“Oh, no need to make a big deal about it.” Jerry laughed. “The pleasure’s all ours!”

“Not nearly.” Horace smiled back, a hint of knowledge on his black lips. He turned his body sideways, motioning to the people behind him. “Let us apologize for testing you like this. We don’t enjoy it…but it’s a necessary process if we want to keep surviving.”

“If I may, Master”—Boney stepped forth, his bone jaw clacking—“what kind of test are they talking about?”

“And what’s that about death spirits?” Marcus quipped in.

The rest of the group stared at Jerry, similarly curious. They’d only seen Jerry go still for a few seconds, then suddenly exchange mysterious banter with Granny.

“The test was nothing serious,” he explained. “Granny showed me some temptation or the other, but I only wanted to relax a bit, which was good enough, apparently. To be honest, I don’t really get it; if you guys wanted to know anything, why not just ask?”

Horace blinked at this question, then suddenly erupted into deep, echoing laughter. “Not everyone is as pure as you, Jerry!” he finally replied. “But in our tribe, that trait is deeply welcomed…as well as respected.”

“Yeah, I’ve met some double-faced people too… I can see where you’re coming from.”

“As for death spirits”—Horace scratched his head—“that’s us. When the Curse came, most people were turned into undead but a few survived, their bodies mutating to endure this environment. We banded together into groups and escaped the civilization centers, as they were overrun with undead. We formed small tribes around the land and have been living in isolation ever since.”

“Are you serious!?” Marcus gawked. “Humans can turn into nature spirits!? That’s absurd!”

“That’s what people call us, at least.” Horace shrugged. “They’re not wrong. We are something between living and undead, just like necromancers but without the magic. Plus…”—he looked at himself, as did the death spirits behind him, all releasing a collective sigh—“we clearly aren’t humans anymore, are we?”

“Nah, don’t say that! You guys look great!” said Jerry. “I find you very stylish.”

“Thank you, Jerry. At least, someone thinks so!” Horace laughed, changing the subject. “In any case, you must all be exhausted. Now that you’ve passed Granny’s test, you can rest here; our huts are more convenient than the swamp’s mud, I hope.”

Laura smiled at him; a constrained, calm one. “That would be our pleasure,” she replied. “It’s been an eventful day.”

“Well, then, be our guests!”

“I’m their guest, actually.” Laura pointed at Jerry and Marcus. “Does that make me a double guest?”

“The guest of my guest remains my guest.” Horace winked at her, turning to where a handful of silent huts lay outside the circle. “Those ones are empty. Please, make yourselves comfortable, and don’t hesitate to call on us if anything comes up! Oh, and if we’re too loud, just say the word.”

“Too loud?” Marcus raised a brow. “Won’t you sleep?”

“We don’t sleep much. It comes with being half-undead.”

“You are full of surprises, Horace.” Jerry laughed. “Sure. A good night’s rest is always welcome.”

“You have no need to sleep either.” Horace’s black eyes twinkled. “You can spend the night with us, if you prefer. All of you are welcome, of course, but I suspect the mundane ones will find the land of dreams a more comforting place.”

Marcus chuckled. “That’s—wait. Mundane?”

Laura’s eyes narrowed, and even Jerry tensed up a little bit. “Mundanes” referred to non-wizards, but it was a demeaning term, one that only the haughtiest, most discriminating of wizards used.

“Oh.” Horace raised his brows. “I apologize. We have been cut off for too long, and the language has been differentiated, to an extent. I assure you we meant no offense.”

“That’s not a problem,” replied Marcus. “We understand. With the Wizard Order’s presence in the Dead Lands, it’s only expected…”

“Yes…” Horace nodded, while the other members of the tribe exchanged glances with one another. “We don’t communicate with them, but some things slip through the cracks.”

“Fair enough, my friend. Now, as I was saying,” Marcus continued, “I think I’ll go to sleep. Age can wear the bones.”

“I can imagine,” replied Horace, a knowing smile on his face.

“I will go, too,” added Laura. “Have fun, everyone…and see you at dawn, I suppose?”

“You bet.” Jerry smiled at her.

Marcus and Laura headed to one hut each, while Jerry and his host of undead followed the tribespeople towards the large bonfire. Two men were carrying logs and tinder, lighting it up, and right then, a spark in its center instantly evolved into blazing flames.

The heat struck them in a wave, and Jerry found it quite pleasant. Perhaps he should rest by the fire until morning? That would be nice.

“If you don’t mind, Jerry,” said Horace, “how about I show you around a bit? Your undead friends could enjoy themselves peacefully in the meantime.”

Jerry glanced at the bonfire with longing. Well, maybe I can rest after!

“Sure,” he replied.

“Master—”

“Don’t worry, Boney. I’ll be fine. Horace is a pretty friendly guy!”

“You can’t judge that quickly, Master…”

“But I’m a genius! Now, come on, my black-eyed friend. Tour me!”

Horace tensed up for a moment, then laughed. “Remember how I accidentally mentioned mundanes before?” he said. “Black-eyed is a similar slur people use for us.”

“Oh. I didn’t know. Sorry about that.”

“Not a problem.”

“Who calls you that, though? I thought you were isolated here.”

Horace smiled sadly. “We have contact with the outside world, though rarely…thankfully.”

“They don’t like you, do they?”

“Why would they? We look hideous.”

Jerry halted, turning his entire body towards Horace. Paper-white skin, coupled with pitch-black features, everything from eyes to nails.

“I don’t see it,” he replied seriously. “Uniqueness is not bad, Horace. Why would you say that?”

“It wasn’t a self-insult.” Horace shrugged. “In the eyes of normal people, we do look hideous.”

“Oh. That, yeah, but they’re assholes for thinking it.”

“They are!”

The two men laughed, heading around the bonfire. The death spirits had returned to practicing, split into many groups that each worked on a separate art.

Jerry and Horace approached the dancing group, their shadows dancing too as the flames illuminated them. Along with the black-and-white coloration of their bodies, they made for quite an entrancing sight.

“They dance well,” noted Jerry.

“Of course! Everyone here is excellent at what they do; comes with the free time.”

“Do you really have nothing else to do?”

“In a way. Death spirits are similar to the undead; we don’t need to eat, drink, or sleep that much. With our basic needs satiated, we turn to the things that please us.”

“Wow…” Jerry let out a wondrous sigh. “This place sounds like heaven.”

“There are downsides…and this is only our tribe. There are others spread throughout the Dead Lands, and not all of them turn to such noble pursuits. Some are obsessed with combat, others turn against each other, and yet more take to conquering other tribes, expanding ever further. We don’t associate with others that much…”

“I see. If those warmongers reach you, that will be bad news.”

“We’ll be eradicated.” Horace smiled. “I am strong, but I cannot hold back entire tribes…and Granny’s powers have sadly deteriorated to the point of uselessness.”

“Yeah, I noticed. Is she a necromancer? Her soul felt familiar.”

“A psychomancer, to be exact—but yes, her powers fall in the general school of necromancy.”

“I thought necromancers didn’t grow old.”

Horace raised a brow. “Of course they do, just slower than most. Granny has been alive for almost three hundred years.”

“How much!?” Jerry swiveled around, eyes widened like saucers. “I know that number! It’s so large!”

“It is,” replied the death spirit, a proud smile on his lips. “She’s lived halfway to the Great Enigma—though that’s partly due to the Curse. It affects necromancers too, apparently.”

“It does!?”

“Not quickly.” Horace laughed again. “You’re fine, Jerry. It took Granny twenty years to turn into a death spirit.”

“I see…”

They approached another group, the painters. A woman held a piece of deerskin carefully against the fire, puzzling Jerry.

“What is she doing?” he asked.

“She’s letting the flames lick the painting and add black spots around its edges,” replied Horace. “Our painters use more than brushes. Fire, water, blood, even mud can be used to accentuate a painting, giving it new vibrancy.”

“That sounds difficult!”

“I told you; everyone here is good at what they do, and we’ve learned tricks to enhance every art, like the shadows of the dancers or the natural brushes for the painters.”

“Oh! What about them?”

Jerry pointed at the group of storytellers, where the same person as before was still narrating their story, now using their fingers and the firelight to cast shadowy figures on the walls of a nearby hut. Her fingers danced intricately, casting images of battle and triumph, of rocks falling from the sky, and an entire assortment of animals.

Horace smiled. “Our storytellers weave stories within stories, creating symphonies that can raise one’s spirit to the heavens or drown it in hell. When even the nesting of complete stories into each other became commonplace among them, they realized that visual cues could liven up a story even more. It does not detract from the narrative; instead, the two of them work together to attain incredible heights.”

Jerry whistled. “I really enjoy this tribe of yours…but what about you, Horace? What is your art?”

He laughed again, raising the bow on his back. “A deadly one. Not as beautiful as the others, but someone needs to protect the tribe.”

“From what?”

“From everything,” he replied enigmatically, shadows dancing on his face. “What is your story, Jerry? What made you who you are?”

“Funny story. One day, fifteen—no, sixteen years ago, I realized I could…”

As they spoke, their feet slowly carried them around the campfire, taking in everything the Akshik tribe had to offer. Painting, sculpting, music, dancing, storytelling…and some more, that just weren’t practiced that night. Many arts were gathered around a single campfire that somehow enhanced them all.

Anywhere else in the world, these people would be considered masters at their crafts, yet here, they all worked together to raise everyone to greater heights. It was a grand collection of experts, huddled around a small bonfire in a tiny swamp in a neglected part of the world. A hidden gem of the arts.

There were a few people simply resting as well, or drinking a bit, and Jerry’s undead had joined them quickly. As time went by, however, some of the undead were drawn to other groups. Headless shily approached the dancing group, watching discreetly until they smiled and invited him to join; having struggled with balance issues at the beginning of his life, dancing had always excited him.

He’d even practiced on a few occasions, so he wasn’t too bad, but he resembled a wooden block compared to the people around him. They didn’t mind; they eagerly advised him, and soon the entire group was huddled around and encouraging Headless.

Changes were rare in this tribe, so everyone enjoyed them thoroughly.

Axehand had boldly strolled up to the sculpting group and asked to join them—he’d grunted, actually, but they’d gotten the message. His heart burning with competitive spirit, he’d carved his best imitation of Jerry’s face, and the tribespeople had praised him for his skills, generously providing a long series of tips.

They’d then carved a masterpiece each, vastly eclipsing Axehand’s paltry skills, and the double-skeleton had quickly scuttled back to the drinking group, where he enjoyed his wine with those who rested and the rest of the undead.

Horace’s steps gradually angled away from the campfire, and Jerry followed, the two so engrossed in conversing that time passed quickly. Before long, they’d walked a few hundred steps away from the tribe’s grounds, approaching an area where wide, orderly lines had been carved in the muddy water.

“What’s that?” asked Jerry.

“Our farm,” explained Horace. Short green stalks rose out of the ground in regular intervals, each ending in a closed purple bud.

Horace kneeled beside it, touching one bud with such gentleness that, for a moment, he did not at all resemble a master archer. “The Curse has mutated these little flowers. When mature, they’re edible and exceptionally tasty… Swamps are the only places where these grow, but ironically, they also need clean water, of which there is very little around here. Despite our best efforts, most of these will wilt before blooming…”

“I see.” Jerry nodded, observing Horace’s tenderness. “You must like them a lot.”

“More than you imagine.” Horace let out a sigh, standing back up before gazing straight at Jerry. “Can I ask you a favor, Jerry? We have to travel a day away to fetch small amounts of clean water, but hydromancers can form it out of thin air… Could your female companion help us water these flowers for a few days? That will be enough to ensure over half of them survive, and we wouldn’t dare ask you to stay longer.”

“That won’t be a problem.” Jerry smiled at the other man. “I mean, you should ask her, not me, but I don’t see why she would refuse.”

Horace’s chest visibly deflated as he let out the breath he’d been holding. “Thank you, Jerry… We appreciate this, truly. In return, we can also help you repair your airship. Some of us are good at woodworking, so it shouldn’t be a problem—plus, time is something we surely don’t lack.”

“You would do that? Thank you! Just, there’s no need; watering these flowers will be extremely easy for Laura, but repairing an airship sounds hard.”

“It’s not a problem at all.” Horace waved the hesitation away. “Just take it as a token of our gratitude.”

“In that case, thank you very much, Horace. For what it matters, I think you’re all great people.”

“We do our best, Jerry. We do our best.” Horace chuckled. “We shouldn’t need more than three days to get your ship ready. Until then, you shall be our guests… In other words, prepare to witness the Dead Lands’ beauty!”