Tyron stalked through his lab, unsure how to feel as he checked on his experiments and scribbled down measurements in his notes. It was promising to note that his tests had been progressing in line with his expectations. Either he was lucky, or he was on the right track.

The work he’d done on the Raise Dead spellform had come a long way as well. In another few days, he would have completed his reconstruction of the conduit magick built into the ritual and already he was confident it would be a dramatic improvement.

An interesting wrinkle was that the bones he had scrubbed clean of any flesh and blood were accruing Death Magick faster than those without. Did the flesh and bone interfere with each other? Or did the decaying strips of matter take in some of the energy, slowing the absorption rate of the bones?

Probably the latter, since a zombie had death attuned energy in its flesh and bones. Although… far more in the flesh. Another thing for him to investigate.

No, his successful experiments and developing research weren’t what was irritating him, but rather his encounter with Filetta two days prior.

Against his better judgement, he had agreed to her suggestion and he wasn’t sure if he was annoyed at himself for going along with it, or with her for the fact that it had worked. To gain race levels as a human wasn’t an overly complex process, one had to form meaningful relationships and interact with others. Humans were, by and large, a very social race, more prone to collective action than other, longer lived species.

That was fine for most people, but for Tyron? He’d always found it difficult to trust others, or engage with them on a level playing field, a trait that had grown infinitely worse after his parents had died. Though he had made attempts to form friendships, such as his association with Vic, but with the many layers of deception placed between himself and others, a true connection was almost impossible to form. As such, he had stagnated, the coveted third class slot just out of his reach, which he needed, since one of his options had been taken by the trio of Dark Ones.

Filetta had proposed a dramatic solution to his problem. It wasn’t necessary to engage in a sexual relationship to level as a human, far from it, but as a method to break down his barriers and get closer to him, it had been scarily effective.

And that irritated him.

Was that all it took to get through to him? Paradoxically, the success of the measure only made him more insecure. When the status ritual had confirmed he had gained a race level, his heart had tried to leap and sink at the same time.

He needed the race levels, but he did not welcome emotional attachment. Not now, not with everything he was trying to achieve.

Surrounded by the dead and darkness within the basement, Tyron sighed. In the corner, he had stashed the bag of bones he’d collected from Filetta’s goons the previous day. He was yet to start work on them. Perhaps when he was done with his current set of remains, he would get to work attempting to shape swords, spears and shields to equip his minions, but for now…

With an irritated grunt, he pushed his notes away and rubbed at his temples. This wasn’t as productive as it should be, he was distracted. Perhaps if he took a little time to clear his head…

Taking his usual precautions, the Necromancer emerged from below ground and moved surreptitiously through the store, aiming to creep upstairs. Some rest, a bit of food and water, would surely screw his head back on right.

As he placed his foot on the first step, he noticed an unusual atmosphere within the store. It was quiet, but more than that, it felt tense. Confused, he backed up and walked around to poke his head through the door to view the shop floor.

Cerry stood, as usual, behind the desk, a forced smile on her face as she fidgeted nervously with the hem of her dress. Wansa sat in her customary place by the door, though her normal, relaxed posture was nowhere to be found. Instead, she was tense, a hand on her weapon as she eyed the lone figure moving amongst the merchandise.

Tyron’s breath caught in his throat and Cerry noticed him, rushing forward and clutching at his sleeve.

“Master Almsfield,” she whispered urgently, “they came in a few minutes ago and the place emptied out in seconds. What do you want us to do? Wansa could kick them out, but I wasn’t sure if you were happy to sell to… them.”

Dust Folk.

This one appeared just as he had read they would, covered from head to toe in thick, rough wraps, stitched with their own iconography. To his magickal senses, they pulsed with a strange and alien energy, something he hadn’t experienced before.

“Don’t worry, Cerry. I’ll talk to them myself.”

The girl sagged with relief before she moved back to her post, appearing far more comfortable now that he had stepped in. With a gesture, he indicated to Wansa to calm down before he moved around the desk and approached the stranger himself.

“Welcome,” he said, speaking a little slowly and enunciating carefully. “This is Almsfield Enchantments and I am Master Almsfield. How can I help you?”

The covered figure turned toward him and he found it disconcerting to be face to face with someone who revealed nothing of their features.

“Fear not, human, I speak your tongue. Do not address me as one of your mewling, little… squishy things. I forget this word… the helpless ones.”

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Child? Or children?”

“Yes, that one. I am not one of your soggy-bottomed children. I speak clearly, yes?”

“You speak our tongue very well.”

“Yes. See. I have to learn, to trade for tribe. Still, it is difficult to buy when so many are unwilling to sell. Are you willing to sell?”

The voice was like nothing Tyron had ever heard. There was a rustling, like sand sliding down a dune, every time they spoke.

“I am indeed willing to sell,” he affirmed, and he heard Cerry peep somewhere behind him.

“That is… unexpected. But good! Yes. There isn’t many who will sell your enchanted trinkets to my people.”

“They are probably willing, but unlikely to do so where others can see,” Tyron noted dryly. “I’m more open-minded, but even so, conducting our business away from prying eyes will be better for both of us.”

“What kind of eyes?”

“... Where people can’t see us. If you wouldn’t mind stepping into the backroom, we can discuss what you need?”

“Ah, yes.”

Tyron led the wrapped figure by Cerry, who trembled on the spot, and into the room in which most of the setting was done. A flat wooden table with several seats could be found there, and he invited his customer to sit.

“Is there a name I should address you by?”

“Kash. Humans and their names. Call me, Shadda, yes.”

“Would you care for any food or drink before we discuss your needs?”

Shadda slashed the air with one hand in refusal.

“No. It is Al’hakash. Forbidden.”

“I apologise, no offence was meant.”

Tyron seated himself, trying not to let his eagerness show.

“So, what are you looking to purchase?”

“Filters, coolers, ovens, purifiers, water sources. Yes. Many water sources.”

Tyron had no doubt of that. The desert to the south in which the Dust Folk made their homes was unimaginably dry, to the point that water enchantments would break down due to prolonged exposure to such conditions.

“You’ll need to be specific about the requirements for each of those,” Tyron noted with a frown. “Almsfield Enchantments specialises in affordable, efficient, low-power options. If you want something stronger, I’ll need to make it custom for you.”

“I noticed your prices, and the cores you use. Frugal? Is this the word, yes? I like this. My people like to make much with little. I have the requirements written in your tongue.”

Shadda reached within their wraps, loosing one strand with a finger, sliding it in and withdrawing a flat, folded piece of worn parchment.

As he reached out to take it, Tyron noticed sand trickling from the page onto his table.

The writing was rough, but legible, and he ran his eyes down the specifics. It was clear that whatever group or tribe Shadda came from weren’t overflowing with resources. None of the enchantments they were asking for were the best available, or even close.

“I can give you what you need. Much of this I have in stock, although if you are willing to wait, I can produce superior versions that should exceed your requirements.”

With not even their eyes exposed, it was impossible to read Shadda’s expression, but he could tell they were interested.

“Why would you do this? I will not pay more than is written, yes? I cannot, since I do not have more.”

“That’s not an issue. There are things I am interested in more than money….”

This was a delicate moment. How to broach this issue?

He rose and approached the door, making sure Cerry wasn’t listening on the other side before he closed it again softly. He turned to see Shadda had risen from their seat, arms folded across their chest.

“What deviant things are you planning? Shadda will have no part in them!”

Tyron blinked.

“What? No! Please be seated! My interest is in magick. Restricted magick. I didn’t want to be overheard.”

“Magick?” Shaddah said doubtfully, still postured defensively.

“Yes,” Tyron slapped a hand to his face as he sat down again. “Magick. There’s a particular type of magick that is much more common in your lands than mine. I am interested in securing knowledge rather than more money.”

“I can be discrete, yes? However, this request is difficult, depending on what you ask for. My people will share some things willingly, others… not so much.”

“I’m mainly interested in construct magick. Your people are known to be incredibly resourceful when it comes to this particular branch of enchanting and crafting.”

As much as he wanted to come out and ask for spellbooks and forms related to Necromancy directly, he didn’t want anything to tie Lukas Almsfield to the undead. Not even loosely.

Shadda folded their arms and leaned back in their chair.

“This… will be difficult. Some things, yes? Some things can be shared, but others? Kash. No. But Shadda can not say yes or no. It is not for me, yes?”

“That’s fine. I’ll complete this transaction for you, as I said, at no extra price. The next time you need to restock, bring back whatever you can. Based on what you have, we’ll see what else I can do for you.”

“I agree,” Shadda pronounced, before they bowed their head over the table. “Chan’rela. This is pleasing. This trade will be good for my people.”

“I hope it is profitable for both of us,” Tyron smiled.

If he could get his hands on something useful from the Dust Folk, it would be another avenue for him to improve his craft. In the desert, they used a number of different constructs, including undead ones, to perform tasks in the scorching heat. Constructs didn’t need to drink, or eat, they didn’t care about the sand winds which cut flesh like paper.

Tyron stood.

“If you return here in two days’ time, I’ll have everything ready for you. If you could do me a favour, though, please arrive after the store closes. It will be easier for both of us if you draw less attention.”

“Yes,” Shadda waved a hand, “I am used to this. I thank you.”

Without another word, the wrapped figure rose and strode from the store. The Necromancer blew out a breath, before he strode back into the store.

“Our client will be back after the store closes in two days, Cerry.”

He looked her in the eye.

“I hope that isn’t an issue.”

She looked like she wanted to say something, but held her tongue.

And just like that, he’d taken on even more work. To deliver on what he had promised, he would need to alter his normal patterns, which meant design work would be necessary. He couldn’t leave this to Flynn.

He stretched and cracked his fingers. It would be a long couple of nights.