Brad grumbled. When three men disappeared near that puny village, Pilpen, he’d assumed they’d run away. It was natural. What would a handful of villagers do to three hardened men? Feed them to death?

So he’d reported his suspicions to the big man, Jericho himself.

Now, the 12-man-strong task force they’d sent to this puny village of Pilpen had not returned. Something was up. And that something meant that Brad’s earlier assumption, the one he had reported, had been mistaken.

So naturally, Brad had been tasked with finding out what the hell was going on. Perfect. Just he and two random bastards, sent to investigate something that had killed twelve strong men, Lom included. That man’s axes were beyond fearful.

But Brad was a smart man. He knew that they could not bandit their way out of this one. No no, Brad knew what he’d do; play it safe. Keep it peaceful.

The two bastards under his command were dense as logs, but he’d convinced them to hide their bandit insignias and take off their green robes, leaving only a set of nondescript pants—called hoses.

And he’d taken the lead, much to his own chagrin, but it couldn’t be helped, because the other two would be beyond useless in anything that did not involve swinging stuff around and bashing heads in. Perhaps this was why they’d been assigned this suicide mission with him, and the idiots were even happy about it.

The three of them now lurked in the bushes close to the village, waiting for someone to come. Keeping the two idiots silent was a challenge.

But eventually, someone did show up.

“Shush!” Brad brought a finger to his lips, and the idiots shushed.

A girl approached. She was blond and young, and beautiful, dressed in a green dress and carrying a herb basket. Her gait was hesitant, however, and her eyes thoughtful. She was afraid. Vulnerable.

Brad grinned for more than one reasons. They’d planned to infiltrate the village or kidnap someone, but this might be even more fun.

“Stay the fuck here. If you make a sound, I will personally tear your pitiful throats out,” he whispered to his men, treating them like the garbage they were. Following that, he stepped out of the bushes, pretending he hadn’t noticed the girl. She froze, and, as if only just noticing, he turned his gaze at her.

“Oh,” he said, smiling warmly, “hello.”

The girl stared.

Brad was aware of how he looked. With his blue eyes and blond hair—he even bathed regularly!—he was handsome, he knew that well. He worked out on a daily basis, taking on exercises that the others disdained. They didn’t make him that much stronger, but they did make his body more enticing. Hard abs, proud chest, and muscles that were bulging a bit, just enough to be attractive.

Brad was a narcissist, but he didn’t mind. Everyone deserves their vices. If the Gods had made him handsome, why not capitalize on that?

The girl gaped at his appearance. Currently, he also happened to be shirtless, and he put on his most charming smile.

“Did the cat bite your tongue?” He laughed gently.

She blushed. Brad had to try really hard to suppress his grin. He discreetly brought a hand behind his back and signaled for his men to remain hidden. Young girls were easy to sway; find their buttons, promise them the world, and they’d soon be on all fours in front of him. Being extraordinarily handsome helped too.

Oh, this is going to be fun.

“What’s your name, beauty?”

She looked down. “Holly,” she said timidly, loosening her grip on the basket.

***

The night had been pleasant. The booze flowed freely and the starlight was enchanting, even if the winter’s cold had already begun to creep in. It was late November, and the cold period was already late to come.

Atop Jerry’s tower, the three men laughed and drank; until a certain point, that is. At that point, the night became significantly less pleasant as both Derek and Ashman were struck by a swift case of diarrhea, forcing them to drunkenly run to the cold woods every few minutes.

Jerry found it funny at the time, though in hindsight, it really wasn’t. This was a great reminder that he was immune to disease, being a necromancer, and that the tea he safely consumed wasn’t necessarily as safe for others. Still, the existence of a convenient laxative was good to know. It could be useful at some point.

Jerry was not immune to alcohol, at least. He didn’t remember everything from the night, but he did remember the Mayor making a rather personal request.

“Say, Jerry~” He slung an arm over the necromancer’s shoulders, nearly causing them both to fall off their chairs. “You necromancers deal in life too, right?”

“Sure thing, Ash-dude. What about it?”

“Say,” he hiccuped, breath smelling of booze, “I and Melissa have been trying to have a child for years, but it’s just not working.” He hiccuped again. “I think I’m sterile.”

“Sterile?” Jerry squinted, struggling to sober up.

“Yeah, and see, since you do life, and I cannot make life, apparently—” he looked down, suddenly sad—“I was just wondering, you know… Maybe you can make me a life pill or something. Get the little Ashman down there working, you know?”

“Bwahaha!” Derek burst into laughter, pointing at the Mayor. “Little Ashman!”

“You—hic—be quiet!” Ashman threw him his clay cup. “It’s a figure of speech!”

“It’s alright, man, not everyone needs to be big,” slurred Jerry.

“Bwahaha!” Derek fell to the floor.

“No!” The mayor was incensed. “I am not—”

“I don’t think I can do that.” Jerry shook his head. “It’s not necromancer stuff. Sorry. Can’t Murdock help?”

“That’s why we—hic—called him over in the first place,” the Mayor replied absentmindedly. “But he’s useless! And now Melissa is sad! At least he liked our village and decided to stay, though that’s—hic—weird. What is there to like? Wizards are weird, you included.”

“Damn man, that sucks.” Jerry grabbed Ashman’s shoulders. “I’m sure it will all work out in the end. Unless it doesn’t, of course, but nothing you can do about it. Have you considered that maybe Melissa is sterile instead of you?”

“No, he—hic—he examined her. It’s not her. It’s me. He, Murdock, said it’s my fault,” the Mayor spoke heavily, every word clearly bringing him pain. “That’s why she’s studying herbalism… She wants to find the right medicine and have a baby. She loves children, that’s why she sometimes envies other wo—Oh!” He suddenly grabbed his mouth. “Hic! Don’t tell her I said that! Anything!”

“My lips are sealed.” Jerry laughed, while Derek was only now recovering from his previous streak of mirth. For all his roughness, the man was particularly quick to laugh when drunk.

“I don’t have a wife, you don’t have a daughter, Melissa is even helping Holly a lot with herbalism,” Derek managed to mutter, “maybe the two of us should just marry each other and let them be—Bwahaha!”

“Fuck you!” Ashman tried to throw his cup at the hunter but nothing left his hand. He remained thoroughly confused for a moment, looking at his empty hands with a puzzled expression, before realizing he’d already thrown it earlier. Derek’s roaring laughter shook the tower’s walls, filling it with warmth.

“Oh,” said the hunter in alarm, his laughter abruptly dying down. His eyes widened. “Oh!” he exclaimed, running downstairs. Ashman frowned for a moment, then his eyes widened as well and he followed with a squeal of his own.

The rest of the night was spent with much pooping, wiping, and loud cursing. It’s incredible how blasphemous a priest’s words can become when drunk and in bowel-cleaning mode.

Boney, who had joined them for the booze but wasn’t speaking much, couldn’t stop laughing. At some point, Jerry decided that the night had dragged on enough and that his friends would manage by themselves, so he went to sleep.

This time, he dreamt about being a toad, catching flies and munching on them all day. It was a peaceful dream. It got even better when his diet turned into mosquitoes. He disliked mosquitoes. They deserved to be eaten.

Dawn found Jerry awake and with an annoying headache, but he supposed that was only natural; it was his first time drinking in… a while. Derek and Ashman had barely managed to catch a few winks of sleep between toilet breaks, but those had fortunately abated after a couple of hours. They both slept on their stomachs in a random room of the ground floor.

Perhaps Jerry should feel bad for not staying up with his guests, but, well, he didn’t. At least they had Boney to keep them company. His arguable bone puns were certainly great consolation for their pain.

Poor them.

With that in mind, Jerry did have Boney prepare them all some breakfast in the form of fruits and vegetables. He even added a few pieces of leftover fox meat from yesterday; Shorty was a surprisingly effective hunter.

And until the other two guys woke up, Jerry had a different plan in mind. He would create the one thing he’d wanted for many days now, the most important piece of furniture he could own.

A heavenly soft chair.

So Jerry got to work; stealing a few of the rough planks Boney and Headless had prepared for the fence, he nailed them into the shape of a chair, only broader, deeper, and overall larger. He then proceeded to the tower’s warehouse.

Besides the goatskin he’d use for shoes, the Mayor had also gifted him a long piece of soft wool. Jerry grinned.

Cutting the wool into smaller pieces, he nailed it on the large chair frame, eventually creating his most precious property; the heavenly soft chair of his dreams. With a smile full of pride, Jerry placed it on the third floor, gazing upon the chair in all its fluffy glory.

It was perfect.

So perfect, in fact, that he almost took a seat—but at the last moment, he stopped himself. As much as he wanted to try it out, he knew that, once he sat, he would instantly fall in love and be unable to stand up again for the near future.

Therefore, with a final, longing gaze and a promise to enjoy it very soon, Jerry reluctantly made his way back downstairs, for he still had a job to do.

He felt bad for giving his friends diarrhea, so he was determined to make them some gifts. And what better gifts than brand new, comfortable pairs of shoes? Was he or was he not a shoemaker, godsdamnit?

The whole chair creation had taken only an hour; he had time.

Humming, the part-time necromancer headed outside, setting his three-legged stool—the buffet—down in a sunny spot, not intending to move it anytime soon. He always preferred extra light when he worked. Plus, having the shoemaking tools out might help people accept he was a shoemaker. Which was true, but the Billy squad seemed to struggle with the concept.

Then again, they probably struggled with most things, like tying their shoelaces.

Jerry donned his napron, the traditional green apron that shoemakers wore. He then opened his St Hugh’s Bones—oh, he should tell Boney of the name—and took out some tools; two knives, a pair of scissors, a ruler, a sewing needle, and finally some sewing line.

He then grabbed a piece of soft wood, on which he had sketched the outline of both men’s feet yesterday. Using a large knife, he cut out wooden soles slightly larger than their footprints. Then, placing them over another piece of soft wood, he cut out a second sole for each shoe size.

Placing everything within easy reach, along with a patch of goatskin, he set to work.

The first piece of work would be the Mayor’s new shoes. Not because the man had any sort of priority over Derek, but because his gift would be swift. He liked wearing simple wooden shoes, called clogs, as far as Jerry could tell. He would get a better version of the same thing.

Jerry cut the tanned leather into strips one and a half times as long as the sole’s width. Then, using a few nails, he hammered the ends of the leather strips onto the soft wood, creating a simple set of goatskin shoes with wooden soles. For extra stability, he sewed the densely-packed strips to each other, making sure the insides weren’t all stitchy.

There were a few more details involved in the process, but Jerry had tuned them out of his thoughts as they were boring. In about two hours, he was done.

These shoes weren’t anything grand, but they were his first ones in a long while. He had chosen to start simple on purpose. And in fact, when not devoting half his mental faculties to containing his necromantic urges, shoemaking was quite easier than he remembered. Being able to hold his concentration for more than a couple of blinks was helpful. Who would have thought?

The simple, familiar labor brought joy to Jerry. It was relaxing, diving into something he knew how to do, with no thoughts necessary. His heart was light and his hands relaxed. He smiled as he worked, losing himself in the process.

The next piece would be Derek’s boots. He’d noticed that while the hunter’s current pair was well-made, it had endured more than its fair share of winters. For his benefactor, Jerry wanted to make something really good.

Using the wooden soles he had previously created, he grabbed another piece of wood and carved out a tall wooden support for each sole, hammering it at their backs. The exact height was only a guesstimate, but this part didn’t have to be accurate; these were designed to reach roughly halfway up the calf, serving as a support for the boot’s upper part.

Following the same process as before—hammering leather strips into the sole—he created the boot’s lower half. Then, he repeated the process for the upper parts, this time using leather strips three times as long as the support’s width. Calves were bulkier than feet. He hammered them in thickly and stitched them together so that they completely protected the leg from the elements, weeds, and forest animals.

After a few more hours of relaxed labor, the sun was approaching its peak and the two pairs of shoes were ready. Of course, creating even a single pair of shoes usually took days, but Jerry was keeping things as simple as possible on purpose; he hadn’t worked on this in a while. These were only temporary shoes. Once he got back in shape, he would make them something truly terrific.

Boney and Headless also helped with the heavier parts, expediting the process. To their delight—or mild indifference, depending on which undead you asked—Jerry granted them the position of shoemaking assistants, with the prefix of ‘excellent.’

With the work done, the shoemaker stood up, a loud ‘crack’ escaping his back.

“Ow,” he said. He looked up at the bright sun.

It had now been multiple hours since dawn, but both Derek and Ashman were still in their rooms. Last night must have really been tough on them, thought Jerry, and felt a bit bad for not checking whether the tea was potable for non-necromancers. The next moment, he got over it.

Oh well.

He walked inside. Soon after, both men opened their doors, looking gaunt and pale. The breakfast Boney had prepared seemed heavenly in their eyes and they devoured it all like rabid beasts, though it was now called lunch instead of breakfast. Jerry himself only ate an apple and some fox meat.

After resting for a couple of hours, Derek and Ashman tried on their new shoes, letting out many exclamations of wonder and comfort. These were indeed much better than their previous pairs, and Jerry felt proud of himself.

“Wait till you see the next ones,” he said. “These are just for practice.”

Come afternoon, the two men took off, heading back to the village. It hadn’t been a pleasant night, but both said they had fun, if one excluded the tea-induced parts. Jerry waved them goodbye and practically ushered them off, for he really couldn’t wait any longer. He had to do it.

He had to try his new chair.

Finally left alone, Jerry walked to the third floor, gazed at the chair, prepared himself, then sat on it with a soft ‘plop.’

It was pure bliss. Jerry fell in love. He swore then and there to never abandon this chair, ever.

Alright! he thought. I’m not standing until I’ve made up for all the inferior chairs I’ve sat on in my life.

And so, twenty-four hours went past. The next afternoon, Jerry had finally had enough, and he smilingly sat up. Not because he’d gotten bored, of course—he just realized that, if he didn’t measure himself, this soft chair could easily turn into an addiction!

Therefore, Jerry decided to take a break from sitting on the chair and headed outside to lie on the grass by the rocky surroundings of his tower, enjoying the afternoon sun. The wind was getting chillier by the day now, but the cold never bothered him anyway; he just put on his thick leather coat.

Lying in the sun, Jerry realized he quite enjoyed it. He let his thoughts roam free, just relaxing until it was nighttime. He then headed back inside, ate, and lied down. He did it all with a smile. Perhaps he would take a break tomorrow as well—unless, of course, the world had other plans in mind.

But that would be rude, right?