Jerry, Laura, Boney, Headless, Boboar, and Foxy stood face-to-face with a bow-wielding, creepy-looking creature. It resembled a human, except its skin was paper-white and everything else was pitch-black, the kind that seems to absorb your sight and everything around it.

Shoulder-length black hair accentuated a pale face with robust features, while black teeth—when the creature opened its mouth—served to make an almost appalling antithesis. Its composition could easily be considered artistic if not for the sheer terror it caused.

The creature held a bow in one hand and the tail of a nocked arrow in the other. It wore studded leather, brown with gray splashes, complete with pants, gloves, and a vest, while its feet were covered in a sturdy-looking pair of boots. More importantly, its body was wiry and taut to the point where it seemed packed to the brim with muscles ready to explode at a moment’s notice.

This thing’s body wasn’t bulky, but it was built to fight.

“You are foreigners,” it observed in its hoarse voice, frowning, and these words seemed to shake everyone out of their stupor. As one, the undead rushed to get between Jerry and the creature, glaring at it with passion—especially at the tip of its arrow.

“We mean no harm,” said Laura, raising her arms.

“Neither do I,” replied the creature, evenly meeting the undeads’ glares. “If I did, it would be your necromancer nailed to that tree.”

The undeads’ hostility only increased, but they did not move.

“You saved me!” said Jerry, gaze alternating between the deader-than-dead snake and the odd creature. “Thank you, my new friend. I’m Jerry.”

“And I’m Horace,” it replied. “Could you order your undead to stop staring at me? They make my hands twitchy, and I wouldn’t want to accidentally shoot anyone.”

“I can’t order them, but I can certainly ask them politely. Could you please calm down, guys?”

The crimson flames in Boney’s eyes flickered. “Only when that monster lowers its bow, Master.”

“That monster does not enjoy being referred to that way,” said the creature, pointing his arrow downward. “And I advice you to keep that in mind, skeleton.”

Seeing this peaceful gesture, the undead visible relaxed. “I will do my best,” replied Boney, “though my skull is empty.”

The creature blinked, then chuckled. “That’s better.”

“Excuse me”—Laura took a small step forward, arms still raised—“who are you?”

“I am Horace of the Akshik tribe. It is your turn to reply now, strangers; who are you, and what are you doing in my swamp?”

“I’m Jerry,” the necromancer repeated his introduction, “and these are Boney, Headless, Boboar, Foxy, and Birb. Laura, too, though she can probably introduce herself. We crash landed in your swamp.”

“Crash landed?” The creature—Horace, apparently—frowned again. “What does that mean?”

“We were flying, then our airship got damaged, and we were forced to land in your swamp,” continued Jerry. “We’re looking for a suitable place to camp until we can repair it.”

Laura threw him a side glance as if he’d given away too much information, but Jerry ignored her; this odd-looking creature had just saved him from a zombie snake’s attack, so the least it deserved was honesty.

And besides, it wasn’t like he’d said everything.

“So that sound was indeed caused by you,” Horace intoned.

“If by ‘sound’ you mean a large airship dragging against the ground before crashing into a bunch of trees, then probably yes.”

“Jerry,” Laura said calmly, still with her arms raised, “maybe you should show some more respect? This gentleman has a bow.”

Jerry chuckled. So did the odd creature.

“You can relax, girl,” said Horace. “Despite my looks, I’m not a monster.”

“Tell me about it,” Jerry agreed, nodding.

Hesitantly, Laura lowered her arms. “Very well, sir.”

“You can call me Horace,” he said. “Now, please, continue. You are clearly not from here. What are you doing in our Dead Lands?”

“I am here to lift the Curse,” replied Jerry, grinning, and Horace’s brows fell.

“Lift the Curse?” he repeated.

“Exactly. Many people die at the Damn Wall every day, and good necromancers are abhorred everywhere because of one man’s mistakes. I am going to make things right.”

Horace’s brows fell even lower. “You are delusional and disrespectful,” he said. “One man’s mistake? You don’t even understand the Curse, yet you claim to solve it, and not even for the right reasons. My kind’s struggles don’t even register in your eyes.”

Jerry stood in silence. “Yeah,” he finally said, “maybe I spoke too rashly… but I really do plan to lift the Curse, no matter how much I have to struggle.”

“Then, I wish you luck,” Horace replied dryly, turning to Laura. “And you? Are you trying to resolve the Curse as well?”

“I would love that, but I’m just running away from some people.” She shook her head. “Who would say no to a free excursion into the Dead Lands?”

He regarded her evenly. “Do you have wood nettle?” he asked.

“I do.”

“And do you know how to use it?”

“I do.”

“Hmm.” He squinted. “Are you a wizard too?”

She grinned. “A hydromancer.”

“I see,” he replied. “That’s excellent.”

“How so?”

“Let’s discuss this later.”

“Very well. Now, pardon me for asking,” Laura continued, “but do you know of any good places to camp in? Dusk will be falling soon, and the air is oddly chilly here…”

“Speak out of your teeth, girl.” Horace seemed annoyed. “You are neither the first nor the last travelers to pass by this place. So long as you don’t overstep your boundaries or your welcome, the Akshik tribe will host you.”

Laura’s smile blossomed. “Thank you very much, Horace,” she replied, bowing slightly.

“I could have definitely found a good spot, though…” Jerry mumbled. “Not that I’d reject your invitation, of course, just saying.”

“Good.”

Horace placed his bow behind his back, removing his gloves and revealing two pale hands with black nails. “Is there anyone else you should notify?”

Jerry nodded, “A few people, yes. We left them by the airship.”

“You may go, then. I’ll wait here.”

“No need, we can all wait here. I’ve let my undead know to come, and I sent Birb to guide them too.”

“Birb?” Horace looked at the sky.

“You can’t see it, it’s flown away already,” Jerry added helpfully.

Horace snorted.

Laura smiled. “While we’re waiting, you mentioned something about me being a hydromancer…”

“Save your words. You will not discuss that with me.”

“Who should we discuss it with, then?”

“My grandmother.”

***

The Akshik tribe was unexpectedly tidy.

Deep into the swamp was a drier piece of land than most, surrounded by mossy weeds and invasive lichen. A dozen drywood huts were arrayed in a circle; their roofs were made of wide leaves glued together by some unknown material, while the gaps in the huts’ walls were filled in with the same material.

These people seemed to enjoy circles. Not only were the huts placed in one, but the buildings themselves were round in shape, as were their windows, and, to a lesser extent, their doors. A large bonfire lay dormant at the very center, surrounded by cleanly-cut logs.

As Jerry and his friends approached, the tribespeople turned to look.

“Why don’t you have a fence?” asked Jerry.

“Because we don’t need one,” replied Horace. “We are the hunters here.”

However, these people’s appearances were more important than the apparent lack of fence. They were all paper-white with black hair, teeth, and nails, much like Horace, making for quite an unsettling imagery; in a way, they seemed even scarier than zombies!

“You’re odd,” noted Jerry, looking left and right. “How come you’re all colored the same?”

Laura struck him with a glare, but Horace didn’t seem to mind.

“It is the Curse,” he replied. “It left nothing intact.”

“I see.”

The tribespeople had noticed them by now, and they quickly began to congregate around the newcomers—not with suspicion, but with curiosity. Laura still shivered slightly, trying to make herself as unnoticeable as possible; Jerry himself didn’t mind, but he could understand why these people terrified her.

“Who are these people, Horace?” asked a man.

“Foreigners,” he replied, “from the Kingdoms.”

“Wonderful! You have many stories to tell us, yes?”

Jerry blinked, realizing the man was speaking to them. “Sure,” he replied, “a whole bunch of them.”

The tribespeople smiled, revealing a set of pitch-black teeth under pale lips. It would have seemed predatory if not for Jerry sensing their peaceful souls.

Oh! he suddenly realized, is this how people feel around me?

These creatures seemed terrifying, foreign, and ready to tear you apart, but their welcome was the warmest he’d met in a long while. It was just another instance of appearances being deceptive.

“What is this place?...” muttered Marcus, raising his head to look at the tall trees overhead—they reached much higher here compared to the rest of the swamp, creating a dense foliage that blocked the view towards the sky but allowed some light to seep in.

Like the rest of the swamp, this place was covered in twilight, and hosts of gray dots danced in the air above—were they fireflies, or butterflies?

“This is our home,” replied Horace, a hint of bittersweet pride in his voice, “the home of the Akshik tribe.”

Jerry smiled. “I think it suits you.”

“Does it?”

“Yes.”

Horace smiled. His original wariness seemed to have lessened by now, replaced only by the warmth of a good host.

“Make way, everyone,” he said, still smiling. “You will have time to meet these people later. Now, they need to talk to Granny.”

“Of course, Horace”—a woman smiled—“but don’t you dare hog them!”

They laughed before everyone dispersed, still sneaking glances while returning to their jobs.

No, Jerry realized, not their jobs.

These black-and-white people weren’t working or doing anything practical. Instead, they were huddled around the empty bonfire in small groups.

Some stood before a taut white skin—looked like deer—and held colored brushes; taking a second look, the piece of skin they were looking at was already covered in faint drawings.

A few others were gathered in a circle, one person banging a set of drums on regular intervals and the rest swaying their bodies to the rhythm, each following their own movements.

In another group, the people seemed to just be sitting around and talking, but on closer inspection, only one of them was talking, and she was gesturing animatedly as the rest listened with rapt attention.

Painting, dancing, and storytelling. Hidden deep in a dead swamp, these terrifying people were practicing the arts.

“Very nice,” said Jerry, nodding as they walked. “You seem very cultured.”

“When survival becomes trivial, people turn to the arts,” replied Horace, not turning back. By now, they had reached a hut placed closer to the bonfire than others, and he stood silent for a moment before pulling the entrance flap—a piece of hanging skin—open to reveal a dark interior.

“Go in,” he said, “she’s waiting for you.”

Jerry resisted the urge to spread his soul sense inside; though he was somewhat used to it by now, inspecting another person’s home felt rather unbecoming.

“We are too many,” he observed.

“Then, only those who can talk should go inside.”

“Do grunts count as talking?”

Horace frowned. “You decide.”

“Alright. Come on, guys—you too, Axehand. The rest should wait here, please.”

The undead nodded, most remaining behind while Boney and Axehand followed Jerry in the hut. Laura and Marcus stepped in right after them, finding themselves in total darkness. The windows had been blocked, letting only a few thin rays of light infiltrate the hut, barely enough to illuminate a red candle and the edge of a bed.

The flap closed behind them. They waited just inside the entrance, and for a moment, nobody spoke, until Boney broke the silence.

“What sublime illumination,” he commented.

“Patience, Boney,” replied Jerry, smiling calmly. “Your eyes will adjust, and then, you will see.”

“But I have no eyes, Master.”

They waited. Time flowed by unobstructed, all of them losing themselves in the timelessness of this place until, slowly, more shapes began to appear in the darkness.

There was a table under the red candle, and a chair beside it. The bed was covered by thick blankets, weaved by wool of unknown origin, and at its very end lay a figure so desperately weak and small that Jerry’s soul fluttered.

It was a woman whose wrinkled, pale-white skin stood out in the darkness. Jerry followed the silhouette to her eyes, black holes sucking in the surrounding light—he couldn’t make them out, but as soon as he gazed into their darkness, the woman smiled, or so he thought; though her teeth were black, he could see the whiteness of her skin rise to her cheeks.

It was a wide smile, and one filled with tenderness.

“Welcome,” came a voice, elderly, but louder than anticipated, “to the land of the dead.”