The dark stain, vaguely shaped like a woman, transformed into a more picturesque figure. Translucent with shades of black and white, the newly formed girl that stood before me was a ghostly knock off of the pale white Mizrah Kest. Though there were a few poignant differences, soulful black eyes, thin white hair cut at the shoulder, and a body shape more lean than curvaceous. Shadows draped around her like an evil wizard’s robe.

“Well?” the woman asked, in a more normal sounding voice than the hissy inquiry of before.

Having gone from puddle to ghost gave her more realness and that had extended to her voice. Interestingly, the language she spoke reminded me of Italian, but with a lot of “u’s” and “m’s”. I realized that my implanted knowledge of Zu-Rakan was automatically translating her euphonious sounding words for me.

“Agghhh,” I moaned, throwing my hands in the air. How could I explain why I was there? I didn’t know the answer to that myself. To give her some clarity, I pointed to my mouth and mimed talking without making a sound. First impressions were important, and she now knew I couldn’t talk. Barring that, she probably thought that I was developmentally challenged.

We exchanged glances for a few moments, each studying the other. I considered taking off the skull mask to prove to her I wasn’t a priest of Thalzaxor, but with the skeleton knight in the room, that seemed a grave risk. Instead, I’d just have to endure that skeptical look.

A slight gleam in the bloody torchlight reflected over her chest area, and I saw that under the shifting darkness was a thin silver chain wrapped repeatedly around her torso. The metal links had a lock shaped like Thalzaxor's masked image at their center.

Staring at the symbol, besides making me come off as a sleazeball, sent a mental prompt similar to the one I had when I took control over big and boney. Right after the telepathic tingle, the shadowy woman stiffened.

“So, you’ve come to take me as a slave? Is that it? I should have known your debased god would never keep his word.” She said, curling her lips in distaste.

I held up my hands in protest, trying to make what I hoped was the universal body language for “chill dude”. Unfortunately, a byproduct of me wanting her to stop the salacious accusations sent a subconscious command for her mouth to clamp shut. Her eyes flared black in anger and her shadowy nimbus started flickering in the air in palpable agitation.

Following up that order, I sent another one for her to speak her mind.

“You worm! You wretch! I wish ten thousand deaths upon you and the end of your bloodline! How dare you!? How dare you, after all this time, enslave me! After leaving me here to fade away to almost nothing. I should have never trusted you disgusting brain eaters. You are a maggot and your god is the biggest maggot of all. Why can’t I stop talking? DId you cast some kind of compulsion on me again!? I HATE—”

Please, just relax!

Her mouth closed again, but the hatred in those eyes continued to speak volumes.

I took my finger and wrote in the dust at her feet. “Not a wine drinker.”

Wait, that wasn’t what I was trying to say. Zu-Rakan hieroglyphs were hard to draw, even when I knew what they were supposed to look like.

Trying again, I wrote, “Not monkey worshiper.” Then “Not monkey worshiper.” She still didn’t look like she got it, so I drew a picture of Thalzaxor’s skull mask, then I X’d it out.

“You write like a child,” she said, looking over my art with her head tilted right. I’d happily take confused and dismissive over the shit flinging hurricane of rage I’d just endured.

Knowing my handiwork wasn’t up to par for this conversation, I channeled the bone of the artist whose mask I still wore.

“I’m not a priest. Stole this mask.” I wrote.

“Really?” She had a mixture of emotions. Relief, then fear, back to anger again.

I nodded my head up and down and gave her a thumbs up and smile for emphasis, pretending this was a friendly conversation.

“I demand you release me at once,” she said, without missing a beat.

“How?” I already guessed the solution to that problem. Really, I just wanted to buy myself some time to think over the implications of letting her go. I mean, as much as I wanted to release her from captivity, I needed to make sure she wasn’t a world ending terror. Unlikely as it was.

“Use whatever you did to compel me to release me.”

Just like I’d suspected.

“Who are you?” I asked in the dust.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

I could see her jaw set, but she still answered. “My name is Rissah Kest.”

Waving my hand in the air for her to continue, I sat on the frozen block of Mizrah Kest.

She started at the casual disrespect of my seating place, but then gave a breathless sigh. I wasn’t about to get that filthy dust on my pants.

“Do you know whose corpse you sit upon?” She asked.

I nodded.

“Mizrah Kest is my great grandmother, and I was one of her handmaidens.”

There was something about the way she confessed her relationship to the vampire queen that made me think things weren’t good. A slight tremble in her voice, and eyes darting away from the corpse, gave the impression that Mizrah wasn’t big on baking Christmas cookies for her granddaughter.

I lowered myself and scribbled, "Slave?"

Still looking at her feet, she nodded. “In all but name. I chose a path of traditional progression, but because I’d formed a core at a young age, she said my talent was too high to squander. That I had to sacrifice for the ‘good of the family’. The witch forced me to become a wraith and serve her.”

“How did you get here?” I wrote.

“What do you plan on doing with me? I’m not answering any more questions until you tell me.”

We both knew that I could force her, and she looked emotionally braced for that outcome. Her eyes carried a sense of defiance that I respected. I knew this moment would dictate how we proceeded.

“Not sure. Need to make sure you aren’t threat.” I answered honestly.

Rissah scoffed. “I am no threat to you, nor that skeletal champion you have under you. I’m barely as strong as you are.”

That was true. I estimated her to be around my level based on her core’s aura.

“What is your plan?” I asked.

“I have no idea! I've been trapped down here so long that I can barely remember my life before. All I want to do is leave her behind once and for all.”

I took a moment to consider how she might have felt if all that was true, but she interrupted my rumination.

“You really aren’t a priest of Thalzaxor? They betrayed me, you know. Killed all the other handmaidens and said that my reward was that I still got to live.”

“Reward?”

She bit her lip. Rissah looked upset about saying too much. I didn’t hold the slip against her; I knew what it felt like to be out of practice talking to others.

“I let them into the tower.” She said, deflating a little at the admission.

I nodded. It made sense, and I’d have done the same thing. What kind of grandma turns their relatives into slave ghosts?

I’m glad you got your brain eaten. Thalzaxor did the world a favor.

Reaching down, I wrote my last question for the interrogation. “Do you plan to hurt me or others if I release you?” I reinforced this last question with a compulsion to answer honestly.

“No dammit! I don’t even know who you are! Everyone I have ever known is dead,” she said, on the verge of tears.

I ordered the lock to release her, and it clattered to the floor without preamble. A second later, the ethereal chains that secured her chest fell away.

“Thank you!” she cried, falling to her knees to give out a sob.

I looked away in embarrassment, afraid to move because I didn’t want her to remember I was still there.

When she got herself together, she stood up and wiped ectoplasmic tears away. “So, are you going to tell me your name?”

“Oran Farrow,” I wrote, then held out a hand for her to shake.

She read the words, then gave my hand a puzzled look. I picked up my ghoul claw and showed a classic handshake.

“You are a strange man, Oran Farrow,” she said seriously.

I gave her a roguish smile.

You have no idea.

⬲

Rosamund was miserable.

None of the precautions the cultists had taken had been enough to ward off the horrific cold. They’d already lost three of their twelve men to the elements alone, and Mansfield was well on his way to losing a hand to frostbite. The only reason she herself hadn’t succumbed was because her clothes had been enchanted for protection against harsh conditions.

If the demon cultists found out, they would have surely have stripped her naked. With the way some of them leered at her, she figured that was only a matter of time, anyway.

The group huddled around a fire magicked into existence by the leader of their unholy band, Algeron. Everyone stank of sweat and worse, despite the freezing cold, but none so much as he.

Rosamund tried to avoid looking at the hideous creature. His skinned face had a dry texture that almost looked like burn scars. She couldn’t imagine what power could be worth the damage Algeron had done to his soul. They were all fools.

Footsteps on the ice drew her attention down the dark, icy maze. As a rogue, her perception was far better than most of the others, and she’d waited and hoped patiently for the right distraction.

Unfortunately, it was Roger, her former bandmate, and scum sucking demon worshiper. Rosamund had learned from overhearing their conversations that the man had been a plant from the start. The cult had been looking for a path to the Ossuary for years, and they’d hoped that Lovina would return with the location. Only, she never came back.

So, they’d devised a plan to send in one of their own along with Mansfield Walsham the diviner. They knew he’d be able to track down his betrothed in the twisted tunnels below the city. And they’d been right.

The last time they resurfaced, Roger had reported his success and the first route they’d found to his superiors. Apparently, they’d already dispatched a sizable group along that path after the death cultists. Algeron’s force had the task of following behind Roger to ensure that no one from her group escaped and to explore from a different entrance. Or, rather, that had been the original goal.

They’d received new orders to find and sacrifice that weird zombie she’d encountered. Somehow, it had foiled their plans by taking out one of the higher-ranking members of their organization. And their demonic master was absolutely pissed.

“My lord,” Roger said, kneeling in front of the seven foot tall cultist.

“What news?” said Algeron, his deep voice making her shudder.

“I’ve found a tower. I believe it is where our quarry rests.”

Algeron’s fanged mouth glowed in the campfire light. “Good, let us end this.”