Ozzy spent all night dressing himself and stuffing his clothes with enough quilt fluff to appear decently well taken care of. He didn’t need to sleep, so he had plenty of time to do it. The sensation of lasting a night without sleep and feeling no tiredness or exhaustion at all brought on a different sensation which he had to reckon with privately, even away from old Ruder.

The full Tartarian ensemble fit Ozzy well. It was flashier fare than he was used to in his previous life, but not quite as elegant and obnoxious as the jewel-laden papal robes of the skeletal priest he incinerated down below. His outfit was in shades between blue and indigo with a few lightly embroidered patches of deep yellow fleuret patterns.

From the top, he wore a stout indigo turban, not quite the floppy round that Ruder had but sizeable enough to hide the fact that he had no hair - or skin - underneath. It added some familiar, if imbalance, weight onto his neck. He tied it under and around his jaw and bundled the rest up behind his head to hide his exposed spine and the stuffing that he put between his shoulder blades.

His face was covered by a veil, all but his eyes, which he took care to make sure were pressed firmly in a fabric squint between the bottom of his turban and the top of the nose-guarding veil. His veil was navy blue and draped down over his neck, but was cinched at the corners to cover his mouth. It was a snug fit, and if the wind was against him it would press against his exposed teeth.

His top was a three-piece uniform in partitions. The first layer, over the fluff he squished between his ribs for substance, was a long wrap. The sarang, as it was, which helped hold his insides in place and wound around his middle like a thick girdle. On top of that he wore a half-slung robe which reached down to the middle of his thighs but only had one sleeve, which he had to tie shut with small leather straps. Like a stitched-together toga. Over that he wore a loose jacket which covered the rest of his padded arms. He tied it down at the elbows and wrists to keep the fabric from exposing his arms beneath.

His pants were loose and baggy and only came down to his shins, which he had to cover up with high boots. He was very much wearing winter-gear compared to Ruder’s summery exterior. Instead of sandals, Ozzy wore thin fur-lined boots that reached up to his knees. They completely covered his feet, and weighed him down. Parts of the boots were furless and worn down, exposing the tanned hide of leather beneath. The soles were new, but also mismatched, like they were recently repaired. In addition to all of that, he helped himself to a pair of gloves from Ruder’s shelves which he filled out with thin wisps of cottony quilt fabric.

He felt complete again, being clothed. It was a familiar feeling, to be covered up and unexposed. But it didn’t dissipate the coldness that surrounded him. No breeze could penetrate his layers of thick cloth or stuffing, so he found it eerie that he could still feel a wind directly against his bones.

Ozzy turned to see what direction the wind came from. In the distance, highlighted like the night sky over a sleepless resort town, was the Blackwoods and the Lichyard deep within. The sky overhead of the inner forest was still gray, but everywhere else it was night.

Hopefully this stops anyone from trying to kill me. Just talking wasn’t enough. But now, I can go back and try to warn people about the danger they’re getting into. About Marrowbane, and maybe, try to keep them from killing Hewfarth. He’s a skeleton but he’s still reasonable. I mean….

Ozzy reflected on his own, brief exposure to the world, and found himself lacking. When he stared at himself through an internal lens, he did not see any depth to his perception. It was remarkably shallow. Crystal clear, enough that he could see his own ghastly skeleton face.

Why were they going there? Surely those people knew the risk. And Ruder is way stronger than he looks. He’s super-competent at fighting. Those three knight-like folks were fearless, even when I started talking it just made them want to fight me more. And those women chased me through the woods for what felt like hours, just shouting and jeering at me. It could be….

Ozzy turned to the rest of the camp. Nothing stirred. All the caravans were closed up and unlit. Only Ruder’s kept a flame for a while but Ozzy doused it out on his leave. Before him was a vast, open stretch of oppressive, directionless freedom. He was free to leave, clothes on his back and identity obscured, to seek out some other purpose in another part of the brand new land. And it would do him no good. He was a stranger in welcome company with Ruder, and a simple faceless stranger to everyone else.

Faceless and skinless, the exact kind of face that someone would never dare forget.

He waited around and wandered nearby, through the grass and on the beaten path, until the sun started to come up. In time, the sky overhead matched the same dim hue of the cursed sky over the Lichyard. The first morning of his new life in the new world was fast approaching.

Ozzy felt a strange pull as he stared headlong into the veiled sunlight. The invisible wind coursed through his back. He felt it whistle through his ribs and flag against his flat shoulder blades. The wind entered in through his spine and exited from his eyes, and it carried his vision along. He felt the silver-blue light within his eyes flare out and extend out of his face a bit.

Then it stopped. The light grew brighter and his vision readjusted to the presence of the sun. The first sunlight he’d seen since his new life began. It was brilliant. The morning clouds gave way to great shafts of light from above.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Am I allowed to be in the sunlight? I know vampires can’t be in sunlight. Is that a general rule for undead? Are skeletons supposed to stay underground because we can’t live in the sun? That would explain the weird, cray clouds overhead but not the -.

A hole in the clouds answered his question. The sunlight didn’t harm him, but the sudden glare cast into his unobservant, skybound eyes did illicit a sudden “KKKKKHHHHH!!!!!” in shock. His startled exhalation stirred the rest of the camp to awaken prematurely, but not too suddenly. They all had to get dressed as well, and Ozzy was familiar with the difficulties of Tartarian wardrobe.

To his surprise, the first man to arise got out just about ten minutes after Ozzy’s exclamation. It was one of the younger, not-quite-middle-aged men that spoke to Ruder the previous night. His face remained unveiled. Ozzy stood at attention as their eyes locked. The man marched over at a brisk pace as Ozzy stiffened up to receive him.

“Stranger,” the man huffed, “you are a guest to us. Would you not introduce yourself?”

“Uh, certainly,” Ozzy said. “My name is Ozzy. I’m….very foreign. From another land entirely. I was camped out in the woods, away from the skeletons, when Mr. - sir - uh, Ruder found me and agreed to help me. He even offered to clothe me.” Ozzy showed himself off, hoping that he made a good impression.

The Tartarian looked his guest over. There was an unavoidable strangeness to Ozzy’s movements. His clothes weren’t quite “fitted” so much as they were “filled”. He could definitely tell something was off, but made no assumptions. What was more important was that he didn’t sense any threat in Ozzy’s presence at all. He had pity for the lost soul, the wanderer who happened upon the lifelong professional wanderers and expected stable living.

“I am Marman,” he introduced. “I’m the courier of our caravan. Has elder Ruder explained what job you’ll hold for us?”

“He did mention that he’d work me,” Ozzy said. “He didn’t mention what, though. I’m grateful for his help so I’m willing to do whatever I can, but I’m afraid to admit that what I can do is a bit limited. Physically.” He made a lifting motion with his arms.

Marman huffed. “Roth will find good work for you,” he said. “Our horses need herding and looking after. And if you can sell yourself out of debt, we’ll look the other way to loaning you those clothes.”

“Ruder said they belonged to someone important,” Ozzy said with a thoughtful eye on his sleeves. “It’s not offensive for me to be wearing this, is it?”

Marman squinted briefly at Ozzy. He thought he was in trouble. Marman’s expression softened as he realized he was talking to someone expressing true ignorance.

“It’s the mask,” he said, motioning to his face. “Do you not know our customs?”

“No,” Ozzy shamefully answered.

Marman nodded. “If elder Ruder allows it, then I will allow it. But know this: the veil is a sign of the traveler, the wanderer, the first who went seeking so the rest could be found. It is what our great ancestors wore, those who led the caravans far out to the East in the plains and fields, who took on no name or identity of their own but to be the shepherd of their people. They chose to give up their own name for the sake of others. Now, we honor that sacrifice with our veils. Only the leaders of our caravans may wear them. It’s a tradition many this close to the laylands don’t adhere to, but we are a story keeping caravan. We respect our past which others do not.”

“I see,” Ozzy said. He felt ashamed, and also very vulnerable. “Um….then I’d be honored if I could somehow work to earn the privilege this outfit commands in your eyes.”

He couldn’t take it off, not even to be nice. There was nothing underneath but teeth and bones. He’d rather be insensitive than outright ostracized and hunted down. Marman seemed willing to overlook it and accepted Ozzy’s sincerity. He seemed a bit off-put by it. He walked away to greet another man who rose out of his own caravan, a shorter man with a more commanding presence who wore saffron red clothes accented by muted amber pants and turban. His head wear was much tighter to his head and had a shiny brass plate in the middle of it.

That man approached Ozzy, who held his position and tried his best to look grateful without real eyes to emote through. The new stranger stopped near Ozzy with a more relaxed, swaying gait. “I am Roth,” he said. He stuck out his hand. Ozzy reached for it timidly, unsure of what gesture was polite or approved, but a handshake was a handshake in any world.

“I’m Ozzy,” he replied.

“I apologize,” he began, pleasantly, “if my partner had unkind words for you.”

“Oh, no,” Ozzy protested. “I am not well versed in your cultural customs. He was just enlightening me.”

Roth held his arms open. “You are Tartarian enough to me,” he said. “Although, maybe a bit too forgiving. We are traders, you see. Our words must be like iron, firm and thick, able to resist the pressure of stabs and slashes and wounding tongues of our competitors.”

“Oh, I see,” Ozzy said. “Marman mentioned selling me out of my debt. I thought he meant….selling me. Or something.”

Roth politely chuckled. “No, my friend. We don’t do that.”

“Of course not!”

“Not in these parts,” he added.

KKKKKHHHHH!!!!!

Roth sensed the immediate tension from Ozzy’s eyes. Though they were dim and hollow, the light within them managed to deliver plenty of expression. He couldn’t see it, but the fabrics around his face did happen to crinkle and warp along with his inner mood, only slightly. The cloth around his skull acted like a thin veneer of false skin and tensed up into slight exaggerated states of his mood.

His turban and veil remained in a state of shocked, teeth-grit surprise as Roth laughed off their exchange and welcomed him to explore their humble camp. He met the horses, greeted the children, saw Ruder awaken at last, and was given a moment to inspect their goods.

There were no signs of cuffs or chains or anything capable of holding a person, and the children were unshackled and free. It relaxed him a bit. Maybe a joke that didn’t quite reach his head but it reminded him of an uncomfortable truth.

These people weren’t in vans or sharing a bus. They were out with horse-drawn carriages. Slavery was, potentially, as common to them as dysentery.