The atmosphere died almost immediately as I entered the room, all conversation ceased and it appeared every single patron had turned to stare at me.

This is the usual reaction of course. Most of the time, they’re too scared and too intelligent to try and start something with me.

“What do you want Corpsewik?” one of them stood up from their table.

This was apparently not one of these times.

“I want something to drink, why else would I be here?”

He walked over to me.

The tavern thug, he had a facial archetype I’ve seen a few times. It's all in the jaw of this one, an inherent desperation to prove himself the most important man in the room, but not capable nor strong enough to do it in any place more significant or populous than the local village tavern.

“We don’t have any corpses for you to violate, so why don’t you clear off.” He attempted to stare me down.

“I’m surrounded by corpses.” I stared back.

This put him off a bit, enough to make him step backwards.

“That's enough of that Tiero, no scaring off the customers.” Called the man behind the bar. “didn’t you see the sign?” He pointed to a painted wooden board near the entrance.

‘Zero tolerance for discrimination any peoples’

I raised my eyebrow. That’s surprisingly-

My train of thought ended as I noticed what was written below.

‘Unless they are: Prissilican, Haro, Khalidavran.

There it is.

“You see Satalan on there?” he asked.

I get Prissilicans are haughty assholes and the khali’s are servile fanatics but what did the Haro do?

“She’s a corpse molesting necro-“

“I don’t care if she’s molested a thousand corpses, if she’s got sehrs she’s welcome here.”

The astonishing audaciousness of the barkeeper’s comment made me subconsciously turn to the nearest person to search within them for some confirmation that he had actually just said that, in this case it happened to be Tiero but to my surprise he looked back at me clearly thinking the exact same thing.

The tension that had been there only seconds ago was now replaced with a particularly excruciating silence. Our shared moment of uncomfortability must have generated some kind of mutual understanding because he gave me a kind of awkward nod and promptly left me alone.

I looked back at the barman, he had a face that belonged here, harmless and inoffensive.

Was that just an act of extreme free market mercantilism? Or did he plan that?

“You are Satalan right?” he asked.

“Goodness me, what's someone with your detective skills doing working a tavern?”

“No need to get snippy, You could just as like be an outsider.”

“An Outsider?! Do you see any horns or gills on me?” I demanded. Yes, I do take offence to that.

“I’d have wagered you’re more like to be hiding tail feathers under that robe than to be Satalan Necromant.”

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“…Ok fine, fair enough. You don’t get many Magiar from Satal.” it’s true, I’ll let him have that one.

“Though judging from your accent and attire you aren’t actually from there are you?”

“Yeah but you could have pieced that together from the fact that I haven’t been ground into red sticky juice.”

“Indeed, but I wasn’t sure it wasn’t a sore subject for you.”

“Not me, I barely remember the place.”

“Perhaps for the best, not like you can go back now.”

“yeah…”

“So what can I get you? We actually have Satalan saltbrew.”

“Urgh no thanks, I’d just like a buttermilk please.” I asked him.

“A buttermilk?” he scoffed.

“I’ve had a long day, I deserve a treat.” I retorted.

“I don’t have buttermilk, but I’ll tell you what, I’ll make you a regular milk and mix some butter into it. it’s basically the same thing right?”

“it is not! if you don’t have any then just give me something sweet.”

He placed a jug of something thick and yellow on the bench before me.

“What's this?”

“Honey-milk.”

I eyed it carefully.

“Milk from the cows or the spiders?”

“Friend, this is a tavern in a farming village.” He spoke bluntly. “You know very well we can’t afford cow’s milk.”

I sighed.

“Don’t be so picky, it's more nutritious.” He attempted to reassure me.

“and the honey? Birds or bees?” I asked.

He paused for a moment.

“the lizards.”

“what?!”

“Lady, where do you think you are? this is the drunken monk, not the crystal towers of Cetravas.”

Cetravas is the capital of Priscilica, a nation known for its decadent sweets, sugar snow, allegedly immortal rulers, and said rulers using their magic to raise a mountain range to surround the entire country to maintain their isolationism.

“…how do you even know what that is?” I asked.

“It was by the high Imperiat’s decree that all individuals from all backgrounds should receive a basic education. For the foundation of all great empires are its common folk. Great isn’t it?”

“I’m not sure, I don’t particularly like the idea of being outwitted by peasants…”

This guy absolutely does not have the cranium of an intellectual… perhaps his abilities are limited to geographical fact memorization.

“sounds like you should sign up for an education yourself.”

“I am educated and by a great intellectual at that.” I replied.

“Great intellectuals don’t teach necromagik unless they’re also great bastards.”

“That's my master, your slandering. The greatest Necromant outside the mage-kingdoms, and maybe even in them.””

“A Necro’s greatness is measured in the currency of death, whether that’s the men they’ve killed or the liechmen in their armies.”

“What would you know of greatness?”

“An Feuermant Zuaberlord reignited the sun and ended the dark age, a wassermant held back the clypsal tide, even a Sanguimant supped his entire famine-stricken city with nothing but his own blood.”

Damn it he knows history too?!

“Yet I can’t think of a single great Necromant who used their great magik for something good, can you?” he asked.

“I-…”

Am I seriously at a loss for words? This is a village barkeep I’m speaking to!

“My master taught me everything I know, that has to count for something…” I know even as i say it that he would have punished me for such a pathetic response..

“And what is it you do, Friend?” the barkeeper leant down to look me directly in the eyes.

“I… I help people.” I replied.

“Do you?” His head tilted slightly as he stared at me, his eyes strangely wide, gazing into mine devoid of any discernible emotion. Judgement? pity? Contempt?

“No… not really.”

“a shame.” He paused, withdrawing from me. “but ‘greatness’ is hardly the best measure of the worth of one's life.”

“easy for you to say…”

He seemed to smirk momentarily but quickly replaced it with a more sympathetic smile.

“You seem down, friend, perhaps you’d like something stronger?” he patted me on the shoulder.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you to never get a magier drunk?”

“Someone did, but I only ask because you look like you need it.”

“Is that your business strategy, drop your patrons spirits to sell them more booze?”

“I can assure you, the only spirits I have in this establishment are the ones that uplift.” He smiled again.

“A drink sounds like an excellent idea.” Said a voice behind me.

An unfamiliar man sat beside me at the bar.

“Let me get one for this nice lady.” He said to the bartender before turning to smile at me.