CHAPTER 1
I feel like I've woken up inside someone's dream. I don't know who I am...
I don't know how I got here... and I don't know how to get out.
First thing I remember is crawling off a metal slab in some vaulted
monstrosity called the Mortuary, and some floating skull asking me a bunch
of damned questions.
I've lost my memory, I've lost my possessions, and the only thing I seem to
know is that I can get stabbed, beaten, burned... and I get better. This
regeneration of mine hasn't done much for my looks, but no one seems to
notice.
I need to figure out who I am and how I got this way... I feel like
something's missing, something inside, but I don't know what.
—Biography of The Nameless One.
He dreamt. Within the darkness of sleep images raced through his mind and he tried to desperately hold onto them: A pillar of names, racks of skulls and other images, perhaps fragments of days long past, though he couldn't say. He tried to hold onto them, like a thirsty man tries to hold water in his hands, and like the water, the memories trickled away, leaving only a nagging moisture that suggested that there had once been something more. Time passed: hours, days perhaps… or merely a few minutes. He awoke.
The first thing he noticed was a skeleton hovering over him. The second thing he noticed was that it had no body. The third thing he noticed… was that it was talking.
"Hey, chief. You okay? You playing corpse or you putting the blinds on the Dusties? I thought you were a deader for sure."
He slowly picked himself up from the cold slab he was laying on, "Wh…? Who are you?"
"Uh… who am I? How about you start? Who're you?"
"I… don't know. I can't remember."
"You can't remember your name? Heh. Well, NEXT time you spend a night in this berg, go easy on the bub. Name's Morte. I'm trapped in here too."
"Trapped?"
"Yeah, since you haven't had times to get your legs yet, here's the chant: I've tried all the doors, and this room is locked tighter than a chastity belt."
"We're locked in… where? What is this place?"
"It's called the 'Mortuary'… it's a big black structure with all the architectural charm of a pregnant spider."
"'The Mortuary?' What… am I dead?"
"Not from where I'm standing. You got scars a-plenty, though… looks like some berk painted you with a knife. All the more reason to give this place the laugh before whoever carved you up comes back to finish the job."
"Scars? How bad are they?"
"Well… the carvings on your chest aren't TOO bad… but the ones on your back…" Morte paused. "Say, looks like you got a whole tattoo gallery on your back, chief. Spells out something…"
He looked over his arms and his chest. He noticed several scars, and also noticed the grayness of His skin and the leathery texture. Plus there was the matter of His back… this puzzled Him. Surely He would have remembered a tattoo like that… "Tattoos on my back? What do they say?"
"Heh! Looks like you come with directions…" Morte cleared his throat. "Let's se… it starts with…
'I know you feel like you've been drinking a few kegs of Styx wash, but you need to CENTER yourself. Among your possessions is a journal that'll shed some light on the dark of the matter. PHAROD can fill you in on the rest of the chant, if he's not in the dead-book already.'
"Pharod…? Does it say anything else?
"Yeah, there's a bit more…" Morte paused. "Let's see… it goes on…"
'Don't lose the journal or we'll be up the Styx again. And whatever you do, DO NOT tell anyone WHO you are or WHAT happens to you, or they'll put you on a quick pilgrimage to the crematorium. Do what I tell you: READ the journal, then FIND Pharod.'
"No wonder my back hurts; there's a damn novel written there. As for that journal I'm supposed to have with me… was there one with me while I was lying here?"
"No… you were stripped to the skin when you arrived here. 'Sides, looks like you got enough of a journal penned on your body."
"What about Pharod? Do you know him?"
"Nobody I know… but then again, I don't know many people. Still, SOME berk's got to know where to find Pharod… uh, once we get out of here, that is."
"How do we get out of here?"
"Well, all the doors are locked, so we'll need the key. Chances are, one of the walking corpses in this room has it."
"Walking corpses?"
"Yeah, the Mortuary keepers use dead bodies as cheap labor. The corpses are dumb as stones, but they're harmless, and won't attack you unless you attack first."
"Is there some other way? I don't want to kill them just for a key."
"What, you think it's going to hurt their feelings? They're DEAD. But if you want a bright side to this: if you kill them, at least they'll have a rest before their keepers raise them up to work again."
"Well, all right… I'll take one of them down and get the key."
"Well, before you do that, arm yourself first. I think there's a scalpel on one of the shelves around here."
"All right, I'll look for one."
"One last thing: Those corpses are as slow as molasses, but getting punched by one of them is like being kissed by a battering ram. If they start getting an edge on you, remember you can RUN, and they can't. Use it to keep some distance if you need to recover."
"All right. Thanks for the advice."
He glanced at the slab where He had been resting previously. It was covered in dried blood and other remains. There were other similar slabs in the room. There was a body on the second one that appeared to have been partially dissected, and the body on the other table looked to be turned inside out. A machine at the head of that table had peeled the skin off of the forehead to give direct access to the skull. Another one was merely covered in blood, and on another one, a bloody cloth covered the remains of a corpse. The stench that rose from the body was almost unbearable. On the last slab was a corpse which, like the other ones was covered in blood and completely gutted.
He noticed a set of jars by His slab. They contained a murky liquid. It smelled like a cross between vinegar and formaldehyde.
The scalpel turned out to be on a nearby cabinet.
"All right, you found the scalpel! Now, go get those corpses… and don't worry, I'll stay back and provide valuable tactical advice." Morte congratulated.
"Maybe you could help me, Morte."
"I WILL be helping you. Good advice is hard to come by."
"I meant help in attacking the corpse."
"Me? I'm a romantic, not a soldier. I'd just get in the way."
"When I attack this corpse, you better be right there with me or you'll be the next thing that I plunge this scalpel in."
"Eh… all right. I'll help you."
"I'm glad we understand each other."
"Time to introduce these corpses to the second death, then…"
"Let's go."
He walked up to one of the zombies. The corpse stopped and stared blankly at Him as He approached. The number '782' was carved into his forehead and his lips had been stitched closed. The faint smell of formaldehyde emanated from the body.
"I'm looking for a key… do you happen to have one?"
"This looks like the lucky petitioner here, chief. Look… he's got the key there in his hand."
The corpse looked like the one with the key. It was holding it tightly in its left hand, its thumb and forefinger locked around it in a deathgrip. It looked as thought He would need to hack the corpse's hand off to free the key.
"I need that key, corpse… looks like you're not long for this world."
A single slash brought the corpse down, and He quickly snatched the key. The head of the key had been twisted around itself several times, to that it resembled a screw. If Morte was to be believed, it unlocked one of the doors in the Preparation Room. And it did, unlocking a door to the northwest.
"Pssst… Some advice, chief: I'd keep it quiet from here on – no need to put any more corpses in the dead book than necessary… especially the femmes. Plus, killing them might draw the caretakers here."
"I don't think you mentioned it before… who are these caretakers?"
"They call themselves the 'Dustmen'. You can't miss 'em: They have an obsession with black and rigor mortis of the face. They're an addled bunch of ghoulish death-worshippers; they believe everybody should die… sooner better than later."
"I'm confused… why do these Dustmen care if I escape?"
"Weren't you listening?! I said the Dusties believe EVERYBODY'S got to die, sooner better than later. You think the corpses you've seen are happier in the dead book than out of it?"
"The corpses I've seen here… where did they all come from?"
"Death visits the plains every day, chief. These shamblers are all that's left of the poor sods who sold their bodies to the caretakers after death."
"Before you said something about making sure I didn't kill any female corpses. Why?"
"Wh-–are you serious? Look, chief, these dead chits are the last chance for a couple of hardy bashers like us. We need to be chivalrous… no hacking them up for keys, no lopping their limbs off, things like that."
"Last chance? What are you talking about?"
"Chief, they're dead, we're dead… see where I'm going? Eh? Eh?"
"You can't be serious."
"Chief, we already got an opening line with these limping ladies. We've all died at least once: we'll have something to talk about. They'll appreciate men with our kind of death experience."
"Wait… didn't you say before that I'm not dead?"
"Well… all right, you might not be dead, but I am. And from where I'm standing, I wouldn't mind sharing a coffin with some these fine sinewy cadavers I see here." Morte started clacking his teeth, as if in anticipation. "Course, the caretakers would have to part with them first, and that's not likely…"
"All right… I'll try and remember that."
"Look, chief. It's obvious you're still a little addled after your kiss with death, so I got two bits of advice for you: one, if you got questions, ask me, all right?"
"All right… if I have any questions, I'll ask you."
"Second, if you're half as forgetful as you seem to be, start writing stuff down—whenever you come across something that might be important, jot it down so you don't forget."
"If I had that journal I was supposed to have with me, I'd do that."
"Start a new one, then, chief. No loss. There's plenty of parchment and ink around here to last you."
"Hmmmm. All right. It couldn't hurt… I'll make a new one, then."
"Use it to keep track of your movements. If you ever start to get cloudy on important things, like who you are… or more importantly, who I am… use it to refresh your memory."
He walked up to one of the female corpses. The shambling corpse gazed at him with vacant eyes. Her skin was paper-thin, almost wispy… like someone had draped a sheet of cobwebs across her frame. The number "594" had been scratched onto her forehead with a charcoal pencil.
"So… doing anything later?"
The corpse continued to stare at him
"Farewell then."
"Psssst. You see the way she was looking at me? Huh? You see that? The way she was following the curve of my occipital bone?"
"You mean that blank-eyes beyond-the-grave stare?"
"Wha—are you BLIND?! She was scouting me out! It was shameless the way she WANTED me."
"I think you're imagining things. She's a zombie. A corpse. A dead person. You probably didn't even register to her senses."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. When you've been dead as long as I have, you know the signals. They may be too SUBTLE for you to pick up on, but that's why I'll be spending MY nights with some luscious recently-dead chit while you're standing around goin' 'huh?' 'Whatzz goin' on?' 'Where's my muh-muh-memories?'"
"Whatever, Morte. Let's go."
In the next room He searched the cabinet and found a Receiving Room Log Book. The huge log listed Mortuary procedure in a tight, crabbed script:
-All shells entering the Mortuary are to be delivered to the Receiving Room and logged with the scribe on duty before being embalmed or cremated.
-The records are to be checked to determine if the shell is one of the Contracted, and if so, do not prepare the shell. Move the shell to one of the Preparation rooms, contact the scribe on duty, and notify him that a Contracted shell is to be Raised.
-Be certain that a shell is thoroughly stropped of its possessions before being sent to the Preparation Rooms. The Contracted workers are intended for simple manual labor and do not have the capacity to search and strip a shell.
-The faction is not responsible for any possessions lost or items stolen by the Collectors who have brought the shells to the Mortuary.
-The shell's possessions are to be stored in the Receiving room until an Initiate can be sent to claim them. Please catalogue all possessions in the log book.
Following this list were thousands of entries of bodies that have been sent to the Receiving Room. As He flipped through the rest of the book, however, He noticed the last page had been cut out.
The number '1201' had been inked on the forehead of one of the corpses, and the ink had run down its eyes, cheeks and jaw. As He followed the ink tears down the corpse's face, He noticed it had run into the stitching sealing the corpse's lips and had caught on what looked like the corner of a note stuck in the corps's mouth.
The note had mingled with the ichor in the zombie's mouth. If He tried to pull the paper out through the cross-stitches, it would have torn the paper to shreds. Hacking up the corpse to get at it looked like it would have destroyed the note—He needed to find a delicate way to remove the stitches before removing the note.
He deftly sliced through the stitches sealing the corpse's mouth with his scalpel, and the jaw sagged open. Hr carefully pulled the note from the corpse's mouth… despite the condition of the paper, the writing on it still appeared legible,
"Sorry about slicing those stitches… I just had to see what was in your mouth."
The corpse's milky-white stared at him vacantly.
It was a foul-smelling note retrieved from the mouth of one of the Mortuary zombies; it looked like it was sewn into the corpse's mouth by accident. Despite its condition, the writing was legible:
"Please, to whatever Dustman reads this; I beg of you. I know of my legal obligation under the terms of the Dead Contract, but I am prepared to offer more than my signing fee if you will cremate my body rather than Raising it. I have arranged for this note to be left with my body upon my death. If you are reading this, then please use this note as instructed and accept the result in exchange for my Contracted duty. Let my Contract number serve as the key."
It looked like the corpse was too late to prevent the Raising… but He noticed that beneath the writing was a diagram. It looked like the directions for folding the parchment into a strange pattern. It looked as if it was instructing Him to fold the corners of the note so that their points touched the center. There was a series of strange marks on each corner—one mark on the upper right, two marks on the lower right, three marks on the lower left, and no marks on the upper left. He folded the upper-right, lower-right and upper-left corners inwards until the points touched the center. As He folded the upper-left corner, the upper-right unfolded by itself, resuming its normal position. As he folded the upper right corner back to the center, the lower left corner mirrored the action, until all the corners touch in the center. He watched for a moment, and the corners of the paper rose up, turning the note into a small four-sided paper pyramid.
He peeled back the sides of the pyramid, and the paper disintegrated to dust. Inside was a small triangle-shaped earring. It caught the light and gleamed brightly. It was a beautiful earring, but despite its beauty, all it seemed to do was remind Him how strange this world he'd woken up in was.
He suddenly heard coughing and for the first time noticed a large book. Silently motioning Morte over he catiously crept around the side of the book and found the source of the cough peering over the contents of the book—it must have had thousands of names.
The scribe looked very old… his skin was wrinkled and had a slight trace of yellow, like old parchment. Charcoal-gray eyes laid within an angular face, and a large white beard flowed down the front of his robes like a waterfall. His breathing was ragged and irregular, but even his occasional coughing did not slow the scratching of his quill pen.
"Greetings."
"Who, chief! What are you doing?!"
"I was going to speak with this scribe. He might know something about how I got here."
"Look, rattling your bone-box with Dusties should be the LAST thing—"
Before Morte could finish his rant, the scribe began coughing violently. After a moment or two, the coughing spell died down, and the scribe's breathing resumed its ragged wheeze.
"And we especially shouldn't be swapping the chant with sick Dusties. C'mon, let's leave. The quicker we give this place the laugh, the bet—"
Before Morte could finish, the scribe's gray eyes flickered to Him. "The weight of years hangs heavy upon me, Restless One." He placed down his quill. "…but I do not yet count deafness among my ailments."
"'Restless One?' Do you know me?"
"Know you? I…" There was a trace of bitterness in the scribe's voice as he speaks. "I have never known you, Restless One. No more than you have known yourself." He was silent for a moment. "For you have forgotten, have you not?"
"Who are you?"
"As always, the question. And the wrong question, as always." He bowed slightly, but the movement suddenly sent him into a bout of coughing. "I…" He paused for a moment, caught his breath. "I… am Dhall."
"What is this place?"
"You are in the Mortuary, Restless One. Again you have… come…" Before he could finish, Dhall broke into a fit of coughing. After a moment, he calmed himself and his breathing resumes its ragged wheeze. "…this is the waiting room for those about to depart the shadow of this life."
"Tell me about the Mortuary."
"This is where the dead are brought to be interred or cremated. It is our responsibility as Dustment to care for the dead, those who have left this shadow of life and walk the path to True Death." Dhall's voice dropped in concern. "Your wounds must have exacted a heavy toll if you do not recognize this place. It is almost your home."
"Wounds?"
"Yes, the wounds that decorate your body… they look as if they would have sent a lesser man along the path of the True Death, yet it seems as if many of them have healed already." Dhall coughed violently for a moment, then steadied himself. "But those are only the surface wounds."
"Only surface wounds? What do you mean?"
"I speak of the wounds of the mind. You have forgotten much, have you not? Mayhap your true wounds run much deeper than the scars that decorate your surface…" Dhall coughed again "…but that is something that only you would know for certain."
"What do you mean 'Shadow of life?'"
"Yes, a shadow. You see, Restless One, this life… it is not real. Your life, my life, they are shadows, flickerings of what life once was. This 'life' is where we end up after we die. And here we remain… trapped. Caged. Until we can achieve the True Death."
"What makes you think this life isn't real?"
"What makes you think this life is real? Look inside yourself. Do you not feel something lacking?" Dhall shook his head. "This is a purgatory. There is only sorrow here. Misery. Torment. These are not the elements that make up 'life'. They are part of the cage that traps us in this shadow."
"I think your fatalism has gotten the better of you. Those elements are part of life, but not the whole of it."
Dhall shook his head. "Passions carry weight. They anchor many to this shadow of life. As long as one clings to emotion, they will be continually reborn into this 'life,' forever suffering, never knowing the purity of True Death."
"True Death?"
"True Death is non-existence. A state devoid of reason, of sensation, of passion." Dhall coughed, then gave a ragged breath. "A state of purity."
"Sounds like oblivion. Why would anyone want that?"
"Is it worse than remaining in this shadow of what life once was? I think not."
"I… see. How does one escape the cycle of rebirth and achieve this… True Death?"
"Kill your passions. Strip yourself of the need for sensation. When you are truly cleansed, then the cycle of rebirth will end, and you achieve peace." Dhall sighed… it sounded like a death rattle in his throat. "Past these shells of outs, past the Eternal Boundary, lies the peace that all souls seek."
"Tell me about the Dustmen."
"We Dustmen are a faction, a gathering of those of us recognize the illusion of this life. We await the next life, and help other on their journey."
"Perhaps you can explain why the Dustmen want me dead."
Dhall sighed. "It is said there are souls who can never attain the True Death. Death has forsaken them, and their name shall never be penned in the Dead Book. To awake from death as you have done… suggests you are one of these souls. Your existence is unacceptable to out faction."
"'Unacceptable?' That doesn't sound like it leaves me in a good position."
"You must understand. Your existence is a blasphemy to them. Many of our faction would order you cremated… if they were aware of your affliction."
"You're a Dustman. But you don't seem to be in favor of killing me. Why not?"
"Because forcing our beliefs upon you is not just. You must give up this shadow of life on your own, not because we force you to." Dhall looked about to break into another coughing jag, but he managed to hold it in with some effort. "As long as I remain at my post, I will protect your right to search for your own truth."
"What is your post?"
"I am a scribe, a cataloger of all the shells that come to the Mortuary." Dhall coughed again, then took a deep breath. "As long as the stream of corpses flows through the Mortuary, I shall remain at my post."
"You say that I have been here more than one. How is it that the Dustmen do not recognize me?"
"I am the one that catalogues the shells that come to our halls, Restless One." Dhall broke into a fit of coughing, then steadied himself. "Only I see the faces of those that lie upon our slabs. The dark of your existence lies safe with me."
"What about Sigil? You mentioned it earlier…"
"Sigil is our fair city, Restless One."
"How did I get here?"
Dhall snorted in contempt, as if he found the memory repugnant. "Your moldy chariot ferried you to the Mortuary, Restless One. You would think you were royalty based on the number of loyal subject that lay stinking and festering upon the cart that carried you."
"I arrived here on a cart?"
"Yes… your body was somewhere in the middle of the heap, sharing its fluids with the rest of the mountain of corpses." Dhall broke into another violent fit of coughing, finally catching his breath minutes later. "Your 'seneschal' Pharod was, as always, pleased to accept a few moldy copper to dump the lot of you at the Mortuary gate."
"He is a… collector of the dead." Dhall drew a ragged breath, then continued. "We have such people in our city that scavenge the bodies of those that have walked the path of the True Death and bring them to use so that they may be interred properly."
"Doesn't sound like you much Pharod much."
"There are some I respect, Restless One." Dhall took a ragged breath and steadied himself. "Pharod is not one of them. He wears his ill repute like a badge of honor and takes liberties with the possessions of the dead. He is a knight of the post, cross-trading filth of the lowest sort."
"Knight of the post?"
"A knight of the post…" Dhall coughed. "…a thief. All Pharod brings to our walls come stripped of a little less of their dignity than they possessed in life. Pharod takes whatever he may pry from their stiffening fingers."
"Did this Pharod take anything from me?"
Dhall paused, considering. "Most likely. Are you missing anything… especially anything of value?" Voice dips as he frowns. "Not that Pharod would take exception to anything that wasn't physically grafted to your body, and sometimes even that's not enough to give his greedy mind pause."
"I am missing a journal."
"A journal? If it was of any value, then it is likely that it lies in Pharod's hands."
"Where can I find this Pharod?"
"If events persist as they have, Restless One, you have a much greater chance of Pharod finding you and bringing you to us again before you find whatever ooze puddle he wallows in this time."
A slight warning crept into Dhall's tone. "Do not seek out Pharod, Restless One. I am certain that it will simple come full circle again, with you none the wiser and Pharod a few coppers richer. Accept death, Restless One. Do not perpetuate your circle of misery."
"I have to find him. Do you know where he is?"
Dhall was silent for a moment. When he spoke, he seemed to do so reluctantly. "I do not know under which gutterstone Pharod lairs at the moment, but I imagine he can be found somewhere beyond the Mortuary gates, in the Hive. Perhaps someone there will know where you can find him."
"Can you tell me how to get out of here?"
"Hmmm… the front gate is the most obvious exist, but they will not let anyone other than Dustmen pas…" Dhall broke into a ragged cough, then continued. "…one of the guides by the front gate has a key to it, but it is unlikely he will open it for you unless you are extremely persuasive."
"Do you know who I am?"
"I know scant little of you, Restless One. I know little more of those that have journeyed with you and who now lie in our keeping." Dhall sighed. "I ask that you no longer ask others to join with you, Restless One—where you walk, so walks misery. Let your burden be your own."
"There are others who have journeyed with me? And they are here?"
"Do you not know the woman's corpse interred in the memorial hall below? I had though that she had traveled with you in the past…" Dhall looked like he was about to start coughing again, then caught his breath. "Am I mistaken?"
"The northwest memorial hall on the floor below us. Check the biers there… her name should be one of the memorial plaques. Mayhap that will revive your memory."
"I don't know. I don't recall ever traveling with a woman."
Dhall made no response to this. He simply stared at the 'Restless One' in silence.
"Before, you said there were others interred here who journeyed with me. Where are they?"
"Doubtless there are, but I know not their names, nor where they lie. One such as you has left a path many have walked and few have survived." Dhall gestured around the Restless One. "All dead come here. Some must have traveled with you once."
"You sound ill. Are you not well?"
"I am close now to the True Death, Restless One. It will not be long before I pass beyond the Eternal Boundary and find the peace I have been seeking. I tire of this mortal sphere…" Dhall gives a ragged sigh. "The planes hold no more wonders for one such as I."
"The Eternal Boundary?"
"The boundary between the shadow of this life and the True Death."
"Are you certain? There might be some way I could you."
"I do not wish to live forever nor live again, Restless One. I could not bear it."
"So be it. Farewell, Dhall."
As He turned to leave, Dhall spoke. "Know this: I do not envy you, Restless One. To be reborn as you would be a curse that I could not bear. You must come to terms with it. At some point, your path will return you here…" Dhall coughed, the sound rattling in his throat. "It is the way of all things flesh and bone."
"Then perhaps we will meet again, Dhall.
The next room was bare, save for a huge corpse standing silently in the corner facing the wall. He looked to have been a heavy-set man in his early years, and judging by the condition of the body, he died only recently. The freshly-stitched number on his forehead read '1664'. The corpse looks like it was serving as a librarian, for it was carrying a huge stack of books in its arms.
The books appeared to be old Mortuary ledgers, none of them of any particular interest. As He searched through the texts, however, He noticed a loose page folded between two of the books. He was suddenly struck with the feeling that someone tucked it there to hide it.
The page didn't look like it belonged with the ledgers… it looked like it belonged in a log book. The tear was clean, as if with a knife, so he suspected the pages was removed on purpose.
He took a moment to read through the page… it was a list of dead bodies brought to the Mortuary and logged in the Receiving Room. All the entries appeared to be recent arrivals.
16537, 5th Night: Drunk—Chest Wound—Cause of Death: Mauling/Abihai?—Collector: Pox—3 Commons paid—No possessions.
16538: 5th Night: Desiccated Corpse—Cause of Death: Indeterminable—Age of Shell prevent identification--Collector: Pharod—3 Commons Paid—No possessions (Stripped? Knife marks evident from dissection.)
16539: 5th Night: Scarred Shell—Cause of Death: Indeterminable (scars do not appear to be cause of death—shock trauma?)—Collector: Pharod—3 Commons Paid—Posessions Logged: Fist Irons—(As He read this part, Morte 'tossed' over a set of Fist Irons he had found during the conversation with Dhall.) Thirteen Commons—Middle Table, Receiving Room.
16540: 5th Night: Desiccated Corpse #2 –Cause of Death: Indeterminable—Age of Shell prevents identification--Collector: Pharod—3 Commons Paid—Possessions Logged: Knife marks evident from dissection, but the dissection was not thorough enough—Copper earring found lodged in abdomen; earring has been locked in Southeast Preparation Room. Have an Initiate from the Third Circle examine it; it has strange markings, like those on Contracted Worker #79.
16541: 5th Night: Skeleton—Cause of Death: Indeterminable- Age of Shell prevents Identification--Collector: Pharod—3 Commons Paid—No possessions (Stripped? Knife marks evident from dissection.)
As with the previous entries, these shells Pharod has brought also show signs of having been prepared. I have asked that Initiate Emoric launch an investigation into the matter. Furthermore, Entry 16542 is one of Pharod's gang. I have seen the individual before – I would ask Emoric to pay heed to how the man died.
16542: 5th Night: Tiefling, Male – Cause of Death: Slash marks/discoloration of wounds are consistent with grave rot (ghoul claws?) – Collector: Pharod – 3 Commons Paid – No possessions (Stripped? Knife marks evident from dissection.)
The next room contained several more slabs. The stench coming from the slab nearest the door was truly nauseating. Someone had split the open a man's chest and had yet to remove the internal organs. Another one, further against the wall held a chalk-white body that had been drained of blood and treated with embalming fluid. A neatly-stitched seam ran down the corpse's chest. The bandages covering the body on another slab were soaked with blood. Even though the corpse looked several days dead, blood still trickled from its wounds. He looked around. Another corpse on a stone slab… there was no indication of what the body died of.
A heavily stitched corpse was shuffling lazily back and forth between two slabs. The number "506" had been stitched on its forehead… and the side of its neck… and its right arm… in fact, the skin of the peeling corpse had been sewn up with so many stitches its skim looked like a bizarre street map.
The stitches encircled the corpse, running from its arms, across its chest, up its neck, and into the damp moss of white hair. As He followed the crossroads of stitches, He noticed that someone had jammed a needle into the corpse's forehead… the needle was attached to a thread stitching up the side of the skull. He could probably unravel it, if He had something to cut the thread, he thought.
He sliced the thread neatly with the scalpel, then plucked out the needle and pulled the stitches out. As He did, the skin covering the forehead peeled back to reveal the corpse's chalk-white skull – where, to His surprise, the number "78" had been chiseled.
"Seems you got two different designations there, corpse."
The corpse stared straight ahead, oblivious.
Another corpse – "985" – had stopped dead in its tracks; judging from the condition of its left leg, it looked as if some sort of tomb rot or corpse mold had eaten through its knee. The corpse was wobbling unsteadily back and forth, trying to keep its balance. He decided to help in its struggle.
"Uh… chief… you might not w-"
"There was a crack from the corpse's left leg, and the body fell like a dead tree. Its torso struck the stone flagstones and shattered like a rotten melon, filth and ichor gurgling from the cavity. To His surprise, no one seemed to have noticed the corpse's collapse… and even stranger, the left leg remained standing where the body was, as if at attention. After a moment, the leg fell over with a wet thump.
As He gazed upon the putrefied remains the of the corpse, He noticed that is left arm seemed intact – it had snapped from the torso during the fall, and it didn't appear to have been touched by the tomb rot that had spread through the rest of the body.
"Hmmm. I wonder if I could make use of that arm…"
Picking it up, He realized that if He needed to, He could either use it to shake someone's hand from a distance of use it to bash their skull in.
Looking around the room again, He saw a slight young woman with pale features. The sunken flesh around her cheeks and neck made her appear as if she was starving. She seemed intent on dissecting the corpse in front of her, prodding the chest with a finger.
"Greetings."
The woman did not respond… she seemed too intent on the body in front of her. As He watched her work, He suddenly noticed her hands… her fingers like talons. They were darting in and out of the corpse's chest cavity like knives, removing organs.
"I said, Greetings."
The woman made no response.
"I think the dustie chit might be a bit short of hearing, chief. Let's lay off, shall we?"
"What's wrong with her hands?"
"Eh… she's a tiefling, chief. They got fiend blood in their veins, usually 'cause some ancestor of their shared knickers with one demon or another. Makes some of 'em addled in the head… and addled-looking, too."
He tapped the woman, trying to get her attention.
The woman jumped and whipped around to face Him… her eyes were a rotting yellow, with small orange dots for pupils. As she saw Him, her expression changed from surprise to irritation, and she frowned at Him.
"Uh… greetings."
She didn't seem to have heard Him. She leaned forward, squinting, as if she couldn't quite make Him out… whatever was wrong with her eyes must have made her terribly near-sighted, he thought. "You -" she clacked her taloned fingers together, then made a strange motion with her hands. "Find THREAD and EM-balming juice, bring HERE to Ei-Vene. Go – Go – Go."
"I had some questions first…"
She turned away… she made no sign that she heard Him.
In the next room, He noticed a shambling corpse gazing at him with vacant eyes. The number "821" was carved into his forehead, and his lips had been stitched closed. The faint smell of formaldehyde emanated from the body.
"So… seen anything interesting going on?"
As He addressed the zombie, it blinked in surprise. "Eh? Wut?"
"You're not a zombie! Who are you?"
The 'zombie' was trying to respond behind stitched lips; He had a peculiar half-frightened, half-angry expression. "Hoo YU? Wut yu wunt?"
"Who are you?"
The zombie didn't seem to have heard Him. He looked at Him up and down for a few moments, then frowned. "Wut yu do heer?" His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Yu spy on Duhstees?"
"I'm not a spy. I got sealed in here by accident. Can you help me out?"
He was silent for a moment, then nodded slightly, as if in understanding. "Why shud I hulp yu?"
"Maybe we could help each other out. What do you want in return?"
"Uh need you t'git a key fur me. Wunt iron key tuh embulmuh's rum."
"All right. Where is this key?"
"A dusstie chit hazzit." He pointed at his eyes. "She haz yuhllo eyez…" He then made a motion with his hands that reminded Him of a pair of cutting shears. "Bladezz on fingerzz."
"A Dustman woman… with yellow eyes and blades on her fingers? I already met her in the embalming room. Hold on – I'll be back with the key shortly.
The zombie squinted at Him. "If yu're cught, dun't say nothin' bout me, or met gut yu in yur sleep."
"I'll get your damned key… but you had best watch your threats, you hear me?"
He returned to Ei-Vene. She was still dissecting the corpse's chest with her talons. The rhythm of the talons reminded Him of something, but He couldn't quite recall what.
As he studied the motion of Ei-Vene's hands, He felt a prickling along his scal, and then suddenly, he found his vision swimming, blurring, until…
…He was standing in front of a freshly-slain corpse, rigor mortis making a mockery of its smile; the number '42' had been stitched onto its scalp. The zombie was lying on a slab, and He had just finished stitching up its chest. He had placed something inside, something that he thought may prove useful if he came that way again…
"Keep these things safe and wait for my return."
The memory of his voice was an echo, strange and hollow to his ears. He crossed His arms in front of his chest, and to His surprise, the corpse did, too. After a moment, its hands fell back to its sides, and as it did, the vision faded… until He was watching Ei-Vene's hands make their stitching motions once more.
She turned, saw Him, then frowned. "Dum zomfies." She clacked her taloned fingers together impatiently, then made a stitching motion with her fingers. "Find thread and embalming fluid, bring here, to Ei-Vene. Go – Go – Go."
"Wait a minute." He made the motion of a key turning with His hand. "I need an embalming key. Do you have one?"
She leaned forward, looked at His hand motions, then sniffed. Her hand darted into her robe, then emerged, a key hanging from her wickedly sharp index finger. She flicked it into her hand. "Bring back when done. Go – go."
He returned to the false zombie. He was amazed at the man's disguise… his breathing was so subdued, He could barely see it.
"Greetings."
The zombie quickly glanced around to see if anyone was watching, then turned to face Him. "Wut?"
"Here's that embalming room key you wanted."
The zombie's eyes widened, and he snatched the key from His hand. He turned it over, nodding all the while. "Gud… gud."
"Now… how do I get out of here?"
The zombie grunts. "Yu kin escape through portalz." He waved his hands. "Phoof."
"Portals? What portals?"
"Portalz…" The zombie waved around the area. "Portalz evereewheer."
"Can you show me one of these portals?"
The zombie nodded. "Yu wunt out, go tuh arch on firzzt fluur, nurtwezzt ruum… Yuh need fungur-bone, shape of crook…" He held up his index finger and bent it into a crook. "When yuh have key, guh to arch, jump ta sucret cryp and ken escape frum here. Secret escape route." He nodded eagerly. "Yuh can REST there."
"Crooked finger bone? Where am I going to find one of those?"
He shrugged. "Mhust be on 'rounf sumwhere… look in storage roomz on upper floor. Maybe there."
"All right, I had some other questions…"
"Do you know someone named Pharod?"
"Fuh-AROD?" The zombie frowned briefly in thought. "Me… heer he live in Hive somewhere." He shook his head. "Not know where." He frowned again. "Dushties vare-ee mad, thay not LIKE Fuh-arod.
"Hive?"
"Slumz ousside this place."
"Why don't the Dustmen like Pharod?"
He'z a collector. Brinz deaderz to Mortuaree, sellz 'em to Dustmen. Bringz LOT uf deaderz. Dushties not know where he getz deaderz. Think he'z putting' berks in deadbook'
"Uh… what?"
"He's saying this Pharod berk has been selling a lot of deaders… corpses… to the Dustmen. That's what Collectors do: they gather dead bodies and sell them to the Dustmen. Sounds like this Pharod's been selling so many deaders that the Dusties think he's been putting Hivers in the dead-book before their hour's up… y'know, killing people."
"I'm missing a journal. Have you seen it?"
"Do' kno Sum berk peel you?"
"Uh… what?"
"He wants to know if somebody robbed you. Probably what happened."
"I see. Can you tell me anything about Dhall?"
"Scribe." Shrug. "Old. Yellow."
"There's nothing more to be said, I suppose. How did you get to look like that?"
"Me gud at duh-guise. Me ulso gut scars. Me wuhr lots of embalming fluid. Me make GUD zumbie." The zombie giggled through stitched lips, then tapped his head. "Duhstees stuh-pud."
"Yeah, they're the stupid ones all right." Morte piped in.
The sarcasm was evidently lost on the zombie, who nodded eagerly. Stuh-pud Dushstees. Me make GUD zumbie."
"Doesn't that hurt?"
He looked at His scars. "I ask yu same question. Me, it not hurt much." He clapped his chest. "Me TUFF."
In the next room, he found some jars filled with a green liquid. It was a sealed jar of embalming fluid. It was used as a preservative for dead bodies. As an added benefit, the smell of the fluid was more than sufficient to mask the smell of any rotting bodies it was used on. He also found a copper earring. It looked ancient. Oddly enough, He noted, there didn't seem to be a hook or any means actually attaching it to His ear. A series of strange grooves had been carved on this inside of the earring, however, which He felt might merit a closer examination.
The grooves were evenly spaced along the inside of the earring – upon closer examination, they reminded Him of small fangs. They are definitely man-made, but He couldn't figure out what they were intended for.
He returned once more to Ei-Vene and gave her the thread and fluid.
Without missing a beat, Ei-Vene snapped the thread from His hands and hooked it around one of her talon, then began sewing up the corpse's chest. She then took the embalming fluid, and began to apply a layer to the corpse.
Within minutes, she was finished. She clicked her talons, and then turned to face Him. To His surprise, she extended her hand and drug her talons along his arm and chest.
"Looks like you have a new friend, chief. You two need some time together, or…?"
"Stow it, Morte."
As she traced His arms and chest, He suddenly noticed she seemed to be examining His scars. She withdrew her talons, clicked them twice, then bent forward and examined some of the tattoos on His chest. "Hmmph. Who write on you? Hivers do that? No respect for zomfies. Zomfies, not paintings." She sniffed, then poked at one of His scars. "This one in bad shape, many scars, no preserfs."
Her talons suddenly hooked into the thread He brought her, and lightning-like, she jabbed another talon into the skin near one of His scars. It felt barely more than a pin-prick, but it looked like she was about to start stitching Him up.
The sensation was curiously painless as Ei-Vene began to stitch up His scars.
When she was done, she sniffed him, Hrowned, then stabbed her fingers into the embalming fluid. Within minutes, she had dabbed His body with the fluid… and strangely enough, it made him feel better.
"This may be the second time in my life I'm thankful I don't have a nose." Morte remarked.
Ei-Vene put the last touches on His body, gave him another sniff, nodded, then made a shooing motion with her talons. "Done. Go – go."
Near the tables that had held the embalming fluid was a set of stairs that led up to the next floor. He motioned for Morte to follow him as they climbed to the next flight. The staircase became a gigantic spiral, with three large cabinets at the top. The first two were empty, but the third contained a small charred bone fragment of some creature, He hazarded a guess that it might have been a finger bone or a talon. Various symbols had been scratched onto its surface… the scratchings were so faints He almost missed them. He pocketed it, hoping it would come in handy later.
There was an open door way which He passed through. There were several tracks scattered throughout the room, as well as bodies on carts.
He approached a skeleton – number "748," according to the number chiseled above its brow – was odd only in that some of its teeth appeared to be false ones made of reddish-brown stone. They were clearly not valuable, however, as its caretakers would have otherwise removed them.
Someone had taken care to bind the bones of the skeleton with leather straps, woven around the body in such a patter they the resembled muscles and tendons. The straps were secured to metal bolts punched into the skeleton's joints. The skeleton looked like it had seen a great deal of service: many of its bones were chipped and its numerous fractures were bound with sealant and foul-smelling glues.
"Hmmmm. Wonder if this graybeard would mind if I borrowed his body…"
"Graybeard?"
"Graybeard… you know, geezer, old feller, yellow dog… old."
"Well, I don't think he's in any position to object. Why not take his body?"
Morte studied the skeleton for a moment, then shook his head. "Nah… I'd need a fresher one than this. And something with a little more dignity… this one's all creaky and fractured."
"And you're not?"
"Oh, you're a sackfull of laughs." Morte glared at Him. "Besides, YOU'RE one to talk, berk. Mirrors beg for mercy when you're around."
He ran his hands over the joint bolts, testing their strength to see whether he'd be able to pry them out.
"Whoa, chief. That's vandalism. Those bolts are probably the only thing holding that bag of bones together. Necromancy only goes so far with these old fellas, y'know?"
"So?"
"Oh, it's not a problem." Morte did a strange bobbing motion that He thought might be a shrug. "Just wasn't sure if you knew that or not. By all means, go ahead.
He pulled at the iron bolts with all his strength, and after a few moments of tugging, He ripped the bolts from the joints. The skeleton collapses, some of its bones still twitching.
"Sorry about that, Bones…"
He ran across the middle of the room, towards a small door to the north, but was stopped in His tracks by an authoritative voice
"Hey! You there, stop!"
The Dustman regarded Him with a stony gaze. "Are you lost?"
"Yes."
"I will summon a guard to direct you out. Hold a moment."
Before the Dustman could utter a word, His hand clamped onto his temples, and He twisted his head sharply to the left.
"Can't have you alerting your friends…"
There was a crack, and the Dustman fell limp in His arms.
"Better you than me, Dustie."
To His surprise, the act seemed instinctual, as if He had done it many times before… with this thought comes the stirring of a memory, but it was not strong enough to surface.
The room to the north was small and round. The cabinets were empty save for a few bandages, but there was a desk that was locked. He forced the lock open and found what appeared to be the corpse of a small fly, a finger bone, 33 small copper coins and some folded Dustman robes.
The corpse of the fly looked like it was frozen; it appeared to be dead, but He wasn't sure. The finger bone had been hollowed out and tiny symbols had been scratched on its surface. He knew he would need to snap it in half to activate it. The robes were frayed and they had an old, musty smell about them. They didn't fit very well and He knew the disguise would not hold up under scrutiny. It was very important, He felt, that no attention was drawn to him.
There was a note in the creases in the robe that he picked up. Someone had penned a series of tasks in red ink.
I would like the Contracted Workers to be inspected thrice-daily, at the end of each work shift when the new Initiates come on duty. We have experienced too many Contracted collapses while engaged in heavy labor as of late, and I fear the embalming enchantments initially used on the corpses may be decaying or may have been warped somehow.
If the contracted workers could be inspected every eight hours and Raised if they have collapsed, then this would prevent the backlog of shells in the Preparation Rooms and free up more Contracted workers for other duties.
I do not wish collapsed bodies to be disposed of; when possible, the original Contracted shells are to be Raised and be made to resume their duties.
I have included spare embalming charms within the shelves for the Initiates on duty. They are to be used only when the shells cannot be repaired with stitching, bandaging, or applications of embalming fluid.
As he continued to walk the perimeter of the larger room, he saw a skeleton that had either seen a great deal of combat or had fallen down one too many staircases; both its arms and legs had been broken and rebuilt with the aid of leather straps and thin iron rods. The front of the skull bore the numbers "863"… but the back of the skull had caved in, forming an empty cavity. He noticed that someone had taken advantage of this and tucked a rolled up piece of parchment inside the skull.
He slipped the parchment out of the worker's skull – oddly enough, it looked as if the skull cavity was intended to store messages; a tiny string was attached to the parchment from a hook bolted inside the skull, as if to keep the parchment from accidentally falling out.
He unhooked the string and glanced over the parchment – it looked like a reminder from one of the Mortuary custodians. Judging from the note, the skeleton seemed to be a walking messenger of sorts. As He took a second glance at the skeleton, He realized it had stopped in front of the slab because it couldn't figure out how to move past it.
"Sorry about taking that parchment, but I doubt you would have delivered it any time soon."
The rolled up piece of parchment appeared to be some sort of message the skeleton in the Mortuary was supposed to deliver:
"This is the third and last request for the prybar; if it has been misplaced, tell me and I shall go to the Hive market and purchase another. I have no objection to maintaining the Contracted workers, but I've been trying to repair the skeletons, and the bolts are wedged in so tight I can't get them out.
"Also, some of the locks on the storage cabinets on the third floor have become stuck again due to the heat, and I need the prybar to snap them open as well. If the prybar is indeed lost, I will see about procuring the services of a locksmith and having the cabinet locks replaced.
"Your aid in this matter would be appreciated,"
An unreadable signature had been scrawled beneath the message.
To the south He found yet another skeleton which turned to face Him. "42" had been chiseled into its forehead, and a number of its bones, mostly the jaws and the joints, had been bound with leather straps. A black smock was draped over its body.
"I think this is the corpse I had that memory about…"
At the sound of His voice, the skeleton suddenly straightened up. It crossed its arms over its chest, and its fingers hooked into its ribcage.
He crossed His arms over His chest and in response, the skeleton dropped its arms to its sides. The leather cords securing the torso snapped, and the ribcage folded outward like a pair of double doors.
To His surprise, His hand vanished as he reached inside the ribcage… He had a strange feeling it was somewhere else. As He reached inside the ribcage, His hand bumped against an invisible object. It was about the size of a fist and seemed to be attached to the skeleton's spine.
As He pulled the item out, the skeleton suddenly disintegrated, and the iron bolts securing its joints clattered to the floor. Whatever the item was, it seem dot have been the only thing holding it together.
It looked like an unremarkable lump of iron. He couldn't imagine why someone would have hid it inside the ribcage of a skeleton.
As he placed both his hands on the lump of iron to examine it, there was a hssssss, and the metal evaporates, leaving behind a strange dagger, a handful of coins wrapped in a dirty cloth, and two bloody teardrops – these look like they were inside the lump of iron.
A nearby bookshelf contained a collection of junk… small springs, broken bolts and a cracked gear or two. It looked like someone felt that they would be useful one day, but He thought them useless. Nevertheless, he pocketed them and wrapped them in the rag he had extracted from #42.
To the south there was another circular room. The desk inside contained the missing Prybar as well as a note written on a scrap of dry parchment:
"Contact the necromancer responsible for Raising contractual worker 42. I know he's examined the skeleton before, but I cam certain the initial Raising of the body was warped. The worker still responds to commands, but when it has completed a task, it resumes pacing in the same circular patters as it did before.
"Dhall recently informed me that worker 42 exhibited that same walking pattern when it was a zombie decades ago. There may be a soul echo in the marrow or the skeleton's age may have caused the magic animating him to decay. One of the Initiates suggested it may be following an order issued by a higher-ranking Dustman in the past, but I have found no records of such an order.
"Whatever the reason for its behavior, the matter is to be resolved or the worker replaced."
A nearby corpse caught His attention. Its meaty head was clearly severed at some point, and hastily sewn back on. Several different sets of stitching – all in various states of unraveling – seem to indicate that the head was constantly being knocked back off and reattached during the course of its work. A number – "79" – had been cit into its temple, circumscribed by a fanged circle that appeared to have been branded on its forehead.
The fanged circle looked like it was branded on the corpse's forehead long ago, presumably before it died. It might have been a religious icon of some sort, or a rite of passage. He noticed that one of the recesses between the inner 'fangs' had a small triangle within it, as if it had some special significance.
"Hmmm… I wonder if the space between the fangs match the grooves on this copper earring I have…"
The corpse made no reply. It looked like it was too far gone to answer any of the questions.
He pulled the Ancient Copper earring from his pocket. He hooked His fingernail into the third groove from the top and pressed it inwards. As He did, there was a click and the top of the earring snapped open. Not only could he war the earring now, it also looked like there was a secret compartment inside the earring. He shook the earring, but nothing came out. Whatever was hidden in the earring was gone now, though the compartment may add value, as far as merchants were concerned, He thought.
The door to the southwest was sealed shut but the key was kept on a shelf next to it. Security flaws aside, He was pleased that he didn't have to jump through any hoops to find it. The room inside was much like the one he had entered earlier; a large round room with a staircase spiraling down around the edges.
He found himself in the room where he had awoken. To his right was another staircase, apparently leading to the first floor.
"You there, Hold!"
He was getting tired of this…
He saw a stern-looking man in black robes. He was glaring at Him suspiciously. "You – state your business."
"I seem to have gotten turned around in these halls. Are there any guides around who can direct visitors?"
The Dustman frowned. He seemed skeptical. "There are guides that can direct you in the antechamber. Do not wander the Mortuary unescorted."
"Thank you for your assistance. I will go speak to the guide."
He made his way to the northwest, in an attempt to find the portal. As he came around the bend of a long hallway, he saw a set of steps leading to the top of a podium and a bier. He saw a strikingly beautiful ghostly form before Him on the steps; her arms were crossed and her eyes were closed. She had long, flowing hair, and her gown seems stirred by some ethereal breeze. As He watched, she stirred slightly, and her eyes flickered.
"Greetings…?"
Her eyes slowly opened, she blinked in confusion for a moment, as if uncertain where she was. She looked around slowly, then saw Him. Her tranquil face suddenly twisted into a snarl. "You! What is it that brings you here?! Have you come to see first-hand the misery you have wrought? Perhaps in death I still hold some shred of use for you…?" Her voice dropped to a hiss. "…'my Love.'"
"'My Love?' Do I know you?"
The spirit made a begging motion with her hands. "How can it be that the thieves of the mind continue to steal my name from you memory? Do you not remember me, my Love?" The ghost stretched out her arms. "Think…" Her voice became desperate again. "…the name Deionarra must evoke some memory within you."
"No, I'm sorry. My memories are lost to me."
"Then it is as I feared. I am truly lost to you… and what was once an inconvenience for you, you now have the excuse to discard me as you have my memory!"
"I think I feel the stirrings of memory… tell me more. Perhaps your words shall chase the shadows from my mind, Deionarra."
"Oh, at last the fates show mercy! Even death cannot chase me from your mind, my Love! Do you not see? Your memories shall return! Tell me how I can help you, and I shall!"
"Do you know who I am?"
"You are one both blessed and cursed, my Love. And you are one who is never far from my thoughts and heart."
"'Blessed and cursed?' What do you mean?"
"The nature of your curse should be apparent, my Love. Look at you." She pointed to Him. "Death rejects you. Your memories have abandoned you. Do you not pause and wonder why?"
"I'm still trying to get my bearings, actually. What else can you tell me about myself?"
"I know that you once claimed you loved me and that you would love me until death claimed us both. I believed that, ever knowing the truth of who you were, what you were."
"And what am I?"
"You… I… cannot…" She suddenly froze, and she spoke slowly, carefully, as if her voice frightened her. "The truth is this: you are one who dies many deaths. These deaths have given the knowing of all things mortal, and in your hand lies the spark of life… and death. Those that die near you carry a trace of themselves that you can bring forth…"
As Deionarra spoke the words, a crawling sensation welled up in the back of His skull… and He suddenly felt compelled to look at His hand. As He lifted it up and looked at it, he could see the blood coursing slugglishly through His arm, pouring into His muscles, and in turn, giving strength to His bones.
"Wh…"
And He knew Deionarra was right. He suddenly remembered how to coax the dimmest spark of life from a body and bring it forth… the thought both horrified and intrigued Him.
"I… I… I had other questions…"
"What is it you wish to know?"
"I need to escape this place. Can you help me?"
As He was about to ask Deionarra the question, it caught in His throat. It occurred to Him that if He told her He was looking for an escape route, she may feel He was abandoning her. If He was going to ask her how to leave, He would need to be delicate about it.
"Deionarra, I am in danger. Can you guide me to a place of safety? I shall return as soon as I can to speak to you again."
"In danger?" Deionarra looked concerned. "Of course, my Love. I will aid you in any way I can…" She closed her eyes for a moment, and He watched an ethereal zephyr pass through her body, stirring her hair. After a moment, the zephyr died, and her eyes slowly opened. "Perhaps there is a way."
"Yes?"
"I sense that this place holds many doors shrouded from mortal eyes. Perhaps you could use one of these portals as a means of escape."
"Portals?"
"Portals are holes in existence, leading to destinations in the inner and outer planes… if you could find the proper key, you could escape through one of them."
"Key?"
Deionarra paused for a moment, as if attempting to remember. "Portals will reveal themselves when you have the proper 'key'. Unfortunately, these keys can be almost anything… an emotion, a piece of wood, a dagger of silvered glass, a scrap of cloth, a tune you hum to yourself… I fear that the Dustmen are the only ones who would know the keys you could use to leave their halls, my Love."
"Then I shall ask one of them. Farewell, Deionarra."
"Hold a moment… I learned much when I traveled with you, my Love, and what you have lost, I have retained. I have not divulged all that I know to you. My sight is clear… whilst you fumble in the darkness for a spark of thought."
"And what is it your sight sees that I do not?"
"Time itself relaxes its hold as the chill of oblivion slowly claims us, my Love. Glimpses of things yet to come swarm across my vision. I see you, my Love. I see you as you are now, and…" Deionarra grew quiet.
"What is it? What do you see?"
"I see what lies ahead for you. It ripples through the planes, stemming outward from this point. Shall I speak of what I see?"
"Tell me."
"First, I require a promise. Promise me you will return. That you will find some means to save me or join me."
"I… will do what I can."
Deionarra stiffened. She looked as if she was about to say something, then sighed in defeat. "Very well, my Love… as before, I shall have to place my trust in you." She closed her eyes.
"This is what my eyes see, my Love, unfettered by the shackles of time…"
"You shall meet enemies three, but none more dangerous than yourself in your full glory. They are shades of evil, of good, and of neutrality given life and twisted by the laws of the planes."
"You shall come to a prison built of regrets and sorrow, where the shadows themselves have gone mad. There you will be asked to make a terrible sacrifice, my Love. For the matter to be laid to rest, you must destroy that which keeps you alive and be immortal no longer."
"Destroy what keeps me alive?"
"I know that you must die… while you still can. The circle must come to a close, my Love. You were not meant for this life. You must find that which was taken from you and travel beyond, into the lands of the dead."
"Die while I still can?"
"I do not doubt your ability to rise from the dead. I do believe that every incarnation weakens your thoughts and memories. You claim you have lost your memory. Perhaps it is a side effect of countless deaths? If so, what more will you lose in successive deaths? If you lose your mind, you will not even know enough to realize that you cannot die. You shall truly be doomed."
"'Countless deaths?' How long has this been going on?"
"I do not truly know. Except that it has gone on long enough."
"Farewell, Deionarra."
"I shall wait for you in death's halls, my Love." She smiled, but there was only sadness in it. She closed her eyes, and with an ethereal whisper, she faded.
"You back with me, chief? You kind of drifted out on me there."
"No, I'm fine. Do you know who that spirit was?"
"Eh? Spirit?"
"That spectre I was talking to. The woman."
"You were rattling your bone-box with some woman? Where?" Morte looked around, excited. "What did she look like?"
"She was right on top of the bier. Didn't you see her?"
"Eh… no, you just kind of drifted out for a bit there, just stood there, statue-like. I was a little worried you'd gone addled on me again."
"No, I'm fine… I think. Let's move on."
To the Southeast was a large round room, with 4 gigantic skeletons standing at the edges. He approached one. It wore ornate bronze armor. The armor had been bolted onto the skeleton's frame, and a series of elaborate symbols had been carved across the breastplate. He wondered where the skeleton came from; He wasn't aware they made humans that size. The huge blade in its hands looked like it weighed as much as a wagon cart.
The skeleton's intricate bronze armor was riveted onto its ribcage and shoulder blades with a series of iron bolts. As He studied the frame behind the armor, He noticed the same iron bolts were set into the skeleton's shoulder, elbow, pelvic and knee joints. A mass of thick leather cords and heavy knotted ropes ran along the length of the skeleton's arms and legs, woven in such a pattern that they resembled muscles and tendons.
"Hey, how about this skeleton, Morte? Will it do as a body?"
Morte grinned.
"Uh, is that a yes, or…?"
"Oh… sorry." Morte floated up to the head of the skeleton, stared at it, then floated back down, studying the armor and the blade as he descended. "Oh, yes. Yes, yes, I think this'll do."
"I don't know. This thing looks like more than you can handle."
"Then what in Baator did you ask me if I wanted it for, then? Practicing your cruelty skills?" Morte bobbed indignantly. "And after all I've done for you…"
"I was thinking of your safety, Morte. I'm worried attaching your head to this thing would hurt you somehow."
Morte stared at Him for a moment. "What, did we get MARRIED at some point? What's all this 'I don't want you to get hurt' wash?" Morte glared at Him. "If you REALLY cared, you'd find a way to get my head on that giant skeleton's body."
"All right then… give me a second to pry the head off this thing."
As He was about to do so, He suddenly stopped… and His eyes were drawn to the skeleton's armor. Something about the symbols engraved on its breastplate made him pause. If these skeletons were guardians, then disturbing them may… awaken them.
Despite the armor's obvious age, it looked well cared for. It shone brightly, and the symbols engraved on the breastplate seemed to flow in the firelight, shifting slightly whenever He tried to focus on them.
Almost unconsciously, He let His gaze relax as He looked at the symbols. After a moment, the symbols ceased shifting and resolved into a trail of runes that ran up and down the breastplate. Strangely enough, the interlocking pattern of runes reminded Him of chains… and with that thought, He suddenly recalled that these runes were some sort of warding enchantment.
He studied the pattern of the runes as they wove their way across the breastplate. On its most basic level, the runes were a lesser armoring enchantment, but several skull-shaped runes and spherical tracings along the edges of the armor made Him suspect several greater necromantic and warding enchantments were woven in as well. Touching the skeleton would most likely cause it to awaken… and defend itself.
He suspected that marring the rune pattern along the breastplate could unravel the enchantments, but it looked difficult… the pattern was complicated, and scratching out the wrong portion could cause the skeleton to animate.
He marred the runes maintaining the warding enchantment first, then worked backward through the rune pattern, canceling the necromantic, then the armoring enchantment.
The work was difficult and nerve-wracking at first, but slowly, His mind began to focus, and the runes began to unravel beneath His attack. Within minutes, the giant skeleton had been stripped of the enchantments binding it. It collapsed, falling to the floor with a crash of bones and a heavy clanging noise.
"Damned pile of bones…!"
He waited for a moment, but no one responded to the sound. Moving quickly, He sifted through the skeleton's parts on the floor. Most of it was too heavy or too old to be useful, but He discovered a piece of the skeleton's breastplate with a majority of one of the broken enchantments engraved on it. He had a feeling that it could prove useful.
Rather than tamper with the other three skeletons, He instead made His way out of the central chamber and into the Memorial Hall once again. To the Northeast was the portal He had been told about by two separate people. He walked in that direction for several minutes, feeling every inch of the outside wall. Eventually, he was caught of his card by a swirling blue gate that tore into reality mere inches from his face. He hesitated for a moment, but He soon realized that his options were few. Bracing himself, He stepped into the swirling vortex.
The Mortuary room lay quiet and still. The slab, having once borne a man who was a fugitive from death, was still warm. The shadows gathered, flickering in the dim light, stretching and shrinking to form several humanoid figures. They gazed upon the slab and hissed; their bounty had fled.
He found Himself in a small room with almost no light. Looking around, he realized it was a crypt, with a sarcophagus in the center. The sarcophagus appeared to have been there for centuries. There was no lid… the exterior seemed to be made of solid stone. He was exhausted from the ordeal and, after deciding that the threat was far behind, felt comfortable making camp. Neither He nor Morte had anything that could pass for food, but as He was not particularly hungry this did not worry Him. He did, however, wonder whether this lack of hunger was due to His immortality, or because He may have been exceptionally full when He was interred. As He made a part of the floor slightly less uncomfortable, He stumbled across a small pile of coins and a note. Taking the coins, He noticed that the note had been written with remarkable penmanship upon the finest parchment:
Vaxis,
If you are reading this, then you have undoubtedly failed in your task and have been forced to use the escape route I arranged. I told you that your little disguise idea was ridiculous. In any case, you'll need to lay low for a while. The Dustmen may be deluded, but they are not fools, and they will certainly seek retribution for our intrusion. I've left you some coins. Use them to secure a hiding place in the Hive, preferably in Ragpicker's Square. The Dustmen will be unwilling to look for you there.
Once you have secured a new hiding place, I have a new mission for you: find out where Pharod is getting those bodies he's delivering to the Mortuary. It's apparently causing the Dustmen a great deal of upset, and I wouldn't mind knowing myself. Reports are that that stone-faced Dustman at the Gathering Dust Bar – Initiate Emoric, I think the fool's name is – Has been sending out finders to try and mark Pharod's movements. See if you can find out how far along he is and hinder his efforts until we know more about Pharod's activities. I don't want Emoric finding out something before we do.
Penn