Mongoose So, You Know. Im Living In The Walls. An Earthbound Spirit. I Am A Freak! Hello, Im Living In

mongoose so, you know. I’m living in the walls. An earthbound spirit. I am a freak! Hello, I’m living in the walls! Aaaaand IIIIII am the eeeeigggggggth- wonder.

I need to run a survey really quick. This isn't serious, but I need people to cooperate and not cheat for the sake of it because it'll skew the results.

Imagine you wake up tomorrow and you realize you (and everyone else in the world) can turn into an animal (And back into a human) at will.

Please go to this link to see what animal it will be for you:

Random Lists

Random Animal Generator

Generated a random animal species: A goat, armadillo, orangutan, porpoise, cheetah... Nearly 200 different animals!

(this is random, and yes, you only get one, no redos)

With this in mind, please reply to the following questions as truthfully as possible based on your current situation. (Not an ideal fantasy one.)

i got the book of bill

EDIT:I ADDED TWO SLIDES SORRY

posted a month ago on my patreon, original post by @turing-tested, @dog-on-it-tm, @khazel-t, @prettyboy-bigfoot (@clearcutcasualty), @rankeluck, @world-heritage-posts, @icecreamsavant, @yumiiiiiii, @jessbeinme15, @spacepaprika, @rat-on-fire, @thehottestmess, @vang0bus, @royal-random-the-yogurt-queen, @astraltrickster, @rubykgrant, @vaultoffaggotry, @adamsmasher, @cartoondog, and @unstablebill can be found here

like my omagpies comics? consider supporting me for early access and the simple pleasure of gently taping a $1 bill to my forehead here!

edit: thank you for all the love! reminding that there are many, Many more comics in my omagpies tag, and honorably mentioning @things-about-cars-in-posts​ for unveiling the mystery

The Un-Maker

To the uninformed, you are nothing more than a necromancer. You wear their sigil on your chest; the chief mage insists on it- after all, he can read magik better than most. He is the first to discern the true meaning of your gift, years before even you do.

His own magik is significantly strong- though, like him, it has withered with time. By and large, the other mages ignore you. After all, you are only a svvein.

The first time you leave the magery, he gives you a cloak. It's dark purple- the robe of a novice- which is a generous assessment at best. You can barely resurrect a magefly.

His eyes sparkle, then grow serious. “Take it,” he insists. “It will help you blend in.” Of course, you take it only to humor him- blending in comes naturally to you. It might be your only skill.

You perform small tasks in the village, basic magecraft which is little more than a conjurer's trick. You un-break a wheel. You un-graze a knee. When you pass, the best blacksmith in the village watches with baited breath.

You un-forge his sword.

•

While hiding from the smith, you crouch behind the stables. You won’t realise for many years, but the gate you closed on the way in prevented the escape of a horse. The horse- who dreams of the apples in the nearby grove- snickers sadly to herself.

There is a boy at the magery who wears red. Red, the robes of a master. He holds himself with the confidence of someone older, but both of you are five-and-ten.

One night, he lifts a heavy staff above his head, and performs a summoning spell: the most powerful of all magecraft. In an instant, the sky trembles, and rolls with dark clouds. The old masters rejoice, and sing his praises in the downpour, of a boy so powerful that even lightning obeys his command.

You shelter at the edge of the courtyard, and watch without envy.

He's the first to leave, when the war comes.

•

In the coming weeks, you wander the village. You are the only teenager left now that the others have gone, but there are still children to babysit. There are still bloody noses and scraped knees to un-attend to. By now, the villagers know your gift well- that strange, backwards magik you perform without intention. When your mere presence stops an axe falling on his head, even the blacksmith learns to forgive you.

But then, the war comes for the innocents, too.

Families flee Vale-Meg'ed with oxen, horse and handcart. The mages buy them time, and instruct you to leave with them.

“I want to help,” you say.

“Svvein-”

“Perhaps I can un-make the war!”

The chief mage smiles a grim smile. “It will not obey you.”

“But we haven't tried-”

“No.” He wheels on you, his eyes fury and fire. “Take this, and flee.”

It's his first-hewn staff: a spindly thing he carved as a mageling. It's little more than a bolt of wood, but you feel its weight when you touch it. Your hands tremble, and the old mage drives it into the ground afore you.

Sparks flicker.

“Go!”

When you stumble, the staff catches you.

You flee. You trip on your robes, drive the staff into the path, and watch dust fly where sparks ought to instead. You drive the staff down again and again, but it leaks no more magik.

In the distance, storms rage over Mages' Hill. Thunder crackles, and lightning flickers back and forth. Two dark clouds loom beside each other, fighting for dominance.

•

There's a body on the road out of Vale-Meg'ed.

You can't help but slow down. You've seen dead bodies before, of course– they used them for practice at the magery, even those that you couldn't resurrect– so you know what they look like.

For the first thirty seconds, this person is definitely deceased. Then, they gasp, and sit bolt upright.

You scream, and they do too.

Once the shock of not being dead has worn off, they cough soundly, and offer you a swig of water from their flask. Not knowing what killed them, you shake your head.

They down it, then cough some more. “Young svvein. You are but a novice?” They say, seeing your simple robes.

“I–” you say. “I didn’t–”

“Why, magikst most powerful!” They declare, as they check their wounds. “I thought I was going to lose my leg.”

You stare at them in silence as they reach for their purse. “Svvein, I know not why you've saved my life- and I have few coins to give- but accept my thanks.”

You take their silver, if only to preserve your cover, and help them to their feet. They accompany you to the end of the road, where the path splits. Then, they give thanks, and head towards Mages’ Hill.

It’s silent now, but the fires are still burning.

You turn away, and touch the embroidered sigil on your chest: the necromancer’s coil. You wonder if the chief mage knew more than he let on.

•

True necromancing is a complex task, often requiring a pack of mages. Death has compounding interest. The more injuries, the more mages are required. The longer dead, the longer the spell must prevail. Ordinarily, necromancers work long, arduous hours to resurrect a single person. Those who have an understanding of the mage’s art are shocked to see only one of you.

“Where are the others?” someone asks, as you pass them.

“They... Went to lunch,” you say.

“That's unheard of.” They stretch, and crack their back. “The first thing they do is always to collect payment.”

“This isn't your first time being resurrected, is it?” You realise, with a sinking feeling.

They grin toothily, and accept a discount, in exchange for not asking too many questions.

•

In the coming weeks, you un-kill many people along the battlefield. The bodies you pass wake up more often than not, always coughing and spluttering. That which once was jarring becomes routine. Some scream in fright, others clutch at long-healed wounds. Others jolt at the sight of a mage, and cower in your presence.

“Get away, get away!”

Beside them, a cracked mage-staff lies in the mud, snapped cleanly in two. You decide to forgo payment.

You make a living this way for a while, drifting from battle to battle like a vulture. It pays little- the soldiers that die are never the best-equipped, and you get there long after the looters do. Still, those who find themselves alive are invariably grateful to do so, and reward you as well as they can. It's enough to buy you board at the tavern most nights, if not a meal, too.

With time, the war moves on from the valley, though it rages in the distance. You are older now, broader of shoulders, and the First-Hewn staff is older, too. It grows brittle in your fingers.

Before long, it is broken.

You stare at it for a long while, for you are not in the business of breaking things. Still, breaking is a kind of un-making, you suppose. It falls to pieces with nothing more than a whisper, and you mourn it: the First-Hewn staff of an elder holds great power. That it is freed from your possession is a bittersweet relief.

For the first time since the war came, you think of the man who forged it. They say in the early days of war, Mages' Hill was razed to the ground. You haven’t returned to Vale-Meg’ed since.

That night, you rent a room at the tavern, and weep.

•

It's impossible to blend in without your staff, so you attempt to carve your own. For seven suns and seven moons, sparks fly, and lightning pummels the forest. You abandon the task.

The trees are scarred and pockmarked, and the ground will never be the same, yet not a single beam struck you.

For a week, you remain in the valley, but your purse-strings are tight, and the taverns are fit to burst. With little choice, you venture out into the marshland. You out-grew the purple robes years ago, and you’re dressed simply: in a linen shirt and trousers. For now, you are simply a traveller, and you don't intend to continue your grift. Without a staff to speak of, you hardly look the part of a necromancer anymore.

•

Battle does not suit the marshland. It makes the swamp reek worse than usual, and the reeds are soaked with blood. When you trawl for treasure, you find bodies instead.

Bodies who wake up confused, and ask you what's going on.

You sigh, and help them out of the mud.

You wade through the bog for a while, stepping on stones where you can. There's a strange smell in the air; acrid, like burning. The tips of the reeds are signed.

A soldier lies in the dirt, facedown. You roll her over so she doesn’t choke when she wakes, and begin to move on your way.

Her dark eyes open, looking up at the sky. She coughs, and you offer her your water-skin.

She refuses to take it. “I have nothing with which to pay you.”

“The water is a courtesy.”

“And the undying?”

You shift your feet. “That wasn't me.”

She leans back on her arms, and peers up at you sluggishly. “You have no staff.”

“Well-noticed.” You offer a hand.

She doesn’t take it. “There is one other mage who summons without a staff. This war is his design.”

“I am no summoner.”

“Yet you summon the dead.”

You watch her mutely.

“Have I revived you before?” You say at last.

“No, but I've heard of you. You travel alone, and revive villeins when others raise kings.”

You bristle, and take a step backwards. “Your payment is commuted,” you say, and retreat as fast as the mud will allow.

It is not fast at all.

“Wait!” She curses, and coughs furiously. There's a rending, and the slap of footsteps.

You turn. This time, when you offer herr water, she drinks.

“I'm Merra.” She hands the skin back, and wipes her mouth.

“I'm no-one,” you say, which is true enough. You fasten the skin to your belt, and, again, walk away.

Merra keeps pace with you. “I heard you were once a Svvein.”

You remain silent, heading back across the marshland to see how far she will follow. This is the path you cleared earlier– free of bodies– and you retrace your steps where you can. Merra follows all the while, and her sword creaks at her belt.

“Have you no business to attend to?” You say, at last.

“No more than you,” she says, with a smile in her voice.

“I have my living.”

“Then attend to it,” she says. “You think I haven't noticed you're avoiding the dead?”

“Necromancing is a hallowed ritual,” you say.

She scoffs. “Which is why you perform it in galoshes.”

You look down. “There's nothing wrong with my galoshes.”

“Most mage-shoes are hidden by their robes,” she muses. “But I'd imagine mage-shoes are made waterproof by enchantment.”

“That would be a waste of enchantment.”

“And what of your robes, or lack thereof?”

You grunt. “The war destroyed Mages' Hill.”

“Yes, many years ago. But I have seen robes since, and mages too.”

“And what of their magikal shoes?” You ask.

She purses her lips, and surveys the landscape. “There were bodies here, Necromancer. Did you resurrect them all?”

You say nothing.

“It's just past noon,” she reasons. “And this swamp was full of the fallen. How did you recall them all in one morning?”

You glance at her. “How can you be sure I revived you on the same day you fell?”

“As surely as I know there are no maggots in my mouth and nose.”

“Perhaps you have them on the brain.”

You spy the valley up ahead, and slow your pace. You're not eager to return to the villages, with their heroes and veterans and small opportunities; but you can't cross the marshland with Merra- there are too many bodies. Tentatively, you turn onto the village path.

“What killed you?” You enquire, as you walk along.

Merra gives you a look.

“It must have been significant,” you say. “For not all undying know they are so.”

She falls silent, and so do you.

•

You encounter a body on the way into Vale-Egar.

It's a maimed thing, old, bloated, and past its prime. Ordinarily, you wouldn't worry about it- you never seem to wake those who are too far gone- but, today, you pass it with a kind of trepidation. When nothing happens, you let out a breath.

“He looked like a noble,” Merra says, as you hurry past.

“Nothing noble is found in Vale-Egar, especially not by the side of the road.”

“Is that why you won't resurrect him?”

“No,” you say. “It's because he won't come back.”

•

The next body you stumble upon is more intact: a young man with a gaunt face who might as well be sleeping. He's hunched over and leaning against the wall, a tin clutched in his frozen hand. You don't wonder how it stays there- you know better than anyone that rigour mortis begins in the fingers.

As you pass, some colour returns to his face. You hurry Merra along.

The next person you pass is alive, and welcomes you to the village with a smile.

You have no coin with which to pay, but it's no matter. The presence of Merra's sword is payment enough, for there is a bed for all warriors in Vale-Egar.

“That explains why it's so crowded,” you say, as you untie your shoes and leave them at the foot of the bed. You offer to sleep on the floor, but Merra won't hear of it. Apparently, she's got it into her head that she owes you a life-debt. Tonight, you are too tired to argue, so you lay down beside her.

For a long while, she watches you.

The room in this upstairs tavern contains five beds, all of which are crammed with people. You lie on your back and listen to their breathing. This is the closest you've been to the living in a while, and so many, at that. You recall the last time you were around people, of the dormitories on Mages' Hill.

You can feel Merra's breath on your cheek.

“You said not all undead know they are so,” she says.

“Yes,” you murmur.

“So, that beggar outside-?”

“He was merely sleeping.” You move to roll over, but she catches you by the shoulder.

“Credit me some intellect.” She peers down at you. “It was fast; faster than any magecraft I've seen. How did you do it?”

The others in the room are all sleeping soundly.

“I know not how,” you say, in a single breath.

•

In the morning, you leave the village.

“You have no staff,” Merra says, again.

You watch her for a moment. All these years, the staff was your only companion, and now, you have another.

“I haven't the skill to make one,” you admit.

“So, you are no mage.”

“No.”

“And yet you raise the dead.”

•

Over the coming days, Merra accompanies you across the marshland, and the dead spring up in your wake. There's no coin to speak of, but the soldiers pledge fealty to you. You tell them you already have a knight, and a fine one, at that. Merra smiles, as a knight clad in well-made plate armor shakes his head and walks away.

“Have you seen her fight?” Asks another, dressed in mail.

You bristle. “No, but neither, sir, have you.”

He offers her his armor, but she won't take it.

“I travel light.”

•

As you traverse the valley, the marshland turns to grass. You encounter fewer bodies, and those you find are too degraded to wake.

The horizon alights with a flash, and Merra freezes. Thunder roils over the hills.

“You never did tell me what moved you to fight,” you say, quietly.

“I had a quest,” she says, simply. Her hair whispers in the wind, and you nod.

“Then you are bound to it.”

She looks at you with pleading eyes. “But I was dead.”

You shake your head. “It doesn't work like that.”

Thunder resounds.

After a day's travel, the once-lush grass turns to scorched earth underfoot. You stop in your tracks.

“This is Vale-Meg'ed.”

•

Amongst the rubble, there is but one field undisturbed by ash. It's the stable where you hid from the blacksmith all those years ago. Most unusually of all, the gate which you closed has since remained intact.

The horse stands alone in the field, her tail flicking back and forth. She's much older now, and has a grey streak on her nose, but you'd know her anywhere.

“You survived the war,” you comment, as you reach for her mane. She huffs, and hoofs at the dirt. You raise an eyebrow, and turn to Merra. “Could you open the gate?”

She opens it, and the horse races through the ruined grove. You follow behind.

Merra gasps. Right before your eyes, the charred treetops flourish and bear fruit. The horse gallops towards them, and you sprint to catch up.

You chuckle, softly. “Do you forgive me now, mare?”

The horse scarfs down her apples, and allows you to pet her mane.

•

You sleep in the rubble of the magery, and Merra takes first watch. The next morning, you are woken by the sun.

“You didn’t wake me,” you say.

“No,” she says, as she watches the sunrise.

You fall silent. This is her quest, not yours.

•

You spend the day on Mage’s Hill. Merra prepares barricades, and whets her blade. Somehow, you feel as if you've known her a lifetime.

You search the ruins one last time, and are not surprised when you find it, in the remains of the novice quarters.

It is a first-hewn staff. The wood crackles beneath your fingertips.

The ruins are painted orange by sunset.

•

Past nightfall, you remain alert. You sit a few paces from Merra, twisting the staff in your hands. There's a familiarity about it you cannot place, a raw power which stings you if you hold it tight.

The wind picks up suddenly. Too suddenly.

“This is magewind!” She yells.

You jump to attention. It's been many years since you've felt anything like it, but it chills you to the bone. All you can picture is that night on Mages' Hill, on the eve of war: a staff, held aloft as red robes billowed in the breeze.

Tonight, a mass moves upon you: denser than storm itself.

“Merra!” You cry, as the gale sweeps her aside. She catches hold of one of the barricades; hefty chunks of stone which buckle under the pressure.

You run for her, but the wind picks you up like a ragdoll. You fall, and scrape upon every rock as you’re dragged dowhill. You are drowning in wind itself, the breath rivened from you faster than you can draw it. Your clothes tear, then your flesh. You thrust the staff forwards, blindly, and puncture an air pocket. You push down, and pressure slaps you back. You tumble again and again, until at last you make contact with the ground.

You lie, spread-eagled on the floor.

A numbness overtakes you. You grip the staff so tight that it flares with energy.

The sky above you dances. Merra lunges at clouds, and purple lightning arcs around her. A shadow flits through the smog, impossibly light and fast.

The shape moves upon you: dark, tattered robes, deeper than blood, deeper than red, but unmistakably the same robes from all those years ago, held together by magiks. His boots- made of a fine, red leather, have similar weatherproofing, and your eyes dart to Merra.

“Face me,” says the storm.

Your head tilts back to observe him. It hurts to watch, this splicing-together of mage and fury. You try to turn away, but the wind holds you fast. You see Merra from the corner of your eye, silhouetted against the storm.

The Summoner moves upon you slowly, as if he isn't used to walking. “You’re no mage,” he says, at last.

On the hill, Merra drives her sword into the clouds, but The Summoner ignores her. He circles around you. Far too slowly, the feeling returns to your legs.

“Years ago, when the battle was won and there were less bodies on the battlefield than there should be; I heard the strangest whispers from the valley.” He speaks in a low voice, barely above a whisper, but the breeze carries every word. “They spoke of a novice, who summoned the dead.” He turns his attention back to the top of the hill, where Merra is fighting shadows. “You have resurrected one of mine.” He raises a hand. “It’s time to correct that mistake.”

Lightning connects with the tip of Merra’s sword, and the flash lights up the mountainside.

“Mer…” you twitch.

Soil cascades from the heavens, and you hold the staff aloft. “Heed me,” you say. “Heed me!”

It might as well be a twig.

The Summoner laughs. “You cannot resurrect ash.”

You roll onto your front, too weak to stand. For the first time in your life, you attempt to use your powers with intention. You draw runes in the dirt and chant long-forgotten spells, as The Summoner watches with cold amusement.

“You don't know our craft. The magik you do have is little more than a parlour trick.”

“I knew enough to thwart you,” you wheeze.

“Can you undo this, Pretender?”

He unfurls his palm, and the storm rages louder than before. It howls and howls, and lightning blasts the ground until Mage’s Hill is cratered.

Earth is loosened. Stones and rocks turn to vapor, and become part of the storm.

You crawl towards the place where Merra was standing, though you know it is useless. You might as well be crawling through mud in the swamp where you found her. There's an uphill climb past jagged rocks, and another fall would kill you. You have never had to un-make your own death. You wait, as the land continues to slide.

The hill remains un-mended. This cannot be undone– but you can still fight.

“This staff was yours,” you whisper. You haven't seen it since you were three-and-ten, but you recognise it's power.

“Yes.” He holds out a hand, and it flies to him. The staff cracks with energy, and he weighs it in his palm. “I have surpassed the need to bind my magik to the physical realm. But you… You cannot even cast an illusion.” He tosses the staff back to you, and it lands in the dirt.

You make no attempt to pick it up.

“You saw that first summoning spell on Mages' Hill, and were powerless to stop me then. What makes you think you can stand against me now?” His hand forms a fist.

For the first time in your life, lightning makes no effort to avoid you. It arches out of the sky, and bears down on you again and again. You lie in the dirt. You know there is no escape, for this is the mage who commands the four winds as he pleases.

You should be dead, like Merra.

The Summoner’s voice booms, magnified tenfold by the storm. “All that I call for comes to me but The Dead. You have hidden that power from me for too long!”

You open your eyes. A flash of silver runs down the hillside, too small to be lightning. You steady your breathing, and fix your gaze on The Summoner.

“You are no chosen one,” he bellows, as the light flashes again.

“No,” you gasp. “But she is.”

He turns, as Merra strikes true. It's a killing blow, perfectly aimed for the heart, but the storm coalesces around him, and the sword is ejected from his chest. Red blood whips around him, the same colour as his robes, as the heavens bend towards Merra. With a yell, she drives her sword into the ground, and the sky detonates. The energy flows through it once more, illuminating her skeleton, but she stands strong.

She grabs The Summoner with both hands, tearing his robes. He holds out a hand for his magestaff, and you close your fingers around it. It drags you through the dirt until you fall beside him, and you grasp his foot.

You have never needed to fight before, and you're not suited for it. Your attempts to trip him are met with a single kick to the forearm, as the wind tears at you. The lightning which rains down upon you hits all three of you indiscriminately, but The Summoner only grows stronger from each strike. He holds his arms out, bathing in it, as Merra wrenches her sword free.

The blade swings in a wide arc. It hits him at the same moment the lightning does.

For a moment, they are bound together; Knight and Summoner both. They fall as one unit, and crumple to the ground.

Merra smoulders. You struggle towards her. Your back stings; patches exposed to the open air as rainwater falls into the cuts.

Though it feels like an age, you reach her. The Summoner lies mere inches away, motionless.

You place your hands on either side of Merra’s head, and call on a power you have no control over.

With surprising strength, her hands push yours away.

“You must leave this place,” she whispers. “Leave, or he'll never die.”

You grasp her hands with your own. “But you will live.”

Her laugh is a death rattle. “He has killed so many. What's one more?”

You shake your head, and force yourself upwards. Your arms tremble with effort; your legs won't respond.

The Summoner does not stir.

“Leave,” Merra utters.

You fall at her side. “I cannot.”

•

You're not sure for how long you lie there. It could be days, it could be mere hours.

The storm passes on, though the skies remain grey.

The horse trots towards you, and, at last, you find the strength to sit up.

“Merra,” you say.

She looks up.

The two of you struggle to stand, sliding in the mud as you do.

You stroke the mare. The grey streak has disappeared from her nose, and Merra notices it too. She scratches her ears, and you let out a breath.

“A fine steed,” you say, “For an immortal knight.”

She looks at you with wonder. Neither of you know if it is true.

No one has ever died in your attendance before, and you've yet to see if it's possible. As you leave the crater which was once Mages’ Hill, ash falls upon you, followed by light rain. Merra tenses, but says nothing as she climbs onto the horse. She helps you on, and the horse moves in a direction of her choosing.

Neither of you turn to see what becomes of The Summoner’s remains, but the rain doesn't follow you for long. There begins a light sunshine, and the horse gains to a canter, as Merra hugs her mane for balance, and you cling to Merra for yours. She laughs, and spurs the horse onwards with a shout.

The three of you ride towards Vale-Egar.

The Un-Maker

To the uninformed, you are nothing more than a necromancer. You wear their sigil on your chest; the chief mage insists on it- after all, he can read magik better than most. He is the first to discern the true meaning of your gift, years before even you do.

His own magik is significantly strong- though, like him, it has withered with time. By and large, the other mages ignore you. After all, you are only a svvein.

The first time you leave the magery, he gives you a cloak. It's dark purple- the robe of a novice- which is a generous assessment at best. You can barely resurrect a magefly.

His eyes sparkle, then grow serious. “Take it,” he insists. “It will help you blend in.” Of course, you take it only to humor him- blending in comes naturally to you. It might be your only skill.

You perform small tasks in the village, basic magecraft which is little more than a conjurer's trick. You un-break a wheel. You un-graze a knee. When you pass, the best blacksmith in the village watches with baited breath.

You un-forge his sword.

•

While hiding from the smith, you crouch behind the stables. You won’t realise for many years, but the gate you closed on the way in prevented the escape of a horse. The horse- who dreams of the apples in the nearby grove- snickers sadly to herself.

There is a boy at the magery who wears red. Red, the robes of a master. He holds himself with the confidence of someone older, but both of you are five-and-ten.

One night, he lifts a heavy staff above his head, and performs a summoning spell: the most powerful of all magecraft. In an instant, the sky trembles, and rolls with dark clouds. The old masters rejoice, and sing his praises in the downpour, of a boy so powerful that even lightning obeys his command.

You shelter at the edge of the courtyard, and watch without envy.

He's the first to leave, when the war comes.

•

In the coming weeks, you wander the village. You are the only teenager left now that the others have gone, but there are still children to babysit. There are still bloody noses and scraped knees to un-attend to. By now, the villagers know your gift well- that strange, backwards magik you perform without intention. When your mere presence stops an axe falling on his head, even the blacksmith learns to forgive you.

But then, the war comes for the innocents, too.

Families flee Vale-Meg'ed with oxen, horse and handcart. The mages buy them time, and instruct you to leave with them.

“I want to help,” you say.

“Svvein-”

“Perhaps I can un-make the war!”

The chief mage smiles a grim smile. “It will not obey you.”

“But we haven't tried-”

“No.” He wheels on you, his eyes fury and fire. “Take this, and flee.”

It's his first-hewn staff: a spindly thing he carved as a mageling. It's little more than a bolt of wood, but you feel its weight when you touch it. Your hands tremble, and the old mage drives it into the ground afore you.

Sparks flicker.

“Go!”

When you stumble, the staff catches you.

You flee. You trip on your robes, drive the staff into the path, and watch dust fly where sparks ought to instead. You drive the staff down again and again, but it leaks no more magik.

In the distance, storms rage over Mages' Hill. Thunder crackles, and lightning flickers back and forth. Two dark clouds loom beside each other, fighting for dominance.

•

There's a body on the road out of Vale-Meg'ed.

You can't help but slow down. You've seen dead bodies before, of course– they used them for practice at the magery, even those that you couldn't resurrect– so you know what they look like.

For the first thirty seconds, this person is definitely deceased. Then, they gasp, and sit bolt upright.

You scream, and they do too.

Once the shock of not being dead has worn off, they cough soundly, and offer you a swig of water from their flask. Not knowing what killed them, you shake your head.

They down it, then cough some more. “Young svvein. You are but a novice?” They say, seeing your simple robes.

“I–” you say. “I didn’t–”

“Why, magikst most powerful!” They declare, as they check their wounds. “I thought I was going to lose my leg.”

You stare at them in silence as they reach for their purse. “Svvein, I know not why you've saved my life- and I have few coins to give- but accept my thanks.”

You take their silver, if only to preserve your cover, and help them to their feet. They accompany you to the end of the road, where the path splits. Then, they give thanks, and head towards Mages’ Hill.

It’s silent now, but the fires are still burning.

You turn away, and touch the embroidered sigil on your chest: the necromancer’s coil. You wonder if the chief mage knew more than he let on.

•

True necromancing is a complex task, often requiring a pack of mages. Death has compounding interest. The more injuries, the more mages are required. The longer dead, the longer the spell must prevail. Ordinarily, necromancers work long, arduous hours to resurrect a single person. Those who have an understanding of the mage’s art are shocked to see only one of you.

“Where are the others?” someone asks, as you pass them.

“They... Went to lunch,” you say.

“That's unheard of.” They stretch, and crack their back. “The first thing they do is always to collect payment.”

“This isn't your first time being resurrected, is it?” You realise, with a sinking feeling.

They grin toothily, and accept a discount, in exchange for not asking too many questions.

•

In the coming weeks, you un-kill many people along the battlefield. The bodies you pass wake up more often than not, always coughing and spluttering. That which once was jarring becomes routine. Some scream in fright, others clutch at long-healed wounds. Others jolt at the sight of a mage, and cower in your presence.

“Get away, get away!”

Beside them, a cracked mage-staff lies in the mud, snapped cleanly in two. You decide to forgo payment.

You make a living this way for a while, drifting from battle to battle like a vulture. It pays little- the soldiers that die are never the best-equipped, and you get there long after the looters do. Still, those who find themselves alive are invariably grateful to do so, and reward you as well as they can. It's enough to buy you board at the tavern most nights, if not a meal, too.

With time, the war moves on from the valley, though it rages in the distance. You are older now, broader of shoulders, and the First-Hewn staff is older, too. It grows brittle in your fingers.

Before long, it is broken.

You stare at it for a long while, for you are not in the business of breaking things. Still, breaking is a kind of un-making, you suppose. It falls to pieces with nothing more than a whisper, and you mourn it: the First-Hewn staff of an elder holds great power. That it is freed from your possession is a bittersweet relief.

For the first time since the war came, you think of the man who forged it. They say in the early days of war, Mages' Hill was razed to the ground. You haven’t returned to Vale-Meg’ed since.

That night, you rent a room at the tavern, and weep.

•

It's impossible to blend in without your staff, so you attempt to carve your own. For seven suns and seven moons, sparks fly, and lightning pummels the forest. You abandon the task.

The trees are scarred and pockmarked, and the ground will never be the same, yet not a single beam struck you.

For a week, you remain in the valley, but your purse-strings are tight, and the taverns are fit to burst. With little choice, you venture out into the marshland. You out-grew the purple robes years ago, and you’re dressed simply: in a linen shirt and trousers. For now, you are simply a traveller, and you don't intend to continue your grift. Without a staff to speak of, you hardly look the part of a necromancer anymore.

•

Battle does not suit the marshland. It makes the swamp reek worse than usual, and the reeds are soaked with blood. When you trawl for treasure, you find bodies instead.

Bodies who wake up confused, and ask you what's going on.

You sigh, and help them out of the mud.

You wade through the bog for a while, stepping on stones where you can. There's a strange smell in the air; acrid, like burning. The tips of the reeds are signed.

A soldier lies in the dirt, facedown. You roll her over so she doesn’t choke when she wakes, and begin to move on your way.

Her dark eyes open, looking up at the sky. She coughs, and you offer her your water-skin.

She refuses to take it. “I have nothing with which to pay you.”

“The water is a courtesy.”

“And the undying?”

You shift your feet. “That wasn't me.”

She leans back on her arms, and peers up at you sluggishly. “You have no staff.”

“Well-noticed.” You offer a hand.

She doesn’t take it. “There is one other mage who summons without a staff. This war is his design.”

“I am no summoner.”

“Yet you summon the dead.”

You watch her mutely.

“Have I revived you before?” You say at last.

“No, but I've heard of you. You travel alone, and revive villeins when others raise kings.”

You bristle, and take a step backwards. “Your payment is commuted,” you say, and retreat as fast as the mud will allow.

It is not fast at all.

“Wait!” She curses, and coughs furiously. There's a rending, and the slap of footsteps.

You turn. This time, when you offer herr water, she drinks.

“I'm Merra.” She hands the skin back, and wipes her mouth.

“I'm no-one,” you say, which is true enough. You fasten the skin to your belt, and, again, walk away.

Merra keeps pace with you. “I heard you were once a Svvein.”

You remain silent, heading back across the marshland to see how far she will follow. This is the path you cleared earlier– free of bodies– and you retrace your steps where you can. Merra follows all the while, and her sword creaks at her belt.

“Have you no business to attend to?” You say, at last.

“No more than you,” she says, with a smile in her voice.

“I have my living.”

“Then attend to it,” she says. “You think I haven't noticed you're avoiding the dead?”

“Necromancing is a hallowed ritual,” you say.

She scoffs. “Which is why you perform it in galoshes.”

You look down. “There's nothing wrong with my galoshes.”

“Most mage-shoes are hidden by their robes,” she muses. “But I'd imagine mage-shoes are made waterproof by enchantment.”

“That would be a waste of enchantment.”

“And what of your robes, or lack thereof?”

You grunt. “The war destroyed Mages' Hill.”

“Yes, many years ago. But I have seen robes since, and mages too.”

“And what of their magikal shoes?” You ask.

She purses her lips, and surveys the landscape. “There were bodies here, Necromancer. Did you resurrect them all?”

You say nothing.

“It's just past noon,” she reasons. “And this swamp was full of the fallen. How did you recall them all in one morning?”

You glance at her. “How can you be sure I revived you on the same day you fell?”

“As surely as I know there are no maggots in my mouth and nose.”

“Perhaps you have them on the brain.”

You spy the valley up ahead, and slow your pace. You're not eager to return to the villages, with their heroes and veterans and small opportunities; but you can't cross the marshland with Merra- there are too many bodies. Tentatively, you turn onto the village path.

“What killed you?” You enquire, as you walk along.

Merra gives you a look.

“It must have been significant,” you say. “For not all undying know they are so.”

She falls silent, and so do you.

•

You encounter a body on the way into Vale-Egar.

It's a maimed thing, old, bloated, and past its prime. Ordinarily, you wouldn't worry about it- you never seem to wake those who are too far gone- but, today, you pass it with a kind of trepidation. When nothing happens, you let out a breath.

“He looked like a noble,” Merra says, as you hurry past.

“Nothing noble is found in Vale-Egar, especially not by the side of the road.”

“Is that why you won't resurrect him?”

“No,” you say. “It's because he won't come back.”

•

The next body you stumble upon is more intact: a young man with a gaunt face who might as well be sleeping. He's hunched over and leaning against the wall, a tin clutched in his frozen hand. You don't wonder how it stays there- you know better than anyone that rigour mortis begins in the fingers.

As you pass, some colour returns to his face. You hurry Merra along.

The next person you pass is alive, and welcomes you to the village with a smile.

You have no coin with which to pay, but it's no matter. The presence of Merra's sword is payment enough, for there is a bed for all warriors in Vale-Egar.

“That explains why it's so crowded,” you say, as you untie your shoes and leave them at the foot of the bed. You offer to sleep on the floor, but Merra won't hear of it. Apparently, she's got it into her head that she owes you a life-debt. Tonight, you are too tired to argue, so you lay down beside her.

For a long while, she watches you.

The room in this upstairs tavern contains five beds, all of which are crammed with people. You lie on your back and listen to their breathing. This is the closest you've been to the living in a while, and so many, at that. You recall the last time you were around people, of the dormitories on Mages' Hill.

You can feel Merra's breath on your cheek.

“You said not all undead know they are so,” she says.

“Yes,” you murmur.

“So, that beggar outside-?”

“He was merely sleeping.” You move to roll over, but she catches you by the shoulder.

“Credit me some intellect.” She peers down at you. “It was fast; faster than any magecraft I've seen. How did you do it?”

The others in the room are all sleeping soundly.

“I know not how,” you say, in a single breath.

•

In the morning, you leave the village.

“You have no staff,” Merra says, again.

You watch her for a moment. All these years, the staff was your only companion, and now, you have another.

“I haven't the skill to make one,” you admit.

“So, you are no mage.”

“No.”

“And yet you raise the dead.”

•

Over the coming days, Merra accompanies you across the marshland, and the dead spring up in your wake. There's no coin to speak of, but the soldiers pledge fealty to you. You tell them you already have a knight, and a fine one, at that. Merra smiles, as a knight clad in well-made plate armor shakes his head and walks away.

“Have you seen her fight?” Asks another, dressed in mail.

You bristle. “No, but neither, sir, have you.”

He offers her his armor, but she won't take it.

“I travel light.”

•

As you traverse the valley, the marshland turns to grass. You encounter fewer bodies, and those you find are too degraded to wake.

The horizon alights with a flash, and Merra freezes. Thunder roils over the hills.

“You never did tell me what moved you to fight,” you say, quietly.

“I had a quest,” she says, simply. Her hair whispers in the wind, and you nod.

“Then you are bound to it.”

She looks at you with pleading eyes. “But I was dead.”

You shake your head. “It doesn't work like that.”

Thunder resounds.

After a day's travel, the once-lush grass turns to scorched earth underfoot. You stop in your tracks.

“This is Vale-Meg'ed.”

•

Amongst the rubble, there is but one field undisturbed by ash. It's the stable where you hid from the blacksmith all those years ago. Most unusually of all, the gate which you closed has since remained intact.

The horse stands alone in the field, her tail flicking back and forth. She's much older now, and has a grey streak on her nose, but you'd know her anywhere.

“You survived the war,” you comment, as you reach for her mane. She huffs, and hoofs at the dirt. You raise an eyebrow, and turn to Merra. “Could you open the gate?”

She opens it, and the horse races through the ruined grove. You follow behind.

Merra gasps. Right before your eyes, the charred treetops flourish and bear fruit. The horse gallops towards them, and you sprint to catch up.

You chuckle, softly. “Do you forgive me now, mare?”

The horse scarfs down her apples, and allows you to pet her mane.

•

You sleep in the rubble of the magery, and Merra takes first watch. The next morning, you are woken by the sun.

“You didn’t wake me,” you say.

“No,” she says, as she watches the sunrise.

You fall silent. This is her quest, not yours.

•

You spend the day on Mage’s Hill. Merra prepares barricades, and whets her blade. Somehow, you feel as if you've known her a lifetime.

You search the ruins one last time, and are not surprised when you find it, in the remains of the novice quarters.

It is a first-hewn staff. The wood crackles beneath your fingertips.

The ruins are painted orange by sunset.

•

Past nightfall, you remain alert. You sit a few paces from Merra, twisting the staff in your hands. There's a familiarity about it you cannot place, a raw power which stings you if you hold it tight.

The wind picks up suddenly. Too suddenly.

“This is magewind!” She yells.

You jump to attention. It's been many years since you've felt anything like it, but it chills you to the bone. All you can picture is that night on Mages' Hill, on the eve of war: a staff, held aloft as red robes billowed in the breeze.

Tonight, a mass moves upon you: denser than storm itself.

“Merra!” You cry, as the gale sweeps her aside. She catches hold of one of the barricades; hefty chunks of stone which buckle under the pressure.

You run for her, but the wind picks you up like a ragdoll. You fall, and scrape upon every rock as you’re dragged dowhill. You are drowning in wind itself, the breath rivened from you faster than you can draw it. Your clothes tear, then your flesh. You thrust the staff forwards, blindly, and puncture an air pocket. You push down, and pressure slaps you back. You tumble again and again, until at last you make contact with the ground.

You lie, spread-eagled on the floor.

A numbness overtakes you. You grip the staff so tight that it flares with energy.

The sky above you dances. Merra lunges at clouds, and purple lightning arcs around her. A shadow flits through the smog, impossibly light and fast.

The shape moves upon you: dark, tattered robes, deeper than blood, deeper than red, but unmistakably the same robes from all those years ago, held together by magiks. His boots- made of a fine, red leather, have similar weatherproofing, and your eyes dart to Merra.

“Face me,” says the storm.

Your head tilts back to observe him. It hurts to watch, this splicing-together of mage and fury. You try to turn away, but the wind holds you fast. You see Merra from the corner of your eye, silhouetted against the storm.

The Summoner moves upon you slowly, as if he isn't used to walking. “You’re no mage,” he says, at last.

On the hill, Merra drives her sword into the clouds, but The Summoner ignores her. He circles around you. Far too slowly, the feeling returns to your legs.

“Years ago, when the battle was won and there were less bodies on the battlefield than there should be; I heard the strangest whispers from the valley.” He speaks in a low voice, barely above a whisper, but the breeze carries every word. “They spoke of a novice, who summoned the dead.” He turns his attention back to the top of the hill, where Merra is fighting shadows. “You have resurrected one of mine.” He raises a hand. “It’s time to correct that mistake.”

Lightning connects with the tip of Merra’s sword, and the flash lights up the mountainside.

“Mer…” you twitch.

Soil cascades from the heavens, and you hold the staff aloft. “Heed me,” you say. “Heed me!”

It might as well be a twig.

The Summoner laughs. “You cannot resurrect ash.”

You roll onto your front, too weak to stand. For the first time in your life, you attempt to use your powers with intention. You draw runes in the dirt and chant long-forgotten spells, as The Summoner watches with cold amusement.

“You don't know our craft. The magik you do have is little more than a parlour trick.”

“I knew enough to thwart you,” you wheeze.

“Can you undo this, Pretender?”

He unfurls his palm, and the storm rages louder than before. It howls and howls, and lightning blasts the ground until Mage’s Hill is cratered.

Earth is loosened. Stones and rocks turn to vapor, and become part of the storm.

You crawl towards the place where Merra was standing, though you know it is useless. You might as well be crawling through mud in the swamp where you found her. There's an uphill climb past jagged rocks, and another fall would kill you. You have never had to un-make your own death. You wait, as the land continues to slide.

The hill remains un-mended. This cannot be undone– but you can still fight.

“This staff was yours,” you whisper. You haven't seen it since you were three-and-ten, but you recognise it's power.

“Yes.” He holds out a hand, and it flies to him. The staff cracks with energy, and he weighs it in his palm. “I have surpassed the need to bind my magik to the physical realm. But you… You cannot even cast an illusion.” He tosses the staff back to you, and it lands in the dirt.

You make no attempt to pick it up.

“You saw that first summoning spell on Mages' Hill, and were powerless to stop me then. What makes you think you can stand against me now?” His hand forms a fist.

For the first time in your life, lightning makes no effort to avoid you. It arches out of the sky, and bears down on you again and again. You lie in the dirt. You know there is no escape, for this is the mage who commands the four winds as he pleases.

You should be dead, like Merra.

The Summoner’s voice booms, magnified tenfold by the storm. “All that I call for comes to me but The Dead. You have hidden that power from me for too long!”

You open your eyes. A flash of silver runs down the hillside, too small to be lightning. You steady your breathing, and fix your gaze on The Summoner.

“You are no chosen one,” he bellows, as the light flashes again.

“No,” you gasp. “But she is.”

He turns, as Merra strikes true. It's a killing blow, perfectly aimed for the heart, but the storm coalesces around him, and the sword is ejected from his chest. Red blood whips around him, the same colour as his robes, as the heavens bend towards Merra. With a yell, she drives her sword into the ground, and the sky detonates. The energy flows through it once more, illuminating her skeleton, but she stands strong.

She grabs The Summoner with both hands, tearing his robes. He holds out a hand for his magestaff, and you close your fingers around it. It drags you through the dirt until you fall beside him, and you grasp his foot.

You have never needed to fight before, and you're not suited for it. Your attempts to trip him are met with a single kick to the forearm, as the wind tears at you. The lightning which rains down upon you hits all three of you indiscriminately, but The Summoner only grows stronger from each strike. He holds his arms out, bathing in it, as Merra wrenches her sword free.

The blade swings in a wide arc. It hits him at the same moment the lightning does.

For a moment, they are bound together; Knight and Summoner both. They fall as one unit, and crumple to the ground.

Merra smoulders. You struggle towards her. Your back stings; patches exposed to the open air as rainwater falls into the cuts.

Though it feels like an age, you reach her. The Summoner lies mere inches away, motionless.

You place your hands on either side of Merra’s head, and call on a power you have no control over.

With surprising strength, her hands push yours away.

“You must leave this place,” she whispers. “Leave, or he'll never die.”

You grasp her hands with your own. “But you will live.”

Her laugh is a death rattle. “He has killed so many. What's one more?”

You shake your head, and force yourself upwards. Your arms tremble with effort; your legs won't respond.

The Summoner does not stir.

“Leave,” Merra utters.

You fall at her side. “I cannot.”

•

You're not sure for how long you lie there. It could be days, it could be mere hours.

The storm passes on, though the skies remain grey.

The horse trots towards you, and, at last, you find the strength to sit up.

“Merra,” you say.

She looks up.

The two of you struggle to stand, sliding in the mud as you do.

You stroke the mare. The grey streak has disappeared from her nose, and Merra notices it too. She scratches her ears, and you let out a breath.

“A fine steed,” you say, “For an immortal knight.”

She looks at you with wonder. Neither of you know if it is true.

No one has ever died in your attendance before, and you've yet to see if it's possible. As you leave the crater which was once Mages’ Hill, ash falls upon you, followed by light rain. Merra tenses, but says nothing as she climbs onto the horse. She helps you on, and the horse moves in a direction of her choosing.

Neither of you turn to see what becomes of The Summoner’s remains, but the rain doesn't follow you for long. There begins a light sunshine, and the horse gains to a canter, as Merra hugs her mane for balance, and you cling to Merra for yours. She laughs, and spurs the horse onwards with a shout.

The three of you ride towards Vale-Egar.

I'd like to imagine Bill has something to look forward to