Book of The Dead

Chapter 7: The Thing About Bones

Chapter 7: The Thing About Bones

The Arryn mausoleum welcomed Tyron back with open arms. Or at least, an easily penetrated front gate. As far as he could tell, nobody had noticed his earlier intrusion to the cemetery. The grave of old lady Myrrin remained clearly tampered with, the dirt visibly disturbed and the depth of the site much lower than it had been. He'd taken the coffin out, after all, and not replaced it with any dirt. He didn't see what he could do about it for the time being and retreated quickly back to the mausoleum.

He did not want to be found lurking around a disturbed grave. Would anything scream 'necromancer' more than that?! Skulking through the shadows wearing dark clothing was not really his habit, but the Sneak Skill proved its worth and helped him somewhat navigate the process of remaining hidden. The real trick had been stealing out of town without anyone noticing. The marshals had been more visible this time, making their presence known in Foxbridge and showing their faces as a warning to anyone who might cold feet about their Class. The show of force had been unnerving to Tyron, but he'd managed to control himself enough to act casually until he was well out of sight.

Compared to the dim streets of town, he almost felt more comfortable amidst the dust and webs of this sealed stone building. In here he had absolutely nothing to hide.

"Light," he incanted.

With a familiar gesture he conjured a soft globe of light and suspended it from the worn ceiling above his head. The resulting scene was not a pretty one. His zombie remained where he had left it, half slumped out of the coffin, the rotting flesh broken and in places sloughing off the body onto the floor. He flinched back and felt grateful he'd remembered to replace his wax nose plugs before opening the door. There was little doubt that, could he smell, he'd be gagging on the stench of rot. He was almost afraid to breathe in case he tasted something in the air he rather wouldn't.

If he had time, perhaps later he would return the former matron to her place of rest. She'd done enough for him already and he didn't need to raise her again as a zombie. He was much more interested in a more powerful type of servant.

Holding his sleeve across his face, Tyron moved deeper into the crypt, waving his prepared broom in front of his face to clear the webs. He didn't want to get bitten, but at the same time he didn't want to explain why he was covered in thick layers of webbing and dust if he were seen walking back into town. The crypt was divided into three main chambers, each holding members of different generations of the Mayor's family. The oldest remains at rest here were a little over a hundred years old, he assumed those bones had turned to dust long ago. The more recently deceased though, there was a chance with them.

The family members had been interred in simple stone coffin made from slabs, each marked on the side with the details of the person inside. It didn't take long for him to find the most recent member of this exclusive resting place.

Nolath Arryn.

Husband, Father and Friend.

Your support was like a steady rock in troubled waters.

You will be missed.

5348 - 5439

Nolath had been the current Mayor's grandfather, a bull of a man who'd lived to the ripe old age of ninety-one. Not an unusual age for a farmer to reach, the class bumped constitution significantly, especially after advancing. Perhaps all that toughness would help preserve the bones? He could only hope. Tyron eyed the heavy stone lid of the coffin with a weary expression on his face. He hadn't expected a class that involved such powerful magick to involve quite this much physical labour! He fumbled with his robes for a moment before he pulled out the cast iron fire poker he'd strapped to his leg before leaving home. Hopefully the thing wouldn't snap…

It didn't, but he suspected it came close. After almost two hours of scraping back and forth, trying to clear the encrusted dust of almost a decade, then carefully prising at the lid, he managed to shift it. What followed was gut busting, back breaking effort as he tried to push the lid off the coffin without making too much noise. A difficult prospect as stone scraping on stone tended to be anything but quiet. Then came the issue of lowing the stone to the floor without dropping the thing. He managed it, but only barely.

The young necromancer sat and gasped for air on the floor, his hands several layers of skin lighter than before. The scrapes stang as the omnipresent dust in the air clogged the wounds. With a sigh he picked himself up and rummaged in his bag, taking out his water bottle which he used to clean his hands. He winced as the cool water ran over the scrapes, but he couldn't take any chances, he needed his hands in good condition for the next part.

Once he got his breath back and stopped sweating, he moved back to the coffin to assess the state of his newest subject. Surprisingly good, was the answer. Not good, but better than he'd expected. Nolath had been buried here for almost a decade and was clearly in a highly advanced state of decay. The flesh was almost completely rotted, devoid of any moisture it looked similar to a dried web that clung to the bones. The skeleton itself was in much better condition than he'd expected. The fear had been that they'd have been reduced to powder or cracked beyond repair, but it seemed that the hardy constitution the farmer had cultivated in life had indeed done something to help preserve him, or perhaps bones were just more durable than he’d thought?

They weren't perfect though. The bones were clearly softened in places and many a hairline fracture could be seen under close inspection. Tyron listened to what his Skills told him and the impression he got wasn't ideal, but was good enough. The bones would serve to make a skeleton, with some work. It wouldn't be a great skeleton, or even a good one, but it would be a skeleton.

There was little doubt that things could be done to improve the condition of the remains and he felt frustrated that he just didn't know what they were. There must be ways to properly cleanse the flesh and remaining grime. Acid perhaps? Or would that be too strong and destroy the skeleton? It should also be possible to strengthen the bone in some way. Perhaps using alchemy or some sort of magick? He racked his brains but nothing came to mind. He could only sigh in frustration. Yet another topic he would need to research in greater depth. He needed information on the care and treatment of remains, as well the materials to carry out whatever he found. Neither of those things would be easy to find and would draw a huge amount of suspicion on himself the moment he went looking.

The life of a Necromancer was a difficult one…

For now, Tyron could only push such thoughts from his mind and deal with the here and now. Using his knife, he scraped clean the bones with the utmost care, wary of causing any unwanted damage to his precious subject. The work was painstaking and slow, but when completed he was able to look down on the now mostly clean bones of Nolath Arryn.

Now for the hard part. After a short break to flex and massage his fingers, the Necromancer got to work knitting together the fibres of magick that would allow the loose collection of bones to move. He'd made numerous notes on how he might proceed and he consulted them frequently as he worked. Turns out the human body was quite complex, who knew? The threads, when woven correctly, would become the sinew and muscle that would allow the skeleton to move, this much he knew from the knowledge he'd gained when learning the Skill. He had also been granted a basic understanding of how to form joints using the threads. What he hadn't been granted was an understanding of how the whole system of threads would work together. For example, he knew he needed a knee and ankle joint, but what about the feet? How did that work? And how did it all connect together?

As much as Tyron enjoyed the challenge, he couldn't help but wish he could snap his fingers, push a little magick into the bones and they'd leap up, ready to fulfil his every command. Such a thought was patently ridiculous though. How were bones supposed to walk around on their own? Was he supposed to provide the magick necessary to move them all constantly? He'd be drained in seconds! What about the animating consciousness of the bones? Did he just whip one together in moments? Springing new servants out of the grave in a few seconds was pure fantasy. Only through painstaking work and preparation would useful undead servants be created.

And it was painstaking. Not being the sort of person who tolerated failure in matters arcane, Tyron cursed and grumbled to himself with increasing frequency as he concentrated on his work, his fingers dancing in the air above the bones as he wove. Several times he was forced to cut the threads and re-do a certain joint. He had to do the hips three times. Three! By the time he finished his hands were an aching mess, he was sweating profusely and a headache pounded in his temples. He stumbled away from the stone casket and retrieved his water skin from his bag. He drunk deep before he released a satisfied sigh.

Considering this was his first true attempt at bone stitching, he was quite satisfied at the final result. With practice and research, he would make vast improvements at his speed and efficiency in creating the weave, as well as being able to increase its quality. For now, he was fairly confident that the skeleton would be able to move once he raised it. For all the effort, the final product was almost invisible to the eye. When pulled tight, the threads had shrunk together and clung to the bones as they faded from sight. The final result would look as if the bones moved almost without being attached, but that was far from the truth.

He upended the water skin on his hands and then used the moisture to cleanse his face. It was a small thing but he felt much refreshed. The dust was so thick in the small mausoleum he felt constantly clogged and suffocated by it and even a moment of relief was nice. Hours of darkness had passed as he'd worked on his newest project and there wasn't much time left before dawn arrived. Tyron made a decision to let the remains rest for now. The magical threading would deteriorate over time, but would easily last long enough for him to return the next night and raise his servant.

What to do then with the time he had left? He certainly couldn't afford to waste it. He cast his eyes to the sealed casket lying beside the one he'd been working on.

"Well, Nolath, I guess we better see how your Mrs is doing these days."

As the first rays of light began to creep over the horizon, Tyron had returned to his family home. Exhausted beyond words, encrusted with dust and webs and reeking of the grave, he stripped down and pumped some water to wash himself, even going so far as to scrub himself with one of his mother's precious soaps before he collapsed into his bed. Sleep came quickly to him, tired as he was, and it wasn't long before his soft snoring was the only sound in the house.

Mayor Arryn rose early that morning, as he did every morning. He crept out of bed before dawn, careful not to wake his slumbering wife as he dressed himself in the dark, habit guiding his hands more than his eyes. Once his feet were firmly planted in his boots he went to rouse his children from their beds. They blinked owlishly at him as he leaned down and shook them gently before climbing from their blankets and getting ready to face the day. He smiled and nodded approvingly at them when the two boys and girl met him outside a few minutes later. Younger than ten, it was important that they learned good habits in their youth in order to set them up for whatever Class and whatever future they chose for themselves.

So just as he had done with his brother when he was young, he led them through the morning chores on the farm, tending to the animals, opening the gates, sweeping, cleaning, milking, directing the farm hands as they arrived, inspecting the tools and the million other minute but important tasks that kept a farm running smoothly. There was never enough time to get everything done, but according to family tradition, if you worked your guts out, you could get damn close.

By the time the sun had risen over the horizon the family had already put in several hours of work and the Mayor collected his children and took them inside where Mrs Arryn had now arisen and baked them all a hearty breakfast.

"Much on today?" Merryl asked.

He grunted.

"Too much, as usual. The Water Mages are due in town today and you know what a fuss that always is."

The children brightened at his words and shared excited grins around the table. Watching the Water Mages work in the fields was a yearly treat. The mages could conjure massive jets of water that they would blast into the sky to rain down on the crops or combine to flood water into the reservoirs.

With one rueful eye on the children, Merryl walked behind her husband and massaged his shoulders.

"Don't push yourself too hard, dear," she warned, knowing it was useless, "there's such a thing as overwork."

He smiled and caught her hands over his shoulders.

"I'm tough as mountain bones woman, stop fussing."

He gave her hands a quick squeeze of affection before he turned and rose from his seat. He snatched up another slice of fresh bread and lathered it heavily with butter as he made his way back to the room.

"Don't forget the children have lessons today," he called as he quickly changed from his work clothes to something that could be considered remotely respectable. He might have the Mayor sub-class, but he was still a Farmer damn it. He refused to dress up like some city ponce for official duties. Once he was ready, he farewelled his family and saddled his horse for the ride into town.

One short and dull ride later, he tied his horse up outside the town stable and walked with brisk steps into the town hall. A grand description for a relatively modest building that housed a few offices, the record keeping room and the strongbox for tax collection.

"Good morning Mayor," a gruff voice greeted him the moment he stepped within the door.

The Mayor didn't break stride as he made his way towards his desk, waving the marshal captain to follow him.

"First, call me Jiren" he said, "we've worked together for eight years Markus. When do you plan on dropping the formalities?"

He settled in behind his desk and sighed when he noticed the generous stack of papers arranged in a neat pile awaiting his attention. Ririta had clearly been in already this morning. How could a town with as many cows as people produce this much paperwork?

"Still need that list from you Mayor," Markus said, refusing to yield his white knuckled grip on his respect for the office of mayor, no matter how much the Arryn family would have it otherwise.

Jiren thought for a moment before he reached to one side and pulled open a draw. From within he removed one sheet of paper covered in his own neat, utilitarian handwriting.

"Here you go, Markus. Every kid who looked in any way suspicious during the ceremony. I don't know why you don't rely on your own list, it's not like I don't have enough work to do this time of year."

He gestured with one hand at the stack of paper he had to deal with as he ran his eyes over the list one more time. Chances were all of these names were just twitchy kids who were overwhelmed by the occasion or who imagined they'd get some grand 'God Slayer of the Heavens' Class and ended up a Shepherd. Every year there would be a few rude awakenings for those who squandered their youth, or those individuals who were just miserable with the Class that had been given. The trick was separating out those who were just unhappy with those who were looking to break the law.

Just as he was about to hand over the sheet to the outstretched hand of Markus, he hesitated.

"Just a second," he said, "I'm going to add a name."

It was probably nothing. It was definitely nothing. But it didn't hurt to keep a bit of an extra eye on the kid. His parents cast a mighty long shadow in Foxbridge, being the only truly high level Slayers in the entire province. He would have had high expectations for his Class no doubt. Jiren could remember the shock on the poor boy's face the moment he'd snapped back into focus. Face pale and sweating, hands clutching the Awakening Stone tight. He'd seen it so many times before.

"Just to be thorough," he said as scratched the name "Tyron Steelarm" under the last name on the sheet before handing it over.

Markus ran his eyes down the list and whistled when he saw the name on the end.

"Hol-ee shit," he drawled and shook his head. "If we actually bring that kid in, what do you think would happen here, Mayor?"

The Mayor didn't even want to think of it. It was hard to reconcile Magnin and Beory with their reputation sometimes. The couple were humble, full of laughter and a pleasure to interact with every time he'd met them. That didn't mean they couldn't bury Foxbridge in an avalanche of violence in minutes if they chose to.

"It won't come to that," he said firmly, "I just want us to keep an eye on him. There's a lot of pressure on that boy and I don't want him to do something stupid and ruin his future while his parents are out of town. That's all it is."