It took an enormous amount of self control not to draw a weapon at the sight of so many grissials. There weren’t two of them that looked identical, although the skinless flesh of several hundred grissials was unmistakable in identifying their species.

Their houses were small, wooden huts comprised of sticks tied together with straw ceilings, thick-looking bundles of hay strapped to the roof of each house. The barren ground was devoid of anything alive, an uneven surface of dirt and ridged stones. Harrin could only imagine what would’ve made it look so dead, and the potential answers that came to mind were unpleasant to say the least.

Gnaws and the three grissials carrying the mercenaries’ bodies headed off, leaving them with Too-Many-Backs. Harrin watched them leave, dumping the bodies into what appeared to be a very large pit.

He had a few more concerns about that.

Backs stayed behind Harrin and Senna, gently aiming them towards one of the larger huts. Grissials of every shape and size paused to watch them as they passed, pausing from their activities. Some were tending to fires, roasting meat above the flames, but most were huddled near each other. Half a dozen of them were in the middle of a game based around a ball, but when the ball unrolled to watch as well his confusion mounted further.

Harrin had to admit, he’d never seen a village that was just so… calm. The stares should have ranged from wary to downright hostile, especially for an undead, but here everyone just seemed curious. Granted, they were all grissials, so he supposed they didn’t really fear much.

It didn’t help that everything was so quiet. Only a few of the grissials spoke, a muted murmur in the background, but Harrin had a feeling they were still judging Senna and him.

The building they were heading for was made out of logs, with more set on top to form a ceiling. It appeared to have been built from entire tree trunks shoved into the ground, the tops of which were more or less level. It looked like they’d been cut to the same height. Or bitten.

...The latter seemed more likely, considering his surroundings.

Backs’ grin gradually faded as they approached the log building. It had a door in the side. Unlike everything else in the village, the door was made out of metal.

Backs raised himself, propping one leg on the door, and sharply knocked. The knell sounded ominous to say the least. “Leader-Butcher?” He said, raising his voice slightly. “We found two people who might interest you.”

“Is that so?”

The smooth voice came from behind them. Harrin turned to find another grissial standing before him.

This one was clearly unique. Bipedal, with serrated spines running up its hunched back. Despite the bend, it still towered over Harrin, easily nine feet at a minimum. It had long, thin arms tight with muscles, hideous claws protruding from its seven-fingered hands. What stood out the most to Harrin was a feature which he never would have thought unusual; namely, that it had eyes. Four of them, haphazardly set at seemingly random points on the front and sides of its head, each one a different size and color. It also had noticeably less teeth than the average grissial, from what Harrin had seen.

Backs nodded, indicating Senna. “She keeps the skeleton alive.”

Harrin stiffened. He didn’t remember Gnaws telling Backs about it, and while his life before death was a blur, he had no qualms about his memory. Was there some way they could communicate without speech?

He dismissed the question as soon as it occurred to him. Of course they could, there was an entire village’s worth of grissials present. There was no way they didn’t have some method of talking to each other without voices.

Leader-Butcher — a horrifying name if Harrin had ever heard one — keenly stared at Senna. She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, and after a moment, his eyes slid over to look at Harrin.

He immediately knew why she’d been uncomfortable. He had no idea which eye he was supposed to make contact with, but all of them examined him with a clarity and intelligence he hadn’t been expecting. It was as if he were at the opposite end of a telescope, aware that every detail was being taken into consideration without the luxury of identifying the viewer.

“Name yourself,” The Leader-Butcher eventually stated. His voice was quiet, but held a worrying bite.

Startled, Senna flinched, stammering to introduce herself. “I-I’m Senna Falton. This is Harrin.”

The grissial nodded, absorbing the names. “I am Leader-Butcher, but to you…” His eyes narrowed. “You will only call me Butcher.”

Harrin’s hand itched to draw his sword, any of his swords, every instinct in his possession screaming that this creature was a threat of the highest degree. Only sheer force of will and the knowledge that death would be immediate stayed his hand.

Butcher inclined one hand towards the log building. “Come.”

There was no other instruction or explanation as he opened the metal door. The inside was almost pitch-black, the only light coming from the open doorway. It startled Harrin until he remembered most of the grissials were eyeless.

Senna hadn’t come to the same conclusion, if her wide eyes were anything to go by. “I-I don’t want to.”

Butcher stared at her with those mismatched eyes, and she quailed under his gaze. She walked in, and Harrin followed.

Butcher closed the door as he entered, diving the room into absolute darkness. Harrin heard Senna’s breath hitch and put a hand on her shoulder, giving her a brief squeeze. As he’d noted in the graveyard, he could still see even without light, although there wasn’t any color. The green glow in his own eye sockets was the only source of light, and it illuminated nothing.

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He took the time to examine the room a little better. There was no throne or imitation thereof, contrary to his expectations. There wasn’t any furniture at all. Instead, the entire floor was made from four meticulously carved pieces of stone, gently angled towards the center of the room. A grate sat in the center, allowing for liquids to be drained through.

It took a moment for Harrin to realize how worrying that was.

A small container occupied the corner of the room. Whatever it was made from, it had been put back together with rope or vines so many times that the original material was invisible, if there was any left. The barred door holding it shut had plenty of gaps, through which Harrin could see a maw of teeth. A grissial?

Butcher moved over to the grate in the floor and hunched next to it. “Meatweaver,” He said softly, his voice unexpectedly gentle. “We have guests.”

Harrin stared at him, subtly resting a hand on his rapier’s pommel, ready to shift down to the hilt at a moment’s notice. He knew it wouldn’t make a difference if he tried to use it, but it was comforting regardless.

Blood began to seep upwards from the grate, hair-thin strands of crimson rising between the gaps. A trickle turned into a rush as more of the liquid flowed into the air, collecting and coagulating into a rough shape.

Butcher offered a hand to the amorphous blob, blood still floating to join it, and a hand formed. A delicate limb took shape even as Harrin watched, accepting Butcher's hand.

Butcher began to dance, slow, careful steps across the floor. The blood followed, more of its shape taking form as he did. One hand turned into an arm, which then turned into two, and then four. An angular torso, mottled by muscles not yet in their right places. A pair of long, thin legs, levitating only inches above the ground even as they both danced, still in that serene, precise movement.

Bones rose from the grate, sliding between the holes and seamlessly integrating themselves into the bloodied shape. Harrin watched as triangular shards went through the forming person's limbs, ending in a singular, neat row of perfectly fitted teeth upon the lower curve of an angled head. A pair of long, curved bones hovered above, like a broken halo.

Harrin couldn't help but feel uncomfortable. This felt private. He suddenly understood the purpose of the absolute darkness blanketing the room, and mild embarrassment accompanied the realization.

The grissial whom Butcher had called Meatweaver finished taking shape as a breath was drawn into lungs that didn't need breath, and the teeth turned into an eyeless smile.

Butcher and Meatweaver continued the dance for several more seconds, and then spoke. Harrin could barely hear them.

Meatweaver whispered, "How are you?"

Butcher's face curved in an unmistakable smile, slowly spinning her in a circle. She was still levitating, making no noise or effort to resist. "I am well. Was your torpor restful?"

Dipping beneath his arm, she rose to rest her forehead on his, and Butcher's eyes closed. "It was."

Butcher pulled away slowly, open eyes staring at her face. "We have guests, Weaver."

She - for the grissial was undoubtedly female - turned to face Senna and Harrin with a muted sigh. "Hello, guests." She said in a louder tone, discarding the whisper she'd been speaking in.

Senna didn't react at all, and Harrin suddenly remembered her hearing was impaired. Raising a hand, he gave them a tentative wave.

Meatweaver lacked eyes, but she still followed his movements. "A skeleton?" She muttered.

Butcher nodded. "It possesses will. The girl keeps it alive."

A crease formed on her forehead, then cleared. "She is a necromancer."

Alarm spiked through Harrin. They weren't humans, but they still might've had a negative disposition towards necromancers and their arts.

Meatweaver floated towards them, staying only a few feet away. "Can you hear me?" She said, even louder this time.

Senna started, wide eyes sightlessly searching the darkness for the speaker. "Who's there?"

"I am Meatweaver."

Senna was quiet for a moment. Meatweaver soundlessly moved a little closer.

"Are you afraid of me?"

"A little."

"Her name is Senna Falton, and the skeleton is called Harrin." Butcher added, standing beside Meatweaver. "The scavengers returned with both of them, along with a number of human bodies."

Meatweaver paused, absorbing the information. "Many grissials will be able to speak tomorrow," She replied, audibly pleased.

Harrin had to admit, he was frustrated. His inability to speak reduced him to little more than a decoration in a conversation like this, and not for the first time he wished there was a workaround or a magick that would grant him speech. And yet, grissials could simply take someone's voice and use it as their own.

If he had been told at any point in his life or unlife that he would be jealous of a grissial, he would have told them to stop drinking whatever liquor they were under the influence of.

But here he was.

Senna tentatively held a hand out, albeit to the left of where Meatweaver actually was. "I know Butcher introduced me, b-but I'm supposed to…"

She trailed off uncertainly, and Meatweaver inclined her head towards Butcher. Harrin was having a hard time figuring out their expressions, but he felt she was amused. "You told them to call you Butcher?"

Butcher shifted. "They should fear us," He finally muttered, and Meatweaver lightly chuckled.

Turning back to Senna, she ceased to levitate and crouched, leaning down until her face was level with the young girl's. "You don't seem very afraid."

It only seemed to worry Senna more, and she shrank back. "Is that… good?"

Meatweaver frowned for a moment, the hard ridges forming her face wrinkling. "It isn't very helpful for conversation, is it?"

Senna opened her mouth, and then closed it. "I can't hear you very well," She admitted. "I… got caught in an explosion. It hurt my ears."

“Is that the case?” Meatweaver leaned forward, and a strand of blood leaked from her forefinger, snaking through the air towards Senna.

Harrin’s hand instantly dropped to the hilt of his rapier. Butcher’s eyes snapped to him, pupils dilating as his teeth bared. Meatweaver held a hand up, forestalling the conflict before it could begin.

“This may feel strange,” She told Senna.

Senna nervously fidgeted with her fingers as the thread of blood came closer. It split as Harrin watched, sidling around the sides of Senna’s head and aiming for her ears.

Every alarm in Harrin’s head was going off, but he didn’t have any options. If he attacked either grissial, there was no doubt in his mind that he would die instantly and without warning. Butcher had an aura about him that implied relaxed confidence, a grim certainty that he could annihilate anyone who tried to injure him. But if Harrin was being honest, Meatweaver intimidated him far more. She could levitate, for one. It casually displayed a horrifying Font, one that exceeded Senna’s current limits by such a degree that they couldn’t even be reasonably compared.

The threads shot into Senna’s ears for a fraction of a second, and then retreated. Senna blinked. “I felt… was that you?”

Meatweaver smiled. She had nice teeth, Harrin absently thought. Then he wondered why he’d thought that. “Your eardrums were broken. An easy fix.”

Senna started in surprise. “I-I can hear you!”

“And now we can talk properly,” She replied in satisfaction. “But before proper conversation comes proper introductions.”

Harrin’s grip relaxed slightly at the clear lack of aggressiveness.

Perhaps this was going to go better than he’d thought.