Phil’s fur was falling off.

They were three quarters of the way to Kalendale, a town whose motto was EAT WELL, WORK HARD, AND DESTROY ALL NECROMANCERS, a fact which Momo discovered while searching for directions, only to find the inviting slogan plastered on the local regional map.

“No, no, Phil, stop it,” she said, frantically picking up the clumps of fur as Phil scratched them off with his back paw, “I can’t be killed on my first assignment, what will Valerica think?”

He ignored her, continuing to scratch his backside. Half of his bony butt poked out, skeletally mooning half the road behind them.

Momo was halfway to pulling out her own hair.

“Okay, okay,” she pressed at her face, calming herself down, “this is fine. I just cast the thingy again. [Disguise].”

[Disguise] has a cooldown of 2 hours. You can cast it again in 32 minutes.

Momo’s hands slid off her face as she groaned. Cooldown?! She was plenty cold already, thank you, useless piece of parchment paper. It had been summer when she fell asleep last night on Earth, and now she was terribly underdressed in a t-shirt in the brisk fall weather of Alois.

“I can’t risk you ruining my first errand, Phil,” she shook her head, frowning at the clueless and soulless bear, “I’m going to need to store you somewhere.”

She surveyed the area. They had finally broken free from the endless forest, and through the fog she could see the silhouette of a small village forming ahead of them. The village was located in a valley just below her, barricaded by snow-tipped mountains.

It was like something out of a fairytale, Momo thought. Like those medieval paintings she had studied in university, with the endless grassy fields and the quaint wooden houses.

Still, it was no place for a Phil, who would cast immediate suspicion the moment his bony hide entered the city. She turned her head east, and found a small clearing. It was brimming with flowers in full bloom—plenty of visual noise to masquerade the bony bear.

She turned towards her companion, “Phil, go lay in that field, and don’t move a muscle until I’m back, alright?”

Phil blinked at her. He didn’t seem keen on moving anywhere.

“Agh, aren’t you supposed to listen to me?” Momo whined, “didn’t I have a skill in this?”

Phil seemed unfazed. Momo huffed. She didn’t want to be late for the drop-off.

“Okay, Phil, you diva,” she frowned, “walk around as you please. But I’m not responsible if they make you deader than you already are, or whatever.”

Crossing her arms indignantly, Phil simply walked up to her and licked her arm with an unnerving, dead-muscle tongue. It felt a bit bristly, like the tongue of a cat.

“Acting cute isn’t going to win you any points,” she said (lying, as she already knew she’d cry if anything happened to him) and tugged the leather bag from Phil’s mouth. She’d have to carry it the rest of the way.

Phil gave the bag away easily and it flopped onto the ground, several now-dead bugs slipping out of it. Momo frantically picked them up, shoving them back in before the sensation nauseated her. The feeling of their prickly legs on her fingers was nearly enough to make her wish she had never been born.

If necromancy had subspecialities, she was sure as hell not picking the one that involved bugs. She figured she’d be better suited for undead-bear caretaker, or spell sheet organizer. Something quiet and pleasant and far removed from all things nasty.

She re-tied the knot at the top of the bag, making sure the insides were as hidden as possible from prying eyes.

Using all the strength in her tiny body, she heaved the pouch over her shoulders and headed down the dirt road towards Kalendale. She was thankful in a way for the workout, as it prevented frostbite from taking her fingers, with the chilly fall air clawing at her limbs.

She wondered, briefly and stupidly, if Kalendale sold any hoodies. It had a cute enough name; she wouldn’t mind wearing a Kalendale branded pullover. Not to mention that anything was better than her university’s merchandise—their logo was a drawing of a mole rat wearing sunglasses.

Out of breath, she stopped her trek once she reached the town center. The town smelled of grilled game meats, of salts and beef stews. She was surrounded by a variety of market stalls, each selling their own variation of hung venison and home-brewed beer. Momo had never been a big meat eater, but she felt the sudden urge to make an exception, inhaling the overwhelming aroma.

It probably also had quite a bit to do with smelling something other than dead rats, bugs, or rancid blood for the first time in hours. She was pretty sure anything would taste good right now, as long as it wasn’t still alive.

She sighed, her stomach rumbling. It wasn’t like she had any money to buy a meal with. Valerica hadn’t included any cash in her pouch. Going by her speech about the gerbil, it seemed that the sanctuary had hit hard times as far as funding. Money wasn’t to be parted with so easily.

“Gods, ye smell terrible.”

Momo let out a squeak, turning her head behind her to find a large, beer-bellied man towering over her. He had plump cheeks, round like apples, and an aged, wrinkly face. He was carrying a cutting board and a piece of venison, tied with rope and prepared for cooking.

“I—I’m sorry,” she automatically apologized. She was sure he was right. The bag reeked, and she had been carrying it for hours.

He lowered his head, sniffing in her general vicinity.

“Aagh,” he threw his head back, instantly repulsed, “when was the last time ye bathed?”

“Oh, um…” she trailed off. That was unfortunately a valid question, even previous to her life in this world.

“Bertha!” the man cried out, waving his free hand in the air, “this one needs bathing.”

He turned to Momo, “do ye have any coin? Bertha runs the bathhouse.”

Momo went pale. A bathhouse? If the medieval paintings had been correct, that would likely involve a lot of being naked around other people in a barely hygienic tub of shared water.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

She hoped desperately that Necromage Initiate came with an eventual invisibility skill.

“Ah, nope, no coin. I’m fine, t–thank you,” Momo said, raising her voice by an octave, “I’ll be on my way.”

A woman who could only be Bertha approached her, and with one sniff, she was sent into an immediate coughing fit.

“Oh Gods, yer right John,” she groaned, “this one is absolutely foul!”

Momo grimaced. Was this how the locals treated all of their visitors?

She apologized again, profusely, and then quickly jogged away. She walked until she was on the outskirts of the village, and sat under the shade of one of the town’s ginormous oak trees.

“I can’t possibly smell that bad…” Momo muttered under her breath, hoping that smelling like death was not a permanent hazard of the profession.

She pulled out the pieces of parchment from her pouch, searching for the client’s address. She wanted to get out of this village as quickly as possible, before they convicted her of Crime By Smell or something else ridiculous.

Viktor Mole, Great Wizard of Kalendale

24 Kalendale Way

She remembered that street address. The marketplace square bisected the city into two: one half peeled off into a residential area, and the other—reachable by Kalendale Way—led to the city’s university.

She grinned. Maybe they sold hoodies!

She grabbed her bag and snuck around the town market, steering clear of John’s venison stand. She proceeded to Kalendale Way and counted the street numbers of the residences until she landed on 24—an audacious, boastful residence, quadruple the size of all the other blocks of university housing. It advertised several “wizarding services” on various lawn signs, and sentient garden gnomes danced behind the house’s white picket fence.

The owner of this house… wanted to eat bugs?

Never judge the customer, Momo shrugged, and knocked twice on the house’s doorway.

Momo heard a powerful rustling coming from inside the house, and seconds later she was greeted by a tiny, wizardly man with a long white beard. He was the most classical looking wizard to ever wizard. He had the drooping, long-tipped cap and everything. It was delightful.

“The esteemed Viktor Mole, Great Wizard of Kalendale, part-time lecturer at the Kalendale College for Wizardry, and Famed Solver of Problems, at your service, my lady,” he said, puffing out his tiny chest and raising a fist to the sky.

Momo couldn’t help but grin at him and his little slogan. He looked very much like one of the archetypes from her Depictions of High Fantasy classes in college. A real storybook character, come to life. It was all incredibly endearing.

Then she remembered he was, in fact, a real man. Who had ordered dead bugs.

That deflated her slightly.

“I have a delivery from Morgana’s Dawn,” she informed him, slugging the bag to the front of her. His eyebrows shot up at the mention of the sanctuary, and he hastily shushed her.

“Not so loud!” he shouted, which drew more attention from passersby than anything else, “you are from the Dawn? I’d never take you for a necromancer.”

“I think they prefer the word necromage,” she whispered meekly.

“Necromage shmecromage,” he waved his hand in the air, “they’re a bunch of dirty, conniving liars, that’s what they are. They think they can move into that old sanctuary and encroach on my business?”

Momo’s eyebrows shot up, “your business?”

“Of course! No one sells the dead like I sell the dead!” he declared proudly, “it’s all very hush hush, naturally, as no one wants anybody else to know they sold their deceased aunt for a couple a’ extra gold pieces, but sell her they do! And willingly!”

“I thought this town hated necromancers?” she tilted her head, confused and annoyed. This was starting to look like a lot more trouble than a simple delivery. And she really wanted this to be a simple, no nonsense, dead bug delivery.

“Of course they do, superficially,” he laughed, “it’s all necromancers bad this, kill all necromancers that, until you can’t pay for the mortgage on your dwelling, and you need to sell off a few of your relatives' bones.”

Momo nodded. Any good city needed a thriving underground trade, quite like college campuses and their “no drugs” policy.

“So, thanks for the bugs,” he said, grabbing the pouch, “but you will not be receiving a dime of payment from me. And if your necromancer friends have something to say about it, they can try showing up to my door, I’ll simply call the guards!”

Momo’s face turned hot. There was no way she was messing up her first job this badly. She didn’t even want to know what Valerica would say. Or do. But still… she was just a strange girl in a foreign town, and this wizard was a… wizard. With many slogans and titles, and probably many more class levels.

Valerica’s words repeated in Momo’s mind—your meek, inadequate, and unassuming presence is quite the asset.

“You know, the necromancers there kidnapped me just yesterday,” she looked down at her feet innocently, “and this is the first job they’ve sent me on. I’m so terrified, Sir Wizard, and you seem brave and smart…”

The wizard’s eyebrows rose.

“Oh, dear one! How terrible,” he frowned, “that seems quite like those nasty necromancers.”

“Yes, yes. I was hoping… maybe a wizard of your esteem would let me stay? Just for the night? I promise I'll be out of your hair by morning tomorrow, you won’t even know I’m there.”

His ego sufficiently flattered, the wizard scoffed, “of course! Who am I to turn away a young lady in need. That would be an action unbefitting of a wizard of my stature. Come in, miss, make yourself at home.”

The wizard guided her into his home, the garden gnomes dancing around their feet as they stepped through the garden. Are those gnomes undead? She wondered silently, watching as they bobbled around mindlessly.

Walking through the entryway, the house seemed to shiver and shake, taking on a new form as they transitioned into the main room. The bricks on the walls reorganized themselves, shelves and tables re-assembled from scattered planks of wood. It was as if the house slept when its owner was away—and reformed when he entered.

“Welcome to my quaint little abode,” he exclaimed, gesturing both hands up towards the house’s high ceilings. Glass panels formed the roof, allowing sunlight to stream in. She imagined it would be beautiful at night, when you could look up and gaze at the stars.

“It’s wonderful,” she commented as he gave her a tour. That was not a lie; she wouldn’t mind living here.

It struck her, suddenly, that keeping allegiances with the necromancer’s sanctuary wasn’t actually the smartest idea. It wasn't like they'd given her much aside from a hay bed and a dead bear. This new world seemed vast and bright, brimming with opportunity. Not that she had ever been one to grasp opportunity, but still—there had to be better paths than sleeping in a dank, rat-infested fortress.

Valerica’s smiling face floated across her consciousness, and Momo frowned. Yes, Valerica was a necromancer. Yes, she probably also regularly smelled like a dead rat. But the woman seemed to believe in her, genuinely so.

She had never felt that before—believed in.

She turned towards the wizard, who was eagerly inspecting her delivery, sorting bugs and other undead goods into glass jars.

No. Unlike everything else she had started in her life—a college art degree, several self-help books, cleaning her room—she was actually going to finish this. This... quest, of sorts. Deliver the goods, receive the payment. If only to prove to herself that she could.

Congratulations! For believing in yourself and staying loyal to your new family of necromancers, you have gained a level in [Necromage Initiate].

You have gained the class skill [Raise Undead]

[Raise Undead]: You can reanimate a corpse to become an undead at the same level as yours, and order it to do your bidding.