like a rotting fish carcass dressed in old vegetables and tossed in a vat of chunky bile on a warm summer afternoon. Throw in a pair of soiled trousers and you've got one hell of an intoxicating aroma.

A thin bit of linen tied around the back of my head covering my nose and mouth was all I could do to keep from adding my own supper to the mix. I had a terrible feeling that this shit was going to stick to my tunic. And I just washed it yesterday, of course.

This is why I always try to make sure I work with bodies that have gotten most of their stinking out of the way, or ones that are still living and breathing. So much easier on the senses to work with than... than all this.

I lit another candle and placed it on the floor next to my right knee. A thin plume of smoke twisted and danced in the soft glow of the flame, rising and disappearing into the darkness of the room. The scent of fresh lilac filled my nostrils, granting me momentary reprieve from the general awfulness coming from the man with his shirt still soaked in vomit and alcohol.

...Maybe I should've undressed him, first. Get that wet, sticky thing off and slip him into a fresh pair of clothes.

I didn't have the time, though. I could still hear the thundering cries of several dozen people below, their angered cries shaking the dusty floorboards I sat cross-legged upon.

A sixth aromatic candle flickered to life in my hands, and I set it down next to the others.

This... This really was an awful idea, guys. Never ever ever let me work in these conditions, with this quality of body ever again. I'll go broke buying bleach and incense and whatever else trying to scrub the memory of a gallon of throw-up out of my mind. One who works in what some would consider very dark, very amoral, very illegal “dark arts” should have higher standards than this! Or so you'd think, anyway. But sometimes the situation necessitates improvisation.

A knock at the door, followed shortly by two quicker raps. “Come in,” I said hurriedly as I rolled up my sleeves and prepared to work.

The door opened up just wide enough for Hyperion to slide through before she pushed it shut. Clad in her favorite pine green and brown dress, she quickly crossed the room with a plate of food in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

“I grabbed this from the kitchen,” she whispered, her words muffled by the mythril facemask she wore at all times.

“Thank you sweetie. You made sure you weren't seen, right?”

The light in Hype's four amber eyes flickered. “Of course, Madison.”

“Alright, cool. Just set the plate down next to me and keep an ear out for trouble.”

Hyperion did as she was instructed, placing the steaming pile of beef and mashed potatoes on the floor next to me before kneeling down next to the door. The scent of dinner mixed with that of the candles and the acrid odor wafting off the corpse was... interesting, to say the least. Pleasant as much as it could have been, and a quick reminder that I should probably have a bite of it before getting down to business. But between all the alcohol floating around in my stomach and the unpleasantness of every-fucking-thing else about the night, I'd probably just end up throwing it all back up and making an even bigger mess of things.

That would never come out of the carpet.

 

[Madison Freebird]

A fresh wave of noise floated up through the floor, louder than before. My blood turned to ice as the clatter of feet on the nearby staircase clapped like thunder, surrounding me, suffocating me. They were getting closer, no doubt.

A pair of footsteps crashed down the hallway. Two people, maybe three, in a rush. Searching. Searching for what? For me? For our dead friend here?

Hushed words in the hallway. I strained to hear what they were saying, but could only make out the pounding in my head.

Hyperion hunched down slightly, the muscles in her body tensed and coiled and ready to strike at anyone who barged into the room.

Seconds dragged into minutes into what seemed like hours before the people in the hallway moved on. The three of us remained still for several seconds (one had no choice, to be fair) before we were absolutely sure that the threat had passed. No sounds but the hushed breathing of two totally innocent women huddling over a dead body and the dull roar of the dozens of drunk, rabid morons out for blood. Hype glanced over at me, her thoughts obscured behind the frozen visage of her mask, but the urgent blinking of light in her eyes told me everything.

“I'm hurrying, I'm hurrying,” I muttered as I cracked my knuckles and popped a kink out of my neck.

The thing with necromancy is that it takes time. Sure, some of the ancient practitioners you read about in books could raise a rotting army with a taunting wink and a tug of their crotch—you know the type; the ones with the impossible to pronounce names who ended up as the antagonists to the heroes of yore in all those shitty copper fantasies you'd buy at a street stall. But nowadays? If you want to do it right and avoid the attention of the city guard, you need to take your sweet-ass time.

Even if the weapons-grade smell coming from the corpse is killing your brain cells one by the handful with each passing second.

There are rituals to prepare and magical energies to collect. You must connect your mind and spirit with the decaying/decayed flesh sack you wish to drag back into the world of the living. You need to be able to toe the line that separates this world from the next, to reach through the aetherial veil and pull one's spirit back into their body, and be able to leave a bit of yourself behind in payment.

And that's just for quick-and-dirty necromancy. Beginner's stuff. Step-child's play.

You want actual, true, intelligent undeath? To create something more, something that is undetectable at a casual glance from most of the schlubs that walk the streets? Something that won't get you in trouble with the law, or draw a torches-and-pitchforks kind of mob to your doorstep?

I hope you have a lot of patience and a free afternoon.

At this point in time, I have neither. But I do have a burning necessity to see this guy come back to life before the people milling around outside break down my door and waltz in on me desecrating a corpse and upsetting the sanctity or balance of life and death or whatever whatever blah blah blah. So I need to get to work, and I need to work fast.