"No need to make a big deal about it." Jerry laughed. "The pleasure’s all ours!"

  "Not nearly." Horace smiled back, a hint of knowledge on his black lips. He turned his body sideways, motioning to the people behind him. "Let us apologize for testing you like this. We don’t enjoy it, but it’s a necessary process to protect ourselves."

  "If I may, Master." Boney stepped forth, his bone jaw clacking. "What kind of test are they talking about?"

  "And what’s that about death spirits?" Marcus quipped in.

  The rest of the group stared at Jerry, similarly curious. They’d only seen Jerry go still for a few seconds, then suddenly exchange mysterious words with Granny.

  "The test was nothing serious," he explained. "Granny showed me some things, but I only wanted to relax a bit, which was good enough. I don’t mind the test. I’ve met double-faced people; I can see where you’re coming from."

  "As for death spirits…" Horace scratched his head. "That’s us. When the Curse came, most people were turned into undead, but a few survived. Our bodies adapted to this new environment. We banded together into groups and escaped the civilization centers, as they were overrun with undead. We formed small tribes around the land and have been living in isolation ever since."

  "Are you serious?" Marcus gawked. "Humans can turn into nature spirits? That’s absurd!"

  "That’s what people call us, at least." Horace shrugged. "They’re not wrong. We are something between living and undead, just like necromancers but without the magic. Plus…" He looked at himself. "We clearly aren’t humans anymore, are we?"

  "I find you very stylish," Jerry said.

  "Thank you, Jerry.” Horace laughed, changing the subject. "In any case, you must all be exhausted. Now that you’ve passed Granny’s test, you can rest here; our huts are more convenient than the swamp’s mud."

  Laura gave him a smile; a constrained, calm one. "That would be our pleasure," she replied. "It’s been an eventful day."

  "Well then, be our guests!” Horace smiled back, turning to where a handful of silent huts lay outside the circle. "Those ones are empty. Make yourselves comfortable, and don’t hesitate to call on us if anything comes up! Oh, and if we’re too loud, just say the word."

  "Too loud?" Marcus said. "Won’t you sleep?"

  "We don’t sleep much. It comes with being half-undead."

  "You’re full of surprises, Horace." Jerry laughed. "Sure. A good night’s rest is always welcome."

  "You have no need to sleep, either." Horace’s black eyes twinkled. "You can spend the night with us if you prefer. All of you are welcome, of course, but I suspect the living ones will find the land of dreams a more comforting place."

  Marcus nodded. "That’s true. However, before that, there is something I must ask; what is your relation to the Wizard Order?"

  Laura’s eyes narrowed, and even Jerry tensed up a little bit. The Wizard Order was known for having its headquarters in the Dead Lands, so them leaving the death spirits alone sounded too convenient.

  Horace and his people looked at each other.

  “Very little,” he finally said. “We don’t bother them, and in return, they don’t bother us. We’re content being part of the terrain.”

  Marcus nodded. "Fair enough. Now, as I was saying, I think I’ll go to sleep. Age can wear the bones."

  "I can imagine," Horace said, a knowing smile on his face.

  "I will go, too," Laura said. "Have fun, everyone…and see you at dawn, I suppose."

  "You bet." Jerry smiled at her.

  Marcus and Laura headed to one hut each, while Jerry and his host of undead followed the tribespeople towards the large bonfire. Two men were carrying logs and tinder, lighting it up, and the spark in its center evolved into blazing flames.

  The heat struck them in a wave, and Jerry found it quite pleasant. Maybe he should rest by the fire until morning. That would be nice.

  "If you don’t mind, Jerry," Horace said, "how about I show you around a bit? Your undead friends could enjoy themselves peacefully in the meantime."

  Jerry glanced at the bonfire with longing. Well, maybe I can rest after.

  "Sure," he replied.

  "Master—"

  "Don’t worry, Boney. I’ll be fine. Horace is a good guy."

  "You can’t judge that quickly, Master…"

  "Sure I can. Now, come on, my black-eyed friend. Tour me."

  Horace tensed up for a moment. "Black-eyed is considered an insult around these parts,” he said. "People call us that to demean us. I know you didn’t mean it that way, but it’s better to avoid the phrase."

  "Oh. I didn’t know. Sorry."

  "Not a problem."

  "Who calls you that, though? I thought you were isolated."

  Horace smiled sadly. "We have contact with the outside world, though rarely…thankfully."

  "They don’t like you, do they?"

  "Why would they? We’re hideous."

  Jerry halted, turning his entire body towards Horace. Paper-white skin, coupled with pitch-black features, everything from eyes to nails.

  "I don’t see it," he replied. "Uniqueness is not bad, Horace. Why would you say that?"

  "It wasn’t a self-insult." Horace shrugged. "In the eyes of normal people, we do look hideous."

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  "Oh. That, yeah, but they’re assholes for thinking it."

  "That they are!"

  The two men laughed, heading around the bonfire. The death spirits had returned to practicing, split into many groups that each worked on a separate art.

  Jerry and Horace approached the dancing group, their shadows dancing too as the flames illuminated them. Along with the black-and-white coloration of their bodies, they made for quite an entrancing sight.

  "They’re good,” Jerry observed.

  "Of course! Everyone here is excellent at what they do; comes with the free time."

  "Do you really have nothing else to do?"

  "In a way. Death spirits are similar to the undead; we don’t need to eat, drink, or sleep that much. With our basic needs satiated, we turn to the things that please us."

  "Wow… This place sounds like heaven."

  "There are downsides. And, this is only our tribe. There are others spread throughout the Dead Lands, and not all of them turn to noble pursuits. Some are obsessed with combat, others fight amongst themselves, and yet more take to conquering other tribes, expanding ever further. We don’t associate with others that much."

  "I see. If those warmongers reach you, that will be bad news."

  "We’ll be eradicated." Horace smiled. "I am strong, but I cannot hold back entire tribes…and Granny’s powers have sadly deteriorated."

  "Yeah, I noticed. Is she a necromancer? Her soul felt similar to mine, like a lost sibling."

  "A psychomancer, to be exact—but yes, her powers fall in the general school of necromancy."

  "I thought necromancers didn’t grow old."

  Horace raised a brow. "Of course they do, just slower than most. Granny has been alive for almost three hundred years."

  Jerry swiveled around. "Are you serious? I barely even know that number!"

  "It’s a lot," the death spirit said, a proud smile on his lips. "She’s lived halfway to the Great Enigma—though that’s partly due to the Curse. It affects necromancers, too."

  "It does?"

  "Not quickly." Horace laughed again. "You’re fine, Jerry. It took Granny twenty years to turn into a death spirit."

  They approached another group; the painters. A woman held a piece of deerskin carefully against the fire, puzzling Jerry.

  "What is she doing?" he asked.

  "She’s letting the flames lick the painting and add black spots around its edges," Horace explained. "Our painters use more than brushes. Fire, water, blood, even mud can be used to accentuate a painting, giving it new vibrancy."

  "That sounds advanced."

  "I told you; everyone here is good at what they do, and we’ve learned tricks to enhance every art, like the shadows of the dancers or the natural brushes for the painters."

  "What about them?"

  Jerry pointed at the group of storytellers, where the same person as before was still narrating their story, now using their fingers and the firelight to cast shadowy figures on the walls of a nearby hut. Her fingers danced intricately, casting images of battle and triumph, of rocks falling from the sky, and an entire assortment of animals.

  Horace smiled. "Our storytellers weave stories within stories, creating symphonies which can raise one’s spirit to the heavens or drown it in hell. When even the nesting of complete stories into each other became commonplace, they realized that visual cues could liven up a story even more. It does not detract from the narrative; instead, the two of them work together to attain incredible heights."

  Jerry whistled. "I really enjoy this tribe of yours. What about you, Horace? What is your art?"

  He laughed again, raising the bow on his back. "A deadly one. Not as beautiful as the others, but someone needs to protect the tribe."

  "From what?"

  "From everything," he replied, shadows dancing on his face. "What is your story, Jerry? What made you who you are?"

  "Well, it’s kind of funny. One day sixteen years ago, I fell asleep, and then I realized I could…"

  As they spoke, their feet slowly carried them around the campfire, taking in everything the Akshik tribe had to offer. Painting, sculpting, music, dancing, storytelling… Many arts were gathered around a single campfire that somehow enhanced them all.

  Anywhere else in the world, these people would be considered masters at their crafts. Here, they all worked together to raise everyone to greater heights. It was a grand collection of experts, huddled around a small bonfire in a tiny swamp in a neglected part of the world. A hidden gem of the arts.

  There were a few people simply resting as well, or drinking a bit, and Jerry’s undead had joined them quickly. As time went by, however, some of the undead were drawn to other groups. Headless approached the dancing group, watching discreetly until they smiled and invited him to join; having struggled with balance issues at the beginning of his life, dancing had always excited him.

  He’d even practiced on a few occasions, so he wasn’t too bad, but he resembled a wooden block compared to the people around him. They didn’t mind; they eagerly advised him, and soon, the entire group was huddled around and encouraging Headless.

  Changes were rare in this tribe, so everyone enjoyed them thoroughly.

  Axehand had boldly strolled up to the sculpting group and asked to join them—he’d grunted, actually, but they’d gotten the message. His heart burning with competitive spirit, he’d carved his best imitation of Jerry’s face, and the tribespeople had praised him for his skills, generously providing a long series of tips.

  They’d then carved a masterpiece each, vastly eclipsing Axehand’s skills, and the double-skeleton had quickly scuttled back to the drinking group, where he enjoyed his wine with those who rested and the non-artful undead.

  Horace’s steps gradually angled away from the campfire, and Jerry followed, the two so engrossed in conversing that time passed quickly. Before long, they’d walked a few hundred steps away from the tribe’s grounds, approaching an area where wide, orderly lines had been carved in the muddy water.

  "What’s that?" Jerry asked.

  "Our farm," Horace said. Short green stalks rose out of the ground in regular intervals, each ending in a closed purple bud.

  Horace kneeled beside them, touching one bud with such gentleness that, for a moment, he did not at all resemble a master archer. "The Curse has mutated these little flowers. When mature, they’re edible and exceptionally tasty. They only grow in swamps, but ironically, they also need clean water, of which there is very little around here. Despite our best efforts, most flowers will wilt before blooming…"

  "I see." Jerry nodded, observing Horace’s tenderness. "You must like them a lot."

  "More than you imagine." Horace sighed, standing back up before gazing straight at Jerry. "Can I ask you for a favor, Jerry? We are forced to travel a day away to fetch small amounts of clean water, but hydromancers can form it out of thin air. Could your companion help us water these flowers for a few days? That will be enough to ensure over half of them survive, and we wouldn’t dare ask you to stay longer."

  "That won’t be a problem." Jerry smiled at the other man. "I mean, you should ask her, not me, but I don’t see why she would refuse."

  Horace’s chest visibly relaxed as he released the breath he’d been holding. "Thank you… We appreciate this, truly. In return, we can also help you repair your airship. Some of us are good at woodworking, so it shouldn’t be a problem—plus, time is something we surely don’t lack."

  "You would do that? Thank you! Only, you don’t have to; watering these flowers will be easy for Laura, but repairing an airship sounds hard."

  "It’s not a problem at all." Horace waved the hesitation away. "Just take it as a token of our gratitude."

  "In that case, thank you very much, Horace. For what it matters, I think you’re all great people."

  "We do our best, Jerry. We do our best." Horace smiled. "We shouldn’t need more than three days to get your ship ready. Until then, you shall be our guests… In other words, prepare to witness the Dead Lands’ beauty!"