Book of The Dead

“Hey there, lover.”

Filetta grinned at him as she sauntered through the sewer, her crew following behind, canvas-wrapped corpses over their shoulders.

Tyron sighed.

“Is it really necessary to let your men know that we slept together?” he asked.

“I share everything with my crew,” she boasted, “thieves need to be a tight-knit bunch to operate.”

Judging by the appraising, and somewhat respectful looks he saw on a few of the men’s faces, she’d embellished the story quite a bit.

He brought a hand up and massaged his right temple.

“What did you tell them?” he asked, almost despite himself.

The thief, dressed in her work clothes, form fitting black cloth and leather boots, smiled suggestively.

“I praised your stamina, high constitution and pain tolerance.” She licked her lips. “These pansies were ready to lose their lunch before I was half way through describing the night.”

His pain tolerance? What did that have to do with any–

The Necromancer grimaced.

“You lied to me, didn’t you?”

A look of hurt innocence flashed over Filetta’s face.

“Elten, what a thing to say. Whatever could you mean?”

“You told me that stuff was normal!”

One of the men froze, putting down a corpse, glanced up at Tyron and shook his head slightly.

“It’s not uncommon for some couples to strike each other,” she deflected.

“And the knives?” he ground out.

The goon stumbled and almost fell flat on his face, looking up at Tyron with a look of disbelief and admiration. Filetta stepped forward and sank her boot directly into the ruffian’s side.

“I admit… I got a little carried away,” she said after regaining her balance. “In my defence, you seemed to enjoy yourself.”

He had.

The evening had begun normally enough. They’d eaten, had drinks and conversed before Filetta had led him into a back room. At first, she’d been stunned by his utter lack of experience, but had leapt into educating him with… unseemly relish.

She’d taught him how to kiss first, as good a starting place as any, and things had progressed rapidly from there. In hindsight, he’d clearly let his guard down too much and let himself be led by the nose. It was deep into the night before she had gotten especially… inventive.

“It was… nice,” he managed.

Filetta pouted at him.

“Only nice?”

“Fine. More than nice,” he rolled his eyes.

“Well then, if that’s the case, you’ll hardly want to refuse when I invite you to another intimate get together? Let’s say, tomorrow night?”

A frown crossed his face.

“Why?”

Some of the men let out strangled chuckles before Filetta silenced them with a deadly glare. She turned back to Tyron, an icy glint in her eyes.

“Why. Not?” she said, each word chopped as if by a guillotine.

“I’ve already reached human level twenty,” he pointed out, “it worked just as you suggested it might. Though I’m a little nervous that was all it took to form an emotional connection with you. Ultimately speaking, I got what I wanted out of the arrangement. As for you…” he trailed off for a second, before he shrugged and decided to be blunt. “If all you’re looking for is someone to fuck, then I’m certain you have far better irons in the fire than me.”

He had no illusions that Filetta was looking for some sort of exclusive relationship, it was likely she was sleeping with a range of people, and he didn’t care, it was none of his business. What had transpired between them had been transactional.

Filetta stared at him for a moment before she let out a harsh laugh and shook her head.

“Holy shit, Elten. I thought I managed to unwind you a little, but you’re still strung so fucking tight. I’ll spell this out a little more clearly for you.”

As she spoke she strode forward until she stood right in front of him, glared up with her brown eyes and jabbed him in the chest with one finger.

“First of all, I don’t have that many ‘irons in the fire’,” she sniffed, “finding people you trust enough to get naked around is difficult in my line of work.”

“You trust me?” he said incredulously.

He was the shady as shit bastard who purchased human corpses off her every month. She had to think he was some sort of mad-alchemist, healer engaged in black practices or just straight up suspected him of Necromancy!

“Of course not!” she hissed. “But you have nothing to gain from my death, whereas every other thief I run with does.”

That was a good point.

“Second of all, I’m interested in you. That means I want to spend time with you. You’re easy enough to look at, your conversation is educated, well-mannered and humorous, and you don’t look down on me for my lifestyle.”

Who am I to go around critiquing other people's lives? He thought ruefully to himself.

“There! I can tell the thought had never even occurred to you. Third, the sex was surprisingly good! You learned quickly and were respectful in bed, that’s surprisingly hard to find.”

She prodded him again.

“Now, did you enjoy spending time in my company or not?”

He blinked.

I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?

“I did,” he sighed.

“Good,” she grinned, before she reached up, seized him by the hair and pulled his mouth down to hers.

They separated after several long seconds, and judging by the triumphant gleam in her eye, she knew his heart was pounding in his chest.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she breathed before she blew him a kiss and turned, sauntering off into the darkness, softly cursing out her men as they went.

“No knives!” he called to her retreating back, but she pretended not to hear him.

~~~

Real progress, at last.

Tyron stared greedily at the scarlet letters on the page before him, exaltation burning in his chest.

Corpse Appraisal (Level 17)

Corpse Preparation (Level 16)

He was getting closer. The techniques he was developing to assess the remains he worked on had been deemed worthy of recognition by the Unseen. A welcome indication he was on the right track.

The main focus of his experiments had been Death Magick, how it formed and spread between the dead and undead. To unravel that mystery, his tests with the silver strips and the invention of his lens had taken him far.

A lesser focus, though no less important, had been his attempts to uncover methods to ascertain the quality of a given skeleton before he worked on it. Bone density, flexibility, damage and wear, all needed to be assessed if he was to choose the right skeleton for the right job. Tougher, hardier bones were more suitable for frontline duty, carrying shields and blades, whereas more fragile or flexible material was appropriate for archers.

Tyron was a little disappointed his efforts at moulding bones into shields and blades hadn’t been recognised yet, but he hadn’t been able to put in the time required to master the art. Completing the commission for the young Greyling lord had taken longer than he would have liked, but Annita had insisted on double and triple checking all of his work.

His senior apprentice wasn’t used to collaborating, and it showed. Still, her ability to weave enchantments together was nothing short of monstrous, and her command of every element in the process doubly so. He eclipsed her in one aspect alone, and even that was close.

Once she’d been satisfied and the armour delivered to Ammos, who’d been full of praise, Tyron had needed to spend a good deal of time catching up on his work in the store, then he’d doubled down to make sure he was ahead of demand once more. His apprentice had looked on the verge of death by the time they were done, to the point he’d been tempted to point the Death Lens at him to see if there was a response, but the work had been completed before the next delivery of remains from Filetta.

Advanced Death Magick (Level 16)

Another jewel in his crown. Despite feeling like he was no closer to truly understanding how this particular form of arcane energy functioned, at least he was able to identify and study certain behaviours it displayed.

“One more push. Maybe two,” he muttered to himself.

When these three Skills reached their current allowed maximums, he could truly resume his necromantic work. Creating functioning Undead, studying them, working on the other, vital aspects of his craft.

Despite his progress, there was still so much to do. His work on the Raise Dead spell had been rewarded with progress, but his focus so far had only been on the conduit aspect of the ritual. Creating the undead ‘intelligence’ and improving the binding of the minion itself were more difficult for him. Hopefully, the vampires or the Dust People could help him there.

Satisfied with what he saw, he carefully destroyed the status page, leaving not even ashes behind.

His butcher work complete, he disposed of the remains in the sewer, confident the rats would do their work, and packed his work away.

With all he’d done to improve his craft, another level in Undead Weaver couldn’t be far away. He’d have to be careful, but as long as he regularly performed the status ritual, he could be sure not to trigger his next Advancement before he was ready.

After a wash and a change of clothes, he decided to get some sleep. It was only midday, but he had no pressing work to do and thought he may as well rest to prepare for a solid week of experimentation.

His eyelids were just starting to close when he heard a timid knock at his door. At first he thought he was mistaken, his staff almost never bothered him in his chambers, but when the knock came again, louder this time, he sighed, rolled out of bed and threw on a robe.

Cerry greeted him at the door, looking hesitant, but also curious.

“Good afternoon, Cerry,” he said, “is there a problem?”

“Ah… Master Almsfield. There’s a pretty la–I mean, there’s a lady here to see you. She’s downstairs. In the shop.”

Tyron blinked.

Yor? Filetta? Neither were people he wanted to see here. In the case of the latter, he definitely didn’t want her to connect his two false identities.

Feeling a little stressed, he closed the door, dressed himself in a hurry, and rushed downstairs. When he arrived, Cerry was busy trying to look as if she wasn’t paying attention and even Flynn was conspicuously working close to an open door, setting cores.

Blood and bone. Save me from these busybodies.

Irritated with his staff, he swept his gaze across the shop floor and almost staggered when he saw the sun-haired young woman perusing the glass cases. She turned and spotted him, a polite smile appearing on her face as she began to approach, but she froze minutely halfway across the room, her eyes widening. Her stride resumed almost immediately, but he’d seen that pause.

Elsbeth recognised him somehow.

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