I found my self sitting in a dainty wooden chair with a teacup in hand directly in front of a very angry woman in a ridiculous broad brimmed hat.

“Come to gloat have you? And what do you think you’re wearing? Tattered armour? A poorly done up scarf? Leather gloves? At a tea party? What will your parents think? Do warlocks even have parents? If they do I’ll strangle them both and order their bodies to tear you to pieces. What do you think of that? It would be very poetic. Those who brought you into the world being the one who removed you from it. And maybe I could dress your body in some proper clothes for the funeral. None of... whatever that is. A nice autumn houppelande to go with your skin. Or a simple purple tunic to go with your hair.”

She whacked the spoon into her palm.

“No that wouldn’t work. Purple is too good for you. Besides, it would look terrible. Maybe if I ordered the revenants to tear off your hair we would have something to work with. A green dress to remember you by. That might work. Your appearance is a nightmare. Green hair, red eyes, and golden skin? What were your parents thinking?”

I was tried to block out the instructors words so I could focus on getting a grip on my sudden change in surroundings.

“Listen to me while I’m speaking girl! And stop slouching. Open your eyes this instant or I’ll summon spirits to devour your soul!”

It wasn’t working.

My ring revealed wooden floorboards, silk table cloth, fine oak chairs, silver cutlery, tea in porcelain cups and little biscuits next to the tea. I grabbed one and shoved it into my mouth for an excuse not to talk while I opened my eyes and took a quick look around.

I was on a p—

“Oi! Who taught you how to eat? A starving rat?” The lady’s eyes flashed green with anger. Actually flashed. I could see little transparent wisps trailing after them as her head moved. And she was moving because—

“Ow!” She’d hit me with her spoon.

“You deserve that and more for trapping me here you bastard.”

She hit me again.

“Ow!” I raised a hand to ward off the next blow. With my armour and skin the pain was from shock rather than any real injury. She probably wouldn’t even leave a bruise if she stabbed me with the knife.

“Hands in your lap girl! Back straight, shoulders back, head raised. Let me see that neck of yours!”

I hunkered down. She’d probably strangle me if she could. Speaking of which, a quick once over with my ring confirmed what I already knew. My armour was still my armour. My body was still my body, and there were no girls in sight.

The woman—who was almost certainly the necromancer—and I were acting out the scene from the etiquette book I’d been reading a moment ago, but we’d not been forced into the forms of the figures. At least I hadn’t. The necromancer looked identical to what I remembered of the drawing.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

The spoon collided with the back of my head.

“Eyes forward! None of that vacant staring. What would your mother think if we were meeting with her friends?”

The necromancer (whether or not they were actually a necromancer was still a matter of speculation, but the “raised my parents from the dead to devour me” was a point in theory’s favour) seemed to have embraced the role more than I had. How long had she been here?

“I’m not a warlock,” I said as I straightened in my chair, “were you trapped by them as well?”

My ring showed her eyes widening in shock. She stalked around to the other side of the table and collapsed into the seat. A tea cup was raised with perfect dainty form to her lips. Nearly perfect. Her hand holding the saucer was shaking.

“Don’t stare it’s rude,” she admonished, but there was no venom in it this time, “are you really another of their prisoners?”

I spread my arms wide so she could take in my tattered clothes, wild hair, and odd colourations in their full glory, “I can’t prove anything, but I think my appearance speaks for itself.”

She nodded as she sipped her tea, “I did wonder about that. It’s dreadful. I was sincere about the houppelande. You can find it in the sewing chamber.”

“I don’t know where the—” this time it was my own thoughts which interrupted me. I did know where the sewing chamber was. I somehow knew the layout of the whole house.

She raised a severe eyebrow, “Out with it girl. Finish your sentences or don’t speak at all.”

“I just realized I know the layout of this place inside and out. It’s quite the revelation.”

The necromancer placed her tea cup back on the table, “It gets worse. So, who are you?”

“I’m Oswic of Blackbridge, Darkswallower of Bleakfort. But listen, I must have some time alone. I’m a Magus and I have a spell I need to write immediately.”

She sniffed, “How rude. But... very well. I’ll go fetch those clothes I was talking about and see if I can’t tailor them to fit your,” she sniffed again, “your uncultured frame. Do what you must.”

I didn’t waste any time. The moment she stood I pulled about my book and started writing.

Push IIII One of the flowers off of the patio flattened into the dirt. Thankfully the necromancer had yet to return.

Push V: Push an object with 700lbs of force for up to an hour.

The sun rose.

That was convenient.

The plan was to create a spell which could lift the next ruby beetles I came across into the air. If I couldn’t overwhelm their strength perhaps I could at least prevent them from moving. Push IIII Push V. Another flower was reduced to paste.

Push VI: Push an object with 1400lbs of force for up to an hour.

The necromancer was impatiently tapping her foot when I finished. She had been for some time if her stare was any indication, but I hadn’t noticed. After the wails and laughter of the dungeon the sudden quiet of the patio made recording without distraction trivial.

I smiled at her, “All done.”

She tutted with a frown, “Hardly an appropriate hobby for a lady of standing. Magi are almost entirely old men. What would the neighbours say if they saw you keeping company with them?”

She thrust out the promised houppelande, “Put this on. I won’t hear any arguments from you. I can barely stand to look at you in that clown’s get up.”

“Even if it means breaking free from here?”

Her eyes wavered and her lips trembled, “Even then,” she said softly.

I took the houppelande.