Marrow was waiting for something to happen, while the toad was sitting on his shoulders, slowly oozing various liquids onto his coat, but otherwise quiet and unmoving.

He was a bit disappointed. Not that he had any particular expectations, but he had hoped for… at least something to happen.

But maybe he had to be more patient.

Had it perhaps something to do with the creature not breathing any longer? Or perhaps it was connected to the soul thing? After all, his skill [Soul Manipulation] did not work because he had no soul… was that needed to have a familiar? Or perhaps the familiar had to have a soul… did being dead remove the soul?

As Marrow contemplated all of these essential questions, a voice suddenly thundered through the barroom. “Stop!”

As the single word reverberated through the tavern, seemingly echoing from the walls, and multiplying in the process, an overwhelming pressure descended on everyone in the room, and people stopped moving, whether they wanted to or not.

And then Gunther, face flushed red in anger, stomped into the middle of the room.

“You pathetic runtlips! What are you doing to my tavern? I am going to show all of you what it means to mess with Gunther! Miserable cowloops, all of you.”

In a rising panic, people struggled to get out of the overwhelming force that tied them down in place. But in front of the domineering presence of Gunther, who almost seemed ablaze in righteous fury, their resistance wilted to nothing.

For all but one being.

Marrow had finally had enough of waiting for something to happen and decided to go and seek out Catyln for some advice. She was a smart one, he thought… or perhaps not smart, but knowledgeable? If he thought back on the behavior of his fellow group members, he was not always sure of the intellectual merit of their actions. But then again, without proper language skills it was not easy to deduct what they went on about.

Toad on the shoulder, Marrow sauntered through the stunned crowd of people, idly wondering why everyone had stopped moving. Of course he had heard the big human command everyone to stop, and even had felt the pressure on his bones… but he did not want to stand in place, so he did not.

And ambling around felt just right, somehow.

Gunther’s piercing glare fell on Marrow immediately.

“You! Why are you moving?”

“.”

Marrow did not immediately answer. In fact, he was puzzled. What kind of question was that? Why would he not move?

Instead of responding, Marrow just ignored the big man and sauntered right past him, obstinance in perfection.

Until a heavy hand fell on his shoulder, restraining him in place.

“Hey, I am talking to you.”

Marrow swiveled his head 270 degrees and stared at Gunther.

“.”

His weird ability to turn his head to such a degree, without any sign of discomfort, and then the utterly calm and dispassionate stare, clearly unsettled Gunther.

For that matter, he was not used to anyone being able to resist his [Lord] class skill. At least not anyone in such a low-level area as where his tavern was situated. In the capital it might be a different story, but for good reasons he was not there…

Nonetheless, Gunther wanted to have some answers. “So?”

“So what?” Marrow finally responded.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Yes!?”

“What?”

Now Gunther was even more confused. And so was Marrow.

They stared at each other for a long moment… something that felt quite natural to Marrow, but less so for Gunther.

And Gunther blinked first, which, of course, was not surprising.

“How are you able to resist my skill?”

“.”

Marrow just stared.

“This should not be possible…,” Gunther muttered to himself. “Unless…”

He moved his head closer to Marrow’s ears and whispered, “Are you from Ikandria?”

“.”

“You are, aren’t you?”

Marrow just stared. Truth be told, he had to idea what the big man, Catlyn had called him Gunther, was talking about. And Marrow was starting to figure out that staring at people made them talk more. It was almost like magic. It first started that they would close those flaps of skin over their eyes, sometimes rapidly, and then, often, they would contort their face a bit, almost like a squirming. And then they would say more stuff that occasionally made it more clear what they wanted. Not always though.

And sometimes ‘yes’ or ‘no’ or ‘what’ were also helpful words. So Marrow somewhat randomly mixed those answers when he had no idea what was going on.

So since simply staring did not yield much more information, Marrow decided to try another word. “What?”

“Don’t be coy. I know you are. What is your play?” Gunther hissed while pulling his hand back as if burned.

But in the meantime Marrow had noticed something else interesting… a flying being, small, black, with tiny little wings, that was circling Gunther’s head. Marrow swiveled his head slightly to keep track of the quick, erratic movements and then, when it was above his head, he suddenly jumped up, and, with impeccable timing caught the … thing…, through the small opening in his mask and between his teeth.

Immediately, he started grinding his teeth, delighted to feel and hear the crunching of the carapace of the little flying creature, all the while waiting for something to happen.

Alas, no voice spoke up nor did anything else change, and Marrow started wondering why he had been so convinced that catching that thing was such a good idea. It still felt right though.

And Gunther… he had gotten quite pale somehow, a color that was quite becoming in Marrow’s unbiased opinion.

“So that is why you are here? You are planning to squash me like a fly?” Gunther asked with a slightly trembling voice. ”How dare you come in here and issue threats like that!”

“Yield!” Gunther bellowed in a voice that seemed to fill the sizeable barroom from end to end with more than just noise, but a palpable pressure, that was pushing everyone down to their knees and caused them to drop anything they were holding in their hands to the floor, be that weapons or mugs or something altogether different.

Everyone but Marrow, that was.

Marrow had felt the pressure, and it was a curious thing. But he had no intention to yield. Frankly, he did not even know what yield meant, so it was hard to know what he was supposed to do.

So he just stared, slowly grinding his jaw on the remains of the tiny carapace.

“Yield!” Gunther bellowed again, even louder and more insistent. Sweat started to appear on his forehead, and veins began to throb on his temples.

And this time, such was the pressure, that people began to vomit all over the place, ‘yielding’ their food, altogether desperate to somehow please that voice and the pressure behind it.

But powerful as the command was… it was stymied by our stalwart, or perhaps just ignorant skeleton.

Or maybe it was just his obstinance.

“Who are you?” Gunther whispered despondently.

“Marrow.”

“What?”

Marrow titled his head, slightly annoyed of the inability of people to understand him.

“My name is Marrow.”

“Oh,” Gunther said, clearly confused. “But who sent you? The king?” The last word, Gunther whispered, while looking around for anyone listening in too intently.

Marrow was not sure what or who that king was, so he picked ‘no’ out of the list of likely responses.

Immediately, the face of Gunther became less pale, so Marrow wondered if he had said the wrong thing.

Gunther finally realized that having this conversation with at least thirty other people in proximity was not the best idea. He whirled around and bellowed: “Everyone out! And you better pay for what you broke, or I will find you later… and you will not enjoy that!”

Meekly, the former combatant got up from the bile and booze covered floor, collected their weapons, hats, and other belongings, dropped some coins, and traipsed out of the tavern, leaving only those behind that were unconscious or dead.

Once the last person had left, Gunther turned back to Marrow and said in a conspirational voice, “Alright, my friend, let’s speak frankly. If the king did not send you, was it the madam?”

“No.”

“Hmm, but, then who?” Gunthers face slightly scrunched up as he was thinking about all the political maneuverings in the capital and who might be behind this odd fellow with the strange zombie toad on its shoulder.

And Marrow was simply staring at him, in his unnerving, and unblinking way.

“Tell you what, let’s have a drink and talk about what brings you here.”

Gunther turned around and walked to the counter, beckoning Marrow to come along. At first, Marrow did not really want to go, because he preferred talking to Catlyn about familiars, but she had left… so why not. And he did want to find out what a drink was.

At the counter, Gunther pulled out a burgundy glass bottle from a shelve and filled two small glasses halfway with a deep red liquid. Marrow eyed the procedure with curiosity, unsure if this was some ritual or something more mundane. It did remind him of what the people in this establishment had been doing until the onset of the fight – fill the smallish barrels with liquid and chuck it down. The only difference was the type of liquid and the material of the container.

Before Marrow could further speculate on the implications of that, Gunther raised his glass and looked expectantly at the disguised skeleton. “Blessed Soul, my friend!”

Marrow’s whipped his head around and stared straight at Gunther.

“Soul?”

Gunther looked at Marrow with a puzzled expression on his face. “Uhm, yes!? Blessed Soul!”

“What is a Blessed Soul?” Marrow asked in his usual monotonic voice.

“Uh, I…, it is just something we say when we drink,” Gunther responded somewhat confused. “Is that offensive to you? We can, I don’t know, just say something different…”

Marrow considered the response. Based on the scraps of information he had collected, it seemed as if either raising a container with liquid or swallowing said content, was referred to ‘drinking. And, more importantly, Gunther apparently did not know what a soul was either.

Which really was a shame.

It had become more and more obvious that having a soul was something important, and Marrow was dead set, pun intended, not that Marrow knew what a pun was, on finding out what exactly a soul was. This had been his first good lead, and he needed to investigate further. Surely, someone would know more about this, given that all of the people here did this ‘drinking’.

Or perhaps he would get a soul by engaging in this drinking…!?

Eagerly, Marrow grabbed the glass and raised it, mirroring Gunther’s movement.

“Blessed Soul!” He said, trying to imitate the voice inflection of Gunther, just in case that turned out to be relevant.

Holding his breath, figuratively, Marrow waited for the voice or at least some type of change in his body. Alas, nothing unusual happened. The only thing he noticed was that Gunther was staring at him, at first expectantly and then increasingly fidgety. As if… as if he was waiting for something to happen.

“What?” Marrow said.

“Well, you are the guest… so you are supposed to drink first, you know?”

“No.”

“What? Uhm, alright, I guess you don’t trust me yet. Fair enough, I will drink first.” With those words, Gunther raised the glass to his lips and poured the content down his throat in one smooth motion. Immediately, he started coughing violently, and sweat appeared all over his face.

After a few failed attempts, he finally managed to draw a deep breath and suppress further coughs.

“Geeze, this drogomen brew is wicked. I had forgotten how strong it really is. Something for real men, huh?” he chuckled while glancing with a somewhat uncertain expression at Marrow. “If you would prefer a different spirit, I have other things. But this sure warms the soul and the heart too.”

Ah. So it was connected to the soul. And it was a spirit? Immediately, Marrow mimicked the motion of Gunther and poured the glass of liquid through the small slit in the mask into his skull. The strong alcohol splattered down his jaw, dribbled over his ribcage and eventually ran down his leg-bones into his boots, where it collected into a little puddle, slowly soaking into the cheap leather.

And Marrow waited, motionless, for something to happen.

Meanwhile, Gunther stared at Marrow with a flabbergasted and slightly apprehensive expression.

“Uh, I see. I guess it was not that strong after all. Do you want another one?”

Marrow considered for a moment, whether it was worthwhile… but not every attempt at absorbing a brain had led to success either, so perhaps it was a matter of chance? Since it was neither more nor less unpleasant than cracking spider skulls, Marrow decided just to try.

“Yes.”

With a relieved expression, Gunther filled the two glasses again, this time making sure to only fill a tiny portion into his own.

With another ‘Blessed Soul!’ they both chucked down their drinks, with, predictably, similar results as before. But Marrow was not disheartened and kept on quaffing drink after drink. Eventually, the bottle was empty, and, Gunther walked unsteadily around the bar, trying to find another strong spirit to offer his guest. A guest, that, despite his best attempts, had neither taken off his mask to drink nor had revealed any additional information about what had brought him to this butt-of-the-world area in the deep hinterlands.

“Thish is the undeniababbily besht liq, liq, liqeuooor I have. Youuuu’ll love itt,” Gunther mumbled, almost incoherently.

Marrow had had a hard time understanding Gunther before, but it was getting worse. Was it the ‘drinking’ that was causing that? But why did that not do anything to him? Was it, perhaps, again that soul thing?

Not that having trouble enunciating words correctly was high on Marrow’s wishlist… but the fact remained that it likely again was connected to him not having a soul. Before he could dwell further on that thought, Gunther leaned over conspiratorily and whispered in an oddly loud voice but with surprisingly little slurring: “Sooo, my friend… why are you really here?”

“.”

Marrow had no idea how to answer the question, so he figured the best response was again to be silent.

“So it is like that, huh? I will give it to him,… I never figured that the old scarecrow would send someone like you after me. I thought, you know, a knife in the dark, perhaps poison, or even a fiery accident… but an amiable fellow like you? Yes, amiable… or perhaps reserved is better. Not ostentatious. Just quiet. A tough drinker. You could even drink a dwarf under the table, and that is saying something. And there I thought I could loosen your tongue with a few drinks, figure out how they found me, perhaps silence you, if need be. And now, look at me…” Gunther was laying his head on the table, at first sobbing slightly, but then suddenly giggling. “How pathetic. The Duke of Harrenthon, reduced to a drunk innkeeper in a shithole in the boonies. If only Marinei could have seen me like that… she would have laughed her…”

Just as suddenly as the sobbing had turned into giggling, it turned right back to sobbing. “Oh, Marinei, I miss you so much. Why? Why did they take you from me?”

The last words had gotten more and more quiet and then turned to a wheezing and hissing noise, as Gunther’s head rested on the counter, unmoving, apart from his gently rising and falling chest, and the softly vibrating libs whenever the bear of a man was exhaling.

Marrow just stared at Gunther, waiting for something else to happen, but nothing did.

All in all, it had been an oddly eventful, yet uneventful few hours. He had learned about familiars, even had gained one himself, and had learned some additional details about souls and drinking. He even, apparently, was friends with Gunther now, or at least, so he had said. At the same time, the drinking had not yielded any results, and the familiar was yet to reveal any special effects on him as well.

Marrow looked around the bar area and noted that it was still empty, apart from the remaining unconscious and dead people, scattered around the floor. To the left was the prone body of a slim, blue-skinned person, with somewhat elongated ears, and a set of impressive canines. A few yards to the right were a couple of humans with those protuberances on their chest and one person that seemed related to… something. It was a bit unclear, what exactly, but it had long ears, hanging down next to its head, and the body was covered in soft, luxurious fur. And then, of course, there was the guy with the massive belly and impressive magical abilities that had started all the fighting.

Marrow speculatively eyed the large variety of unmoving specimen, trying to figure out what to do next. Perhaps… perhaps it was the perfect opportunity to test a few of his theories with, presumably, unresisting subjects.

------------------------------------

“By Gallamutra’s magnificent beard, what just happened?” Gamul asked, blinking his eyes as if he had just woken from a long, deep sleep.

“I am not sure,” Catlyn groaned. “But it certainly gave me a headache.”

“I think, it was Gunther,” Ikarius haltingly said. “It must have been some skill… almost like a domain skill.”

“A domain skill?” Borgar asked in disbelief. “That would mean he is at least level 30!”

“Actually it is level 50 when you can get those types of skills,” Ikarius corrected. “And only certain classes can gain them…”

As he trailed off, Ikarius glanced thoughtfully at the people around them that slowly recovered from their stupor. “Perhaps this is something that we should discuss in more detail a little later.”

“What? Wait? What do you mean by certain classes?” Borgar immediately said in his booming voice. “Do you mean like royalty?”

“Borgar, be quiet!” Ikarius hissed at his fellow adventurer, trying to silence him.

“What? Oh, is this a secret?” Borgar said with evident surprise and still too loud of a voice.

Catlyn glared at him. “Borgar, sometimes…”

“Yes?”

“Never mind, forget it.”

“No, no, I want to know. She who befriends a skeleton and then runs away from it once it turns out that he had become a [Lich] and she who walked into a village of dogmen trying to ask for a quest, despite being a catwoman… what morsels of wisdom can she share with good ol’ Borgar?”

“Hey, that is unfair. We did not know it was a village full of those stinking dogpeople. And you are the one that is always afraid of skeletons.

“Well, perhaps there is a good reason for that,” Borgar responded, glaring at her. “Speaking of… where is our skeletal friend?”

Suddenly reminded of the possibility of a further calamity befalling them through the actions of their bony companion, all four looked around frantically, hoping against all reason that Marrow was just standing passively among the slowly dissipating crowd of people. But clearly, he was not there.

“Do you think that he is still in there?” Catlyn asked with a slight tremor in her voice, betraying how nervous she suddenly was.

“Well, either that, or he went exploring the city… not sure which is worse, to be honest,” Gamul grunted.

Borgar resolutely stepped toward the wooden door leading into the tavern. “I am going to take a look.”

As he got closer, he visibly began to struggle, and sweat started appearing on his forehead. “There is still a lingering effect that keeps me away from the door… what kind of skill does that?”

After a moment, he added: “It seems to be getting weaker though.”

Finally, he reached the door and, with a grunt, yanked the door open. Borgar grabbed the frame of the door with his right hand, and, left hand on the hilt of his dagger, heaved himself inside the tavern. Immediately, he stopped moving, and Catlyn and the others could hear him curse softly.

“What is it Borgar?” Catlyn asked. “What do you see?”

“By Gallamutra’s testicles… what is he doing?” Borgar muttered to himself, but loud enough so the others could hear it.

Gamul turned to the other, alarm written on his face. “He swore by Gallamutra! It must be truly bad. Get ready for a fight!”

Immediately, Catlyn began to conjure her trusted, and only effective combat spell, and Ikarius unsheathed two daggers and put his back flat against the side of the building, right next to the door. After futilely searching for his trusted hammer, Gamul cracked his knuckles and stepped up toward Borgar’s frozen form.

By then a crowd had started forming at a safe distance, looking curiously at the behavior of the four stalwart heroes. It was not uncommon for people to draw weapons in Gyssal, even during the day, but it was highly unusual for anyone assaulting a house, and even more so Gunther’s Tavern. While the tavern was not known for fancy food or great entertainment, it had the reputation of a place of relative safety, enforced by the uncompromising and formidable Gunther the Wordsmith.

The mass of onlookers barely registered with Catlyn and her group though, too worried as they were with what Borgar had discovered.

And then they saw it.

It was a scene out of a madhouse.

Catlyn’s mouth dropped open, and she made a sound that was a mix between a curse and a moan. Gamul, usually never shy for words, just stood there and stared.

Right in front of the door, the bodies of a lanky male and a stocky female were positioned side by side, arms draped over each other, as if in an intimate hug. Right next to them, the body of a blue-skinned merdog was arranged neatly, if one disregarded the cracked skull and the missing arms that were wiggling animatedly next to him on the floor.

A few yards away, a man was laying on his back with a bottle, upside down, stuffed into his mouth, alcohol slowly spilling onto the floor.

And the list went on, with most of the people having their skulls cracked.

While Borgar, Gamul, Catyln, and Ikarius tried to comprehend what they were seeing, Marrow ambled over to the sleeping Gunther, his boots making an oddly squishing noise. He flipped his mask over, turned his jaw impossibly wide and was just about ready to chomp down on Gunther’s head when the shrill voice of Catlyn stopped him. “Marrow, what are you doing?”

Marrow looked up at Catlyn, whose face was strangely flushed, then down at Gunther’s head, and up at Catlyn again. He really was not sure how to answer that question — biting Gunther’s head? It was kind of obvious...

“Yes!?”

“Marrow, why are you biting Gunther’s head?” Catlyn tried again.

“He is a friend!”

“He is… what? Why is he your friend? And why would you bite his head because of that?” Catlyn almost shrieked.

Marrow considered his answer for a bit, including how to formulate it correctly. The increased exposure to conversations and language, in general, had been tremendously helpful in increasing his vocabulary.

“Gunther said I was his friend… and I wanted to see if friendship matters.”

“Of course, friendship matters.”

“Oh.” Marrow responded.

“But why would you bite his head for that?”

“How else would I find out if it mattered?” Marrow was genuinely confused now. Was there a different way to absorb brains? Perhaps another one of his special [Lich] skills? After all, Catlyn had mentioned something about that.

“Well, friendship matters in all kinds of ways,” Catlyn said, clearly flustered.

“Like what?”

“Uhm, like friends help each other!”

“Ah.” Marrow considered the response. How was helping connected to absorbing brains? Could a friend improve the effect? Was there something else he was missing?

“Are you my friend?” Marrow asked after another second of consideration.

“Uh, yes, maybe? Do you want to be my friend?”

Marrow was not sure what to say. “Yes?”

“Oh, good then,” Catlyn looked relieved. “So no killing of friends, you hear me?”

“Yes,” Marrow responded. Of course, he could hear her. She talked loud enough in her unusually high pitched voice.

He promptly turned around, spread his jaw again to encompass all of Gunther’s head and was ready to bite down, when Catlyn screamed: “Marrow, stop that! You just agreed not to do that.”

“I did?”

Marrow thought back on the conversation during the last few moments and could not find an instance in which he had agreed not to bite Gunther’s head. Did he still misunderstand some of the words? Was there a nuance somewhere, or a word having different meanings? He had previously noticed that the meaning of words often depended on context, so it was quite possible.

“Yes, you did,” Catlyn said with a flushed face, visibly struggling to calm herself down.

“Ah.”

Marrow stood motionless for a moment, considering what to do next. Of course, biting Gunther’s head still remained a possibility, as he thought Catlyn’s command was quite unreasonable. If friends were there to help, then Gunther surely would not object.

“Why not bite?” Marrow asked eventually, curious if there was some logical reason he was missing.

Catlyn looked flustered by the question. “Well, he would die!”

“Yes,” Marrow responded, still confused.

“Exactly!”

“.”

Marrow just stared at Catlyn, waiting for some further reason that made more sense. When he realized that Catlyn had made her point and thought it sufficed as an explanation, he decided to prod for further clarification.

“So what?”

“Well, I mean,” Catlyn sputtered, trying to come up with a good explanation. “No one wants to be dead!”

Marrow took off one of his gloves, looked at his beautifully bleached bone for a bit, and then stared at Catlyn.

“Why not?”

“Because… because if you are dead, you don’t feel anything and can’t think.”

Marrow considered this for a little bit, but could not figure out how that made any sense. “I can.”

“Well, yes,…. but…, so, it is like this, I am sure Gunther does not want to be dead,” Catlyn said with as much conviction as she could.

“Ok. But you said that friends help each other! Does he not want to help me?”

“Argh… how is that connected? How does he help you by dying?” Catlyn was slowly but surely getting frustrated by the circular conversation.

“Maybe I can absorb the brain of friends better than of others,” Marrow explained in his stoic and monotonous voice. Then he pointed at the dead bodies with crushed skulls laying around. “Having protuberances, or different skin color, or magical skills made no difference.”

“By Lissandra… that is why you always crack the skulls of your enemies…” Catlyn groaned. “ A freaking skill. And I thought it was just a quirk… Marrow, listen to me! You cannot do that to humanoids, at least not to those that don’t attack you first. And certainly not in a city.”

Marrow looked at the dead bodies scattered around the tavern floor, then back at Catlyn, clearly not comprehending.

With a sigh, Catlyn corrected herself. “Well, obviously, you can, but you should not do that. If you do, it will cause all kinds of trouble for you and the rest of us.”

“Ah.”

Finally, Catlyn had said something that made sense. Not that Marrow understood the type of trouble this might cause. But then again, even though he was intelligent, he did not have much in terms of knowledge, and he was well aware of that.

Before Catlyn could ask further about the skill or how Marrow had suddenly become friends with Gunther, or even why Marrow had a dead toad sitting on his shoulders, Ikarius suddenly made a loud shushing noise. Forehead pressed against the door, Ikarius was peeking through a tiny gap between the heavy wooden planks at the street outside. The tension in his body was betraying his worry.

“The city watch is coming! We need to move!” He hissed.

“But we did not do anything wrong,” Gamul protested.

"Think,” Ikarius said with an urgent voice. “Lots of people saw us come to Gyssal with Marrow. If they find him here and see the blood splattered all over his robes, they will surely kill us all, or, at the very least, throw us into prison.”

“By Gallamutra’s badonkadonk behind,” Gamul groaned. “I just wanted a quiet pint of mead and a nice bed… is that too much to ask?”

Grumbling, Gamul stomped to the other side of the room as quickly as his stubby legs would carry him. On the way, he picked up an ax from one of the corpses and a tankard with a few sips of ale remaining at the bottom.

In the meantime, Catlyn ushered the bewildered Marrow to the other side as well, while Borgar and Ikarius formed a vanguard, impatiently waiting for the rest of the group to make their escape.

“What are we going to do?” Catlyn almost whined, while urging Marrow to move faster.

“We’ll just have to lay low for a bit until this blows over,” Ikarius stated quietly, with more confidence than he felt. “After all, people die all the time in these quarters of the city. I am actually surprised the city watch is even coming out here. Maybe because it is Gunther’s place….”

“What about our stuff?” Borgar asked in his booming voice.

“Pssst,” Catlyn hissed immediately, hair standing up instinctively.“Just forget about our stuff for now. Better alive and free than dead with our things.”

“Why is that?” Marrow asked curiously, but the others ignored him completely.

--------------------------------------

A short while later, the group had made their way out of the backdoor into the warren of twisting alleys and rundown houses. The further north they went, the worse the surrounding got – two-story houses changed to shantytowns made out of twisted wooden boards, some fabric and lots of hope. The cobblestone streets turned into muddy, washed-out paths, meandering their way through the haphazard huts and tiny stands from which people with hopeless expressions on their face tried to hawk their wares to equally despairing passersby.

Beggars lined the street, hoping against reason that by some miracle someone might find mercy and give them a coin or two.

And then there were those that did not rely on the mercy of others. The men and women that life had taught to take matters into their own hands. Hard people, that had given up hope, if they ever had any in the first place, for things to change to the better, for life throwing them a bone. These people did not suffer from nightmares from what they did day in and day out. If anything, they had become addicted to the rush of adrenalin and the brief high of taking what they wanted, and metering out their own form of justice, however far from true justice it might be.

And those people were eyeing the group of five odd individuals that made their way through the slums. It was obvious, after even a glance, that these people did not belong there. They were too soft-looking, to concerned about the well-being of others, even if only by avoiding to step on the random beggar in the street. And the quality of their clothes. Oh, what a difference that was. Fabric without holes, soft-looking robes, sturdy vests and pants. And the weapons – high-quality steel rather than shoddy iron, or copper weapons that were common thereabouts.

The ghetto toughs were licking their lips in anticipation of the loot that soon was to be theirs. They already began to eye each other speculatively, contemplating how to secure the most to themselves, even if it, perhaps, involved getting rid of some of their compatriots.

The only thing that was holding them back, for the time being, was the weird creature sitting on the shoulder of the masked person – with every step one of its eyeballs bounced up and down, making it look as if it was playing a game of coljo with its own eye. It did not look threatening… it was too small, after all, to pose a significant danger, but sometimes the unknown is a more effective deterrent, especially against people that are desperate and don’t value life particularly highly.

So for the time being, they followed, sticking to the darkness, sure of their prowess of staying away from the eyes of the strangers walking their territory.

Within a couple of minutes, Ikarius tilted his head slightly, glancing from left to right, and then casually turned toward the others.

“Don’t look, but we are being followed,” Ikarius said in an almost conversational tone.

Immediately, Borgar, Catlyn, and Gamul stopped moving their heads and kept it fixed forward, allowing only their eyes to scan the surrounding.

“Stop behaving so obvious,” Ikarius hissed at them from between clenched teeth.

“What do you mean?” Borgar hissed back. “I am not even looking around.”

“Exactly, you moron,” Ikarius cursed. “You are all behaving like complete idiots! All but Marrow, for some reason.”

“Wait, how is Marrow behaving any better than us?” Borgar grumbled. “He is turning his head like a swivel toy from left to right and back.”

“Yes, he is. But he has been doing that the whole time, so it is just more of the same… as if he has no clue that someone is following us. You, however…,” Ikarius just shook his head in exasperation, stopped talking, and instead readied his two daggers surreptitiously.

The odd behavior had indeed not escaped the attention of the local toughs, and with a swagger, they started piling out of the cover of the shadows, stands, and shanty huts.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” a skinny man drawled as he approached the adventurers. He had a crooked nose and only a few yellow-stained teeth left in his mouth, which made his smile rather horrific instead of the intended genial expression.

“We don’t want any trouble,” Ikarius said in a confident, yet respectful tone. “Why don’t you let us pass, and we will be on our way.”

“My friends, this is not how we do things here. Does anyone know what we will do instead? Hmmm?” The reedy man smirked at the group of five travelers, caressing the wicked-looking dagger in his right hand.

When Borgar, Gamul, Catlyn, and Ikarius remained silent, Marrow decided to offer an opinion. After all, he had just learned the answer to that question. “We drink! And we help each other!”

The toughs stared at Marrow for a moment, utterly surprised by the out-of-place statement.

“You,” the lanky fellow stated after a moment, “are one funny jokester.”

“No,” Marrow responded confidently. It was a bit confusing why everyone thought that he was a jokester or clown when, in fact, he was a [Lich].

Tired of waiting, a haggard, hard-looking woman stepped up to the thin man, spat a glob of phlegm on the ground and hissed: “You are dead. All o-.”

“Yes,” Marrow said, interrupting her midsentence.

“What?”

Marrow started to get annoyed again. Why was it that people did not understand him. Yes, no, what… those were the easiest words! Yet, whenever he used them, inevitably people would look at him quizzically or respond with their own ‘what.’

“I said ‘yes’,” Marrow repeated with a suffering sigh, a noise that he had gleaned from Catlyn when she was interacting with Borgar and now attempted to imitate for the first time. Perhaps it was the somewhat raspy touch to it that made the woman momentarily shrink back a step, or it was the unexpectedness of a prospective victim looking utterly unconcerned about his impending death and even agreeing to it.

“Enough of this useless jabbering,” a wide-shouldered brute of a man, with a face covered in pockmarks, grunted while stepping forward with a cudgel raised high, ready to strike at Ikarius.

Immediately, Ikarius whipped out the two daggers he had kept hidden and almost seemed to glide forward into the step of the big man, daggers stabbing into his unprotected belly and chest. With a wet sounding gurgle, the brute stumbled back, falling into the side of a ramshackle hut, which collapsed under his weight and buried him in wooden planks and fabric.

For a moment, the toughs were shocked at the sudden turn of event, but then they raised whatever weapons they had and, screaming wildly, threw themselves at the adventurers.

Borgar had taken the brief moment of respite to grab a massive beam and started swinging it around in an attempt to keep the attackers from their backs. Catlyn quickly summoned her magic and shot first one, then two and three magic missiles right into the face of the lanky leader, causing him to stumble back, grunting in pain. Gamul, meanwhile, grabbed his new ax and, muttering under his breath, began to swing it in tight, controlled arcs, meant to hold back the overwhelming number of attackers rather than score killing strokes.

Marrow was just standing there, a bit unsure what to do. On the one hand, Ikarius had just killed one of those people, and Catlyn had attacked another one. On the other hand, they were still in the city, and these were people… and Catlyn had said that he should not kill anyone. Thinking back, he realized that she had said nothing about killing people… she had stated something about cracking skulls.

By the time he had determined that he could participate in the scuffle the group of attackers was already on him.

The first one had a long shiv in his hand and jammed it right into Marrow’s chest… to little avail. The biggest effect was that the human had expected more resistance and his momentum carried him right into Marrow, effectively bowling him over. Marrow responded by lifting his mask and, opening his jaw impossibly wide, bit into the side of the neck of his would-be killer.

With a crack, the spine broke, and his assailant dropped to the floor limply. Marrow heaved the body off his bony self and, after quickly placing the zombie toad back on his shoulders, rapidly got up on his feet, ready to attack his enemies. Darkness billowed around his body, as shadows seemed to gather around him. Almost subconsciously, Marrow weaved the dark fog into a lance of pure blackness and shot it into the crowd of horrified humans staring at his exposed skull.

The shadow spike impaled three of the thugs, causing them to drop to the floor, whimpering. Their wounds were smoking ruins, promising a long and painful death. Marrow turned his head and faced the remaining thugs with his customary skeletal grin, really the only expression Marrow ever had.

Borgar used the opportunity and jumped forward, swinging the heavy beam with all his devastating strength, clipping three of their adversaries, before slamming into the side of one unlucky man, that had been too transfixed by the sight of Marrow’s grinning skull to notice the danger in a timely fashion.

Meanwhile, Gamul changed from defensive to offensive tactics, cutting a bloody path with his ax, while Ikarius performed his dual-dagger dance of death. Even Catlyn grabbed her staff and started bashing people left and right, trying to get their would-be robbers to break and flee.

But the ghetto made real men and women – despite the surprise revelation of an animated skeleton in their midst, one that, to boot, could cast devastating magic, they still were confident in their chances… after all, they were the strongest gang in their quarter, veterans of countless streetfights. It was not such an easy thing to break their morale.

So they started fighting back in earnest.

And while their weapons were not even close in quality to what our group of would-be heroes possessed, numbers do not lie. Bricks tossed from the surrounding houses, as well as a constant barrage of clubs, rusty swords, daggers, and the like, quickly led to the adventurers suffering from a myriad of wounds.

Even Marrow felt threatened, which was a rare emotion for him. Whenever a stone hit his ribcage or skull, he could feel his bones creak and even crack. And he knew, instinctively, that if his bones fully broke and, perhaps, someone was to smash his skull, he would be dead-dead, or deader, or… or whatever that state might be called.

And while he had no clear idea of what it would be like to be in that state, and honestly, was somewhat curious, he also had the instinctive self-preservation that was part of every skeleton, a component of their internal structure, unless overruled by their progenitor.

So Marrow fought with all he had. Throwing [Forceful Punches] left and right, he cracked bones, caved in ribcages, and tossed his attackers to the ground. But as much as he tried, it was not enough. The press of bodies was too strong, and soon, he felt being pushed further and further back toward the rest of the group.

Marrow quickly recognized that a sword was much better for fighting than just his fists. While his fists were fearsome weapons, their reach was limited, and the wounds not always severe enough to take his opponents out of the fight quickly. But… where was his sword? Suddenly Marrow realized that he had not seen his sword in quite a while…

Momentarily distracted, Marrow did not see one of the clubs swinging at him and was hit full on in the side of his ribcage. A couple of rips broke, and Marrow stumbled to the side.

Marrow looked down at his broken ribcage, observing the bones sticking out of his robe, which, by now was in tatters. And Marrow got angry.

Once more, dark energy billowed around his bony frame, and five corpses began to twitch and then jerkily stand up, right in the midst of the attackers. And while it was one thing to see a skeleton fight against you, even one with a disgusting, dead-looking toad on its shoulders, it was an altogether different situation when your friends, or perhaps not friends, but fellow gang members came back from the dead and started attacking you.

What had been, just moments earlier, a fight of twelve against five, now was a fight of twelve against ten. Given the number of injuries Gamul, Catlyn, Ikarius, Borgar, and even Marrow had suffered, it was far from a forgone conclusion, but certainly, the zombies had evened the odds significantly.

The fight raged on for a few more minutes, and the situation became tenuous when Catlyn and Borgar got hit on the head and fell to the ground, unconscious or dead. Ikarius and Gamul fought like berserkers to keep the gang from their prone bodies, but it looked like things were going badly.

While fighting, Marrow had been mulling over his broken ribcage, deeply upset about the ungainly wound before he realized that the bones were slowly knitting back together… was this his regeneration? But no, it was too fast for that. He had noticed before that his bones slowly healed over time, but that was a matter of hours, not minutes.

And then he remembered his skills… his unarmed strike had one important thing going for them that made them in some situations superior to his rusty sword – each successful hit returned some energy to him, slowly knitting his bones together. With renewed enthusiasm, Marrow almost threw himself at the remaining thugs, who, faced with the flurry of fists and bites, decided to retreat and try for another, easier group to rob.