[Look… finally, an UPDATE! Hail me ^.^ yeah, time for more of this crap story. That's okay. Mordi is the best. The only reason I'm continuing this story is because of the reviewers and Mordi. Yehp.]

Marisa had just taken a dip in the river, and began vigourously trying to clean all the grit and sweat off her skin, shivering the whole time. It was the beginning of summer, and the water was still ice cold from the spring melt.

"You look pathetic," Roger chortled, before yowling as he was hit by a very large wave of water that had been launched with amazing accuracy. Sulking, fur dripping, the soaked cat stalked off to a patch of sun and began to clean himself off. He muttered several things the whole while, but his mouth was so full of fur Marisa didn't know what he was saying.

Marisa chuckled and waded ashore, and promptly began toweling herself off. She then began to pull her rather odd assortment of clothes on. She stopped paying attention several times, that being a habit of hers, and continually woke herself up to discover she was putting her sock on her hand. Once she finally managed to put everything in the proper place with minimum damage, she posed for Roger.

"How do I look?"

"Like a very wretched necromancer," he answered sourly, because Marisa went for the look with a passion, "Where's your sword?"

She immediately buckled it on, "Here."

"Dagger?"

"Here."

Roger grinned, "Bell bandoleer?"

"Her– ah, shit…"

Marisa stood still for several minutes, then began to routinely tear her camp apart in the most strangely organized manner possible. It suggested, quite frankly, that she had done something of the sort before.

"Mordi!" she wailed while she worked; she didn't expect him to answer, "what have I said about hiding Marisa's bandoleer?"

The necromancer started to mutter and ramble some things, which were not entirely the easiest to comprehend, but it was quite close to He better not have buried it again, took me hours to dig it up last time, silly mutt, won't listen to anything I say…

It was that about that time something planted their supernaturally strong paws on her back and knocked her down. She screamed, then immediately calmed. For one thing, screaming was not a good way to get Mordi to stop licking her. Secondly, Roger was snickering too much and she didn't want to give him something else to laugh about.

Mordi was quite pleased about getting to his Mistress so soon. He needed to tell her (Or at least use sign language, or something – as should already be known, Mordi can't talk) about those neato wagons, and the horsies, and the jars.

The Mordicant seemed to think that in order to achieve this, he was to tackle Marisa and administer as many licks as possible to the back of her head, therefore destroying what time Marisa had used to clean her too long and difficult hair in a few minutes.

"Grooooss…" the necromancer gagged, and began to push Mordi off. Her half-dried, frizzy hair was now sticking in all directions, with a liberal amount of Free Magic drool, dirt, blood and bog clay mixed with it. Roger laughed some more and sauntered over to see what Mordi had brought back.

The black cat nudged Merle with his nose and sniffed at him. He had no Charter Mark, which meant he couldn't test it. Well, Roger couldn't test it anyway… Charter Marks seemed to burn him. Pleased by the man's lack of Magic, he poked and prodded and fell asleep on Merle's back. After all, he happened to be a cat.

Marisa got to her feet and began to brush herself off. Mordi darted around her, bounding this way and that, its thin tail energetically swinging back and forth. To his credit he didn't step on Roger. Unfortunately.

"Stop!" Marisa ordered. It didn't seem to work. She rolled her eyes and said again, quite clearly, "Sit."

Mordi sat. He was a good boy.

His tail kept thumping, though.

Marisa straightened her waistcoat, "Now, then, what have you brought me, Mordi?" she asked rhetorically (he couldn't answer anyway). She frowned, eyes narrowing.

"I don't go with Hands, Mordi," she scolded, "I don't need a dead body."

Roger opened an eye. "Call yourself a necromancer!" he scoffed, "Can't even tell the difference between a dead body and an unconscious boy!"

She sniffed in a dignified matter, "I've had very little practice with this sort of thing." She nudged Merle with the toe of her boot, causing Roger to jump off from his comfortable perch, "Wakie wakie, peachy lankie."

"That made no sense. At all." Roger stated.

"Silence, peon!"

Merle groaned.

That, and not Marisa's command, silenced everyone… until Mordi predictably whined.

Marisa absently patted Mordi on the head, eyes still fixed on her new companion. She had noticed something.

'Say," she remarked, "he's cute."

"Humans," Roger said in disgust.

She flapped her hand at him and he jumped away from Merle, hissing. She ignored the cat and crouched at the human's side, scratched her nose, and poked him again. Marisa wasn't the medical sort. The people she dealt with the most were already dead, anyway. She knew the body parts, certainly, but not how to make them work. Mostly just how to make them stop working was her specialty.

"Hey, hey," she said softly.

Merle groaned again and stirred. He opened one hazel eye and peeked up at the necromancer. His blurred vision made him think, for a moment, that he had been rescued by a beautiful woman; but then he focused on Marisa and stifled a sigh after the realization that she was just a normal-looking, if strangely pale, girl hit him.

Pah. Maybe next time.

"You okay, buddy?" said Marisa.

Merle seemed to remember what had happened. He bolted into an upright position, terrified, before sagging back to the ground; his action had caused for him and Marisa's heads to knock against each other.

Mari rubbed her head, wincing, "Smart one, buddy."

Merle tried to struggle upright again, "Where's the demon?!"

"Er…" Marisa blinked, rubbing her forehead and attempting to focus on her new friend, "if you're talking about my dog, he's over there."

She pointed, and he turned to look. Mordi was flouncing off in the distant fields, yipping happily, trying to get his lady's attention.

"Sorry if he scared you," she apologized, hastily. Dark necromancer or not, she still had manners.

The former mercenary edged away, considering her. Other than the fact she kept and controlled a demonic something, she wasn't too threatening.

Marisa stood up. "Mordi!" she barked, "Mordi, you silly ass little mongrel! Where are mommy's bells?"

The Mordicant ran up to her, joyous at being told to do something, and began to snuffle around camp. The necromancer followed at a slow pace. Merle just sort of sat there, a bit dazed, and unwilling to run in the fear of getting chased down and brutally killed.

Well, he was probably going to be brutally killed anyway… but Merle wasn't a fan of exercise.

Mordi let out a little yip of triumph and appeared from under a clump of bushes, dropping the bell bandoleer onto the ground at Marisa's feet. She sighed. Well, at least the drool-covered leather would match her ruined hair.

Her dog nipped at her heels and whined as she put it on. Merle wasn't too surprised at the revelation that Mari was a necromancer – in fact, it was expected – but his heart still sank.

"What is it, honey?" she asked, watching her mutt romp around. It snuffled the earth and barked imploringly.

She sighed. "Goody, time for the cliched, expected, 'follow the Mordicant' sequence, eh?" she paused, and looked past the bemused Merle at someone else, "Keep an eye on him, will you, Roger?"

He whipped around, expecting to see another man; instead, he saw a cat.

The cat stalked over, curled up at the boy's feet, and said to Mari, quite clearly, "Wench."

*

Marisa hummed to herself while she skipped along after Mordi. The creature was zigzagging away in front of her, in the manner of all dogs, snuffling for any signs of life. Marisa was too busy trying to get all the clay and blood and drool out of her hair to notice anything about her surroundings until Mordi barked.

Up ahead were several wagons, with horses still tethered. The light of the setting sun glinted on the silver buckles on the animal's tack and caused her eyes to smart.

"Good boy, Mordi," she murmured in praise, peeking into the middle wagon. Inside were clay jars, several obviously having been knocked over by the Mordicant.

Dead bodies were everywhere. Marisa didn't notice the stench; the only notice she gave was that the place was a mess, and she tut-tutted while heaving a few people out of the way.

She stared. Inside the wagon was a trove of things all female necromancers adore – spices, dried fruits, silk, clothes, weapons, and even a harp. Okay, not just necromancers… females in general.

The harp caught her interest, probably because it sparkled. She carefully stepped over the mess of jars and picked up the instrument. In the darkness of the wagon the silver gilded wood glowed (see? It was the glittery-ness of the whole construction). She traced the Charter Marks for light and sent them to the ceiling, wanting to inspect the work of art.

The silvery strings hummed softly as her hands brushed against them, even though it obviously wasn't in tune. It sent a hum of whispering into the still air, magical; her skin tingled.

"Excuse me!"

Marisa stood up and almost dropped the instrument in her shock; instead, she clutched it and edged to peek outside the wagon. She blinked.

Standing there was… a very beautiful man. He was tall, slender, and golden-haired; the evening light shone on his alabaster skin, and that same glow made his large eyes sparkle like the beads threaded into his hair.

She lost her voice, just staring at his splendour, before she found it again ten minutes later. Throughout it all, the man didn't even flinch.

"Hi." She said.

He pointed to the harp in her hands, "That's mine."

"Oh." She glanced down at it, a fold appearing between her eyebrows, before she looked back at him, "is it? I didn't know. Was it stolen?"

"Yes."

She clambered out of the wagon at offered it to him, "it's very pretty," she gushed.

Usually, she wouldn't have acted like that, beautiful man or no. Yet her advanced senses tingled; the magic of the harp and the man melted together to form something very beautiful, and very natural; like the magic of the sea and air. "There you go."

"Nice dog," he remarked as he took the harp, nodding to Mordi.

She turned to see her Mordicant romping about in the fields, which was a mistake. You never, no matter what, turned your back on strange, magical characters in stories like these.

She turned, and predictably enough, there was no beautiful golden-haired elf-like man.

"Ah, shit." She said, regretfully, "I forgot the Storybook Rules."

Bad Marisa.