Time passed. The people of Farheim grew to know their new Defender as a reliable, if mysterious man of action and principle. Though there were some who withheld their praise from him so long as they could not see his face, they appreciated his efforts in town regardless. He was known as a tireless helper, a kind and patient laborer who would appear at any time of day to reply to the passing, menial posts made at the Defender’s Guild. His presence and persistence inspired more of the locals to put up their jobs, no matter how small or stupid, in the hopes of receiving his aid for the smallest stipend.

No one would call him a “hero” for what he did, including himself. He was basically a freelancer. Not even that. He was a neighborhood errand boy. He was one lawnmower short of doing that for extra cash to earn enough money over the summer to buy a new bike before school started - that’s what he was doing. He realized it some time ago but soldiered on for his own sake. And for the sake of avoiding the Blackwoods.

His antics also earned him a few accolades from his fellow Guildmates who came to accept him as a suitable “board cleaner”, taking off all the jobs from the board they didn’t want to do and were sick of looking at. Anything that wasn’t skeletal in nature wasn’t worth the pay in their minds. He was the best new recruit they’d ever seen and hoped he stayed that way forever.

He also got on some people’s nerves. Foul names circulated, as well as rumors. He was called half-Tart for his clothes, Runaway for his cowardice of ever returning to the Blackwoods, and Faceless for obvious reasons. After so many days, he still hid himself from view and showed no signs at all of remanding that. It grew on people’s nerves. Small conspiracies were born to steal a look at his face while he slept or while he was out doing tasks, but they bore no fruit. After a similar rumor of him being able to jump a tree’s height spread, physical altercations were taken off the proverbial table. And another curious thing the Guilders started to notice: he never slept.

Night after night, Ozzy went on patrols for the town militia. They gave him a lantern and a path to walk in a wide perimeter around town. He was on an opposite track of orbit as another guard who was posted on a donkey-drawn cart to keep the land under observation from one end of the prairie to another. He would be given reports on previous threats, things like wolves or rare unknown person sightings, and compensation for his time in the amount of 5 Stolids per night.

Ozzy’s night walks became his substitute for rest. Nothing ever happened. As long as he held his light up high it was clear that the town was being well guarded from whomever, or whatever, wanted to take advantage of the dark. The lantern was made of thin plated iron, just a bit too heavy for him to one-hand, and had a frame on the front that folded inward like a camera shutter that focused the light into a beam, like a weak penlight.

Ozzy spent that time alone to look at the stars and think. He thought of good things, mostly. He reflected on his day and the good deeds he’d done, and reviewed the dangerous and sketchy things which happened to him as well. All while he stayed awake, never sleeping, for the fear of what that sleep might bring to him. With all that work and his earnings collected he was able to finally move on from at least one of his grim nicknames. He requisitioned the Guild office for some equipment, paid a fee for transportation, and after a week his new apparel arrived.

Ozzy’s new outfit started with a long sleeved shirt, which he stuffed with fresh hay replaced almost daily as well as fallen thatch from roofs and other detritus. On top of that he acquired a thin-ringed chainmail. The added weight reduced his jumping power by a bit and made him feel like he had a regular human body again. On top of that he wore a forest-green tunic that completely concealed his armor. He used some of his old garb, which was full of unsightly holes that ruined its unique exotic value, as partial stuffing for his arms and legs, but kept two pieces for his dressing. One was the all-around sash that finished the ensemble, which he wore as a sash in the front that tied off into a small cape that hung from his back. The magenta hue clashed nicely with the simple, earthen green.

His legs were covered with thick padded pants, all the less padding for him to do, which also had leather patches sewn into the knee and shins as guards. His boots were thickened underneath in many layers of dried and hardened leather. A fair replacement for the more common rubber from his past life and just as effective, if not moreso, while not being extra weighted. His gloves were thicker as well, and fleece lined on the inside. It gave him a more normal sensation of gripping things or twiddling his thumbs as he often did.

Finally, his head. That was the most important part. Seeing bare bones was something he could excuse, potentially. A trick of the light, or that he was malnourished, he was a starving victim and his ribs were always exposed - maybe it was a bone he just happened to have over his leg that he hid for good luck after escaping the Blackwoods. He had time to construct all kinds of strange scenarios that didn’t conflict with the world culture as he learned about it. But nothing could excuse a skull for a face.

He stuffed his neck with the firmest kind of stuffing, all wrapped in spare cloth that he found or earned as side payments for his work, and made a sort of neck brace that he hid under a full-head cowl which was tucked under his tunic. That part, too, was layered with a skullcap underneath to give the appearance of hair and extra skin. His face remained covered from all sides by his veil, the other part of the outfit he refused to discard, which hung around the inner hem of his cowl-tight wide-brimmed hat. It was a gift given to him by an old militiaman as thanks for replacing him on night patrols. Like a musketeering had that had seen better days, and a spot in the side for a feathery plume to be inserted.

With his rapier holstered at his side, he looked one faint step closer to being a hero. Like a portrayal of a swashbuckling hero on an underfunded 1930s B-movie set. But even they were heroes, overacting aside. He felt more human than before. Aside from never eating or sleeping. He started to finally feel like he was where he belonged.

Once Ozzy got redressed, he departed the long-stay room, making it appear as though he took a short nap and woke up in new clothes from those observing. He sometimes took longer intentionally when repairing his old clothes to make it seem like he was sleeping but the illusion was thin. Of all the lies he needed to tell to keep up the appearance of normalcy, he had the thinnest of excuses for his inhuman appetite and energy. But thankfully, he had plenty of outs.

The guild hall was in a middling sort of bustle. Some seats were filled with Defenders planning their routes through the Blackwoods using handmade maps not fit to scale. There were landmarks and trails that ran all through the woods which seemed to change day after day. Some vanished entirely, others needed maintenance over time to keep from degrading wholly. Anything built too deep into the woods, nearer to the lichyard, rotted within hours. Markings on trees turned to curled knots in the wood which then flaked off the bark like scabs on the tall trees. But through much trial and error the seasoned adventurers managed to get a methodology to their invasions.

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Ozzy went to the notice board first to look things over. It was a bad day for him specifically. The board always had requests, no matter what kind of day it was. If it was empty, the clerks at the desk filled it up with new jobs that were certified and pre-paid to await completion. Anyone from Farheim who wanted work done had to come in and post it themselves, with a promissory note of an award once the job was completed. There were no neighborly errands in sight. It was nothing but requests for skeleton parts. Skulls were worth a great deal more, upwards of 45 Stolids for one that could still chatter and make noise, but the averages always stayed the same for random body parts.

Not his scene. He wanted to keep things slow. He didn’t even need the money anymore. He could stay in Farheim until Stormen or Gunn came back to talk him into something else. He never heard tell of either of them returning. Stormen was an advisor for the guild and had to go out training newbies in all their other districts. And Gunn wasn’t actually a member, he was just a wandering storyteller with the build of an SUV. His only other acquaintances of note were Yort and his crew of Stenny and Freid. Failing to find a proper job, Ozzy went to join their table.

“I saw,” Yort said. His female companion, Stenny, was resting her head on her arms and seemed to be completely passed out. Their new companion Freid wore a simple bandana mask that covered his nose and face with swept back hair and wore dented plate armor over his clothes all the time. “No jobs for you today, huh Ozzy?”

“Seems that way,” Ozzy said with a sigh. “Although, after getting this new armor I’m not sure what I’d do with any more. I still have patrols, though. I need to rest before the evening.”

Yort hit his hand against the table. It was loud enough to get a quick KKKKKHHHHH out of Ozzy but not hard enough to rock Stenny from her nap. “Y’know, those odd jobs aren’t really what we’re here to do, right?”

“I know,” Ozzy said. “It’s just…hmm. I’ll admit there’s no good excuse I can give you as to why I’d rather not go out hunting skeletons. Aside from just not wanting to do it.”

“Then what’s that armor all for?” he asked. Ozzy just nodded, accepting that he had no defense against Yort’s upcoming admonitions. It took the fun out of Yort’s friendly bantering, and he stopped short of starting a proper lecture. “What’d help, I think, is you showing your face.”

“I can’t,” Ozzy said, plainly.

“Yeah,” Yort nodded. “Apart from that you have the stuff. Stormen thought so, at any rate.”

“He also gave me room to improve,” Ozzy said. “Which I’ve been doing, little by little.”

“You’ve been training out all night?”

“Sometimes,” Ozzy admitted. He tapped his hand on the hilt of his sword. “It gets boring in the dark so I try to…figure it out.”

“It’s not a damn puzzle box,” Yort said. “You point the sharp end at danger and thrust.”

“Skeleton’s don’t break that easy,” Ozzy said. “And there’s way more places to miss. In that case I’m better off using the hilt as a hammer, but it’s too light for that.”

“You know what it would be good against?” Yort said. “It’s another bad answer, but there’s a town up north opening a station as part of a fortress town that borders on the Pollerlands. If you wield a sword good for flesh, may as well go chasing flesh worth finding.”

“I’ve never killed a person before,” Ozzy admitted.

I can barely bring myself to think of killing a skeleton with a human-like personality. Except Marrowbane. But then, I can’t bring myself to think about how to kill him at all.

“Yeah,” Yort nodded. His distant dourness made Ozzy think he had the same sentiment. He was lackadaisical and curt when it came to skeletons. And most other people of other regional denominations. But when it came to actual violence he seemed to be on the softer side.

The doors of the guild hall suddenly burst open. That wasn’t too abnormal, just a little alerting. Ozzy tensed up in his seat but didn’t fully jump. What came through the doors was shocking. A full procession of about eight people all dressed in bright, ivory-white military regalia rimmed with spiky frays and fins as decoration. They held spears tip up which had banners attached that displayed a proud sigil of a dragon shouting skyward as a Z-shaped bolt crashed through and split it in twain. The symbol of the Zandan people, which Ozzy learned in secret.

The procession of spearmen made an honorary hall for yet more people to enter through, starting with a man of great importance. His armor was the same but he also donned a cape with black edges and the same symbol upon it, wide and unfurled like a flag. Behind him were two women in cloaks which simultaneously filled out to spread their figures and hugged them at the hips and chest beneath wide drooping hoods. The leader had a mane of hair that started just above his brow and widow-peaked up past his ears, then fell full down like a hedgehog mullet. He had a face fixed in an expression of zealous madness, wide eyes and a grimacing mouth framed by hair so black and sharply cornered it looked like it was drawn on with ink that spilled down in three spikes off his chin and froze mid-air.

“Hear ye!” the man commanded. The room settled and turned to the intrusion, mostly with irritation and confusion. “All ye layabouts and undoers - hark! The Blackwoods calleth! A crusade has thus begun from our homeland into thine, a march upon evil which seeks to ruin our world forever. Thy progress has been seen by the Holy Estate as lacking, and thus have we been called upon to this frontier land to bolster and empower your meager cause against the dark forces of the Unmaker!”

“Okay,” someone shouted. “The woods are down the hill - can’t miss ‘em.” The rest chuckled. The Zandanian man looked beyond perturbed. Downright villainous to the jestful chides. One of his priestess’ in tow gave him quiet, encouraging words from behind and he calmed himself.

“Your customs are known to us,” he continued. “But I, Knight Captain Gallant of the Zandan Holy Reclaimers, hath seen fit to compromise this great cause with compensation, as drawn from the coffers of the Holy Estate itself. Thus have I produced this proclamation to ordain they means of business.”

He held out his hand. One of the knights put his spear away in a flashy, orderly manner and replaced it with a scroll. He bowed and handed it to the waiting hand then returned to position one mechanical step at a time as the captain unfurled the scroll that was the full length and half the width of the posting board.

“In the effort of the call to aid in the lands of Renelac under King Eustace von Vahm, and rouse support of the local populace who are fairly well practiced in such sort of combat, the Holy Estate is hereby to commission aid from the Defender’s Guild as a special workforce to construct a Holy Rampart at the bordering lands of the area of dark confinement known as the Blackwoods where the great Unmaker has been sealed away. Assistance in the construction shall be paid as 10 Stolids per day, per worker, with a maximum allotment of 25 heads. From then, roles of maintaining the fortress and hunting the abominations of the land shall be offered at 15 Stolids per day with bonuses available for each body brought in and rendered destroyed under rites performed by the Holy Estate ritualists. Further, the proof of eradication of the unique Ruinous Creation known as the Walking Graveyard shall be awarded to a total of 1,000 Stolids -.”

Cheering immediately interrupted the man’s long proclamation, which he continued in spite of it. He turned to nail his job onto the wall, making it a permanent fixture of the job board from then on out until the work was finished. Everyone wanted that money, and it came in so many forms. Money for building, for working, for operating as free agents of a foreign government assisting with a tenuous alliance against dark forces - and of course, the big reward, enough to buy land and live on it for tens of years at once. All for the head of Marrowbane.

Everyone was excited to get started. Except for Ozzy.

Where other saw a massive opportunity, he saw an empty guild hall.

He saw the ruins of the building pressed flat into a mountain of destruction in a world of dust and darkness…