For a place called Blighttown, it really didn’t look like much. Sure, most of the town was empty, from what he could see from their window, but it hardly looked like a place that hid Demons. Abandoned, and worn down by weather and time, yes. With some scars of old battle, but that was about it.

The caravan was staying in a section of town near the main gates, which the Reclaimers had secured for their own needs alongside the guard barracks. It was a bit crowded for the moment, so he shared the room with three others, Deli among them. He was told they were pushing out the barricades to secure more room, sweeping homes and streets, one by one.

The problem wasn’t clearing any one house. It was keeping them clear. Guards stood their watches day and night here.

Each town had walls, walls he suspected now were hiding rune lines like the one in the shelter. In Blighttown, the walls had collapsed in several places, and the dead used them to enter and leave the town, like waves of the tide, coming and going with the storms.

They didn’t have the men to hold all the walls, and even if they did, it wouldn’t solve the other problem: the demons.

Frank wasn’t clear on that, as from what his new temporary roommate, Rio, would share, the Reclaimer leader had welcomed everyone in and sat them all down to explain the dangers. Rio didn’t want to butcher the warnings in the retelling, so he filled them in on the town itself and the dead.

They’d been told to stay inside until a member of the Reclaimer company was free to sit with them.

As far as Frank was concerned, while it wasn’t ideal to get stuck in a town this far north, possibly for the whole winter, his horizons had expanded.

There was something about spending a day beating back the dead with nothing but a single companion to rely on. In camping up in trees for safety, hoping the storm would not come and just kill you in the open. It all made him really appreciate a roof over his head.

He didn’t want to winter in the mountains. But he’d take it over freezing to death trying to leave. Monsters he might be able to manage, or at least hide from, but the dead were a constant threat, no different from winter itself.

Between Deadbeat speaking of his stones, and Deli spilling that she’d seen him conjure fire, he was a proper Mageling now. One in a town filled with dead and Demons. He should find no shortage of work, so long as he was no coward, and after what they’d just been through, everyone knew better.

While it might include risking his life, he could certainly earn his keep, even after he’d sold what stones the Reclaimers would purchase.

“If the merchants haven’t beaten me to it already. With my own product.”

***

They had.

Deli was laughing at his misfortune good-naturedly. Less that it had happened, and more that he thought for a moment it would be any different. Oh, he had buyers again. The bloody merchants wanted more. His only consolation was that some of the weaker stones were starting to fail, as he had warned they would. Before his Channelling improved, he’d given them a lifetime of about three weeks, for the worst ones. His best were permanent, but he’d still only made two of those.

Most of his early runestones had failed somewhere around the two month mark.

Frank had a feeling the new batch would be longer lasting, but he couldn’t risk selling them as such until he did a test batch with Channelling two. Which meant making new ones and waiting for them to fail. It would take at least two months.

The woes of product development for an honest craftsman.

“Still, better that then to be known a fraud.”

As if summoned by the Gods themselves, there were knocks on the door.

It wasn’t a Reclaimer. No, it was a merchant that had kept back during the celebrations. Some of his customers were none too pleased with them, and they, in turn, were not happy with him.

***

When their local guide did arrive, it was to find Frank and Deli in the lunch room, arguing with two merchants, with the caravan master in attendance. No one was happy. Frank felt that if their Health wasn’t nearly drained, Deli would have started a fight by now over the implied insults to his honour.

“I was there, and so were you!” She spoke, her voice not so much raised as pointed like a dagger. “He said the same every time, and many over-heard it. It was why so few took him up on it. It’s a fine thing to have a stone that keeps you warm, but foolish to trust such to one that might fail at any time after only three quarters.” Deli argued passionately.

Frank hid his smile behind a hand as she seemed to realise what she’d just said. “Not that Frank is not a fine craftsmen, but his craft is budding still. You would not expect fine etching on the hilt of an axe from an apprentice, would you?”

The merchant prevaricated. “Well he did not specify exactly what his Lifecord on the matter was. How were we to know that the pilgrim allowed to hawk his wares in this noble endeavour was an apprentice?”

Deli was winding up for another round when the caravan Master slammed his palm on the table. “Isijak, do not hem and haw. You know better, or damn well should. I am the Master of this caravan. As such, the responsibility is mine.”

It was about then that it occurred to Frank that this might not be entirely about him.

“You knew his work was shoddy!” The merchant jumped on the admission.

“I was aware of his Skills. What kind of Master would I be if I allowed a peddler to sell his wares in my caravan if I was not? Though shoddy is not the word I would use to describe them.” He corrected.

He better not. Frank had worked his fingers to the bone, carving morning and evening at stone with nothing but a few tools and the strength of his arms, to make each. Carving stone with Strength two was a pain, doing it with any accuracy an actual Skill. Even the Lifecord agreed.

Agility = 2

-Basketball 2

+Smooth 2

-Reflex 2

-Deflect 3

-Riding 1

+Carving 2 (8/30)

“You hid this from others!” The other man still accused.

“I did not.” The caravan Master cut him down. ”They asked. You didn’t.”

The merchant froze. “But.” he stumbled for another word. Which was about when his wife, standing behind him and scowling through it all, first at them, and now at him, smacked him on the back of the head. “Fool. And twice for doing this! Not only do you shame yourself, you shame me! Fool! Cretin! Imbecile! How did you not think to ask?”

And she didn’t stop. She wasn’t using her fists, and no one else seemed alarmed. To Frank, it looked much like domestic abuse, but Health muddled everything. If his wasn’t dropping, would they consider it as her hurting him at all?

Harder still to figure out, should he? Frank did, but should he? It was a question for later.

The merchant in question defended himself, blocking with his arms, slapping hers away, as he retreated from the room in one of the strangest fights Frank had ever seen. There were quick, but even so, most of the slaps were intercepted, like he knew where she’d try to strike next. It almost reminded him of a boxing movie, with a fighter and a trainer practicing punches.

Then he got to the door, and bolted.

“Bah.” his wife snorted, before giving him and Deli a head tilt, and the master a shallow bow.

“I’ll straighten him up and speak to the Reclaimers.” She told them, before walking out.

It was only then Frank noticed the man lingering just outside the doorway.

He was short, 160-65cm maybe.

“Well, I had come to address two matters, but I supposed one of them will resolve itself shortly.” He said with a jolly grin. He was one of the few overweight men Frank had seen since entering the mountain range.

“Gurt, firekeeper and head cook for this sorry lot. I was told I needed to speak to a couple of new arrivals?”

Deli drew her dagger, to Frank’s surprise. “We’ll have the other talk.” She said firmly, with more than a bit of frost.

Frank frowned at her. After a moment of silence, he noticed everyone was looking at him. Deli seemed to realise he didn’t know what was going on. “Frank, you are not a firekeeper, true? You craft and fight.”

“I do.” Frank confirmed, trusting her to know what was going on and starting to figure it out himself.

Gurt took a step back. “I did not mean to offend.”

The caravan master snapped his fingers. “Calm now. Surefoot, do not spread your woe. It is was not his words that burdened you so.”

Deli looked at him like she’d forgotten he was there. She glanced, from her dagger, to Gurt, to Frank. Took a deep breath, and slowly let it out. “Ill words, will winds, master cook.” Deli said in a bland tone. She did not bow her head, nor tilt it. Instead she sheathed her dagger and made a gesture with her hand. As if she’d taken something from a belt pouch and offered it to him, before slowly closing her hand around it, except her hand was empty.

Gurt smiled at her, relaxing. “I hope I’ve no need of your guard this winter, maiden, but am honoured to be offered its refuge.”

At this Deli actually blushed. “Ah. I am not the leader of my party. But he is not of our people.”

As Gurt glanced at Frank, unsure, she hurried to add: “But he has been an able student of our customs, and honourable in his dealings.”

Frank was kind of following along. The carvan master knocked twice on the table with his closed fist. He knew that one. It was essentially confirmation, “Here, here!” in gesture form.

At that Gurt, relaxed again.

“If I am no longer required?” The master merchant asked, and made his goodbyes.

***

As they sat down, Gurt asked with some good humour: “Able, or willing?”

At that Deli smiled. “Very much able. I made my choices and couldn’t keep up.” At that Gurt’s face began to close down but she interrupted him:

”He understood but didn’t agree. What did you say Frank?” She made a show of trying to remember as Frank felt heat rise to his own cheeks. He’d been high on life at the time. He wasn’t responsible for what he said.

“It’s my life, my world, my choice. And no one else’s. Not even yours.” Deli quoted with relish.

This. This was why sometimes Frank felt like he suddenly had a little sister. Deli was teasing him like one. He never was good at being praised. And there was no doubt in her tone or how she said it, that she was delivering praise. With the edge of ridicule in it, teasing him about it.

Frank grumbled a few choice words into his hand. This was not how he wanted to make his first impression on their hosts.

Worse still, Grut ate it up. “Did he now? Why that’s almost word for word a line from the Epics, isn’t it?”

“Wait, what?”

Seeing his incomprehension Grut moved on and it only got worse:

“Romana and the Blessed Stranger? The girl lost in the storm?”

Deli started giggling, as Frank had a bad feeling where this was going.

Grut looked between them in some confusion, but picking up on the mood, his own smile grew.

“They must huddle together to restore her warmth and she grows to care for her saviour. It’s an infamously ribald tale. With many lascivious and detailed verses.”

Deli’s giggles intensified as many knowing looks he got while giving their tale now made a lot more sense. Frank wanted to disappear, just poof and be gone from sight, from this room.

He’d established his determination with a line from their equivalent of a porn movie.

“Kill me now.”

His head hit the table, and Deli’s giggles burst into actual laughter.

***

It took him a while to recover from the embarrassment. He was not used to being embarrassed that way. Frank was good at people, generally. Even his Lifecord agreed.

Presence = 3

+Extrovert 2

+Public relations 2

+Command 3 (30d)

-Pilgrim 1 (4/20)

Extrovert two. But different cultures were different cultures. He once got a fellow student mad as hell at him for waving ok at him. Pitfalls like that were something you just had to know about. References, meanings inherent in traditions and a culture. And he didn’t.

He’d need to apologize to Deli later. He hadn’t meant to make some kind of claim on her.

Grut walked them through it. The situation wasn’t great, but neither was it terrible. Blighttown stood on the down-slope of a mountain, built on a large hill that stood out from it. “For the avalanches.” Grut had mentioned at Deli’s gentle reminder he was Empire. Well, from it.

Point was, it was on a large hill, with broken walls. While clearing the surface was possible, the Reclaimers had given up on holding the empty town once the Winter Winds started blowing and the Shades started showing up. Snow Shades still formed in town, but Sticks didn’t.

They had to deal with nastier dead, some from last year, or who know how many winters old. The ground was riddled with tunnels and buried warehouses, meant to store cattle and food for the winter. It was standard practice for surrounding villages to retreat to a nearby town, if they lacked the means to survive winter on their own. Most distant villages had them, but those close to town often neglected to prepare for it properly, when it was cheaper and easier to secure space in town for the winter.

There were limits to this, laid down by the Ancients, but Blighttown didn’t reach them before earning its new name.

Those tunnels and buried halls now served as gathering points for an army of old dead.

“You mean to say there’s an army of them, beneath our feet? Does this not worry you?” Frank asked him.

“Somewhat. But our company Karl knows his job. First thing the warriors did when we arrived was sweep the city, and close all the shutters and bury them. They won’t be coming out.”

Frank wasn’t convinced. “And if one of the demons opens a way?”

“They’ll close it.” Grut said firmly, before blushing. “Apologies. I get firm sometimes, it comes with being head cook.” He bowed his head and Frank was wrong-footed again.

He glanced to Deli, to find a frown on her face easing. He did not like it. He knew what a firekeeper was. Deli had been sure to explain it, after it came up. Servants, whose lives during winter depended on others because they couldn’t, or wouldn’t, fight the dead themselves.

Granted many protection under custom, and some by Divine Writ, much like civilians were supposed to be protected. But unlike them, also formally stripped of many rights a warrior had, while the falling nations of home simply preferred to ignore inconvenient laws in the moment, not repeal them.

Like the right to refuse service. A firekeeper’s only option here was a challenge against the warrior, and that fight was a foregone conclusion. They had to be paid, and paid fairly for each service, but protection didn’t come cheap. Nor did “instruction” in the martial arts. Though Frank wasn’t sure how much of that was actual instruction, and how much just a ritualised and culturally approved way to deliver a beating.

That was the thing with customs and laws. Application mattered. The same law in the hands of a good and kind man was not at all the same law in the hands of a foul and cruel one. And people here were no different than back home in that. They had both kinds.

Frank came back to himself to notice Deli sharing a whispered conversation with the cook. “Sorry. Brooding again.”

Deli might not, but Frank didn’t hesitate to apologize to the firekeeper.

The man was taken aback, and he could tell Deli bit her tongue, giving him a look that said they’d be arguing later. It wouldn’t be the first or the last. It was her culture, and she defended it. It had taken her a while to understand and accept that Frank could both understand her and her ways, and disagree with how things were done, without making it an attack on her and her people.

It was one of the complicated aspects of the Confederation. They clung to their traditions. Many of which were good and helped them survive. But it made the bad ones all the harder to pull out like the weeds they were.

“Where were we?”

Grut waved the whole thing away, and moved on quickly.

“Bones beneath our feet. They’ve broken quite a few, but there always seems to be more. Patrols will close tunnels as they open, but a few make it up every quarter, or some hide in town, only coming out at night.”

“Whatever it may be, if you hear the clacking of bones, be ready. They’re good climbers and like to jump roofs, though there’s guards posted to watch for it. But they can’t catch them always, in a storm. You’d best-“ he started and cut himself off. He glanced at her dagger and his staff. “Well. You’d best be ready for it, if something knocks on the window in the night.”

Frank would remember that. As well as see what he could do to make sure the shutters were firmly closed.

“Second are the Wailing Women.”

Deli gasped. Turning to her Frank saw she was horrified.

“I’m guessing Wailing Women aren’t like Weeping Women?”

“Nothing alike.” Grut said firmly again. When neither of them objected, he continued. He seemed somewhat surprised Deli wasn’t the one talking.

“A Weeping Woman, she’s a victim of ill luck and some foul fool who thinks he can abuse her with no consequence. But the Gods are watchful, and Sin opens the way for intervention. Tis a curse and a blessing in one.”

His face grows grim.

“A Wailing Woman is one that’s been taken by a bloodsucker. Kept as cattle and a plaything, hidden from the Gods by its unnatural Presence and tormented until she breaks.“

Frank’s stomach dropped. The thing about the a world with magic was that it had wonders true. But it also had monsters.

“The Stillwalker then binds her broken form into his jewellery, pinning her soul to him. She becomes a wailing wraith, whose voice sends all her pain and horror into anyone that hears. A chorus of such Damned can kill with a scream, and worse still, the Stillwalker will break her further with time, taking her into his service as scout and guard.”

“They drink blood, don’t they?” Frank asked, resigned.

“Yes.” Grut replied. “The lifeblood of a woman, and mother’s milk will grow their power, but they feed on regular blood to survive. The females prefer seed and fresh heart-blood.”

Vampires. He was in a town with a Vampire.

“And these Stillwalkers fear the sun?” Frank asked thinking of how weak and diffused it was during winter.

“What? No. Whatever gave you that idea?” Grut asked him.

Frank looked at him, blanking. He shook it off. “Never mind. Just something I overheard, wrongly it seems. Go on.”

“They fear the wind. If they are ever outside and caught by it, it will rip their cursed soul right out of their flesh and throw it back into the Eternal Storm beyond the Tree where they belong.”

“They’re dead, not demons?”

“Just so.” He confirmed. “I’m not surprised the good maiden here has not spoken of them before. Stillwakers are rare and dangerous. They cannot be killed, only thrown back to the sky. If the body is slain, they’ll turn to mist and sink into the soil, to seek some other grave to steal flesh from.”

While Grut continued Frank and Deli shared a look. They’d both had the same thought. They couldn’t be killed, with an axe. But Frank wondered what Frostfire would do to one. Not that he planned to find out. From what Grut was saying, they were monstrous fighters, with decades of experience and near human intellect.

“Stillwalkers may be among the least of them, but they are of the Greater Dead. No man or woman should face one alone.”

“So what is to be done?” Deli asked.

“Nothing.” Grut replied with a shrug. “Best the Karl can tell, there used to be one here, but he was thrown back to the sky two decades before our visit. Some of his victims linger, as it is said his jewels were carried away by the wind and rain. They wander the tunnels, but won’t be coming here. Not with the protections the Priest has laid down. But best to be forewarned.”

After a moment he added, with some hesitation: “And if you’ll be venturing out, you need to know. Sometimes they can come out of the ground in town and give parties quite a fright.”

He did recover, giving them a mischievous smile: “I hear our patrols prefer to avoid them, as in a fight, they’ll retreat below the ground once they start losing, where they cannot chase. ‘All we get is a pointless headache.’ ” He quoted, then shrugged.

“No, Bones and Snow Shades are the main problem. The Bones for jumping and climbing, and the Shades in that nothing short of the gifts of the Ancestors will keep them out. As long as there is snow…” he trailed off.

Right. The outside wasn’t safe. That much was clear.

“I’ve hear some of the tunnel sweepers say they’ve heard marching steps in the depths. It would mean some of the Bones have lingered long enough to grow. There might be Skeletons down there as well.”

Deli filled him in further. “Think of a Skeleton to a Bones, as a Sticks is to a Snow Shade.”

So what, some great monstrosity made of multiple bodies worth of bones that made each one faster, stronger.

“How do they get around the tunnels?” Frank asked her. “And how big were the tunnels if they could?”

Deli stared at him for a few seconds, uncomprehending, before it dawned on her.

“No, not the tree. The doll.” she corrected.

Frank thought about it. The scarecrows made of woven sticks carried by each tree were no bigger than a human. “So what’s their trick?” He asked. He had a feeling they had one.

“Miasma.” Grut spat. “They breathe poison and disease, and wield armour and weapons as if alive. It is their curse. And Miasma spreads to Bones nearby.”

For a moment he wasn’t sure he’d gotten that right. “And Bones don’t use weapons?”

Deli answered that one: “Only daggers and such. For all their speed, they’re still only Strength one.”

So. Bones were fast fighters that wore you down with scratches. And a Skeleton was a Captain of them, that not only made them faster (likely) or stronger (probably) but gave them poisoned and/or diseased attacks.

“Have I mention how hospitable your home is lately, Deli?” He joked to lighten the mood and give himself some relief from the river of shit he was slowly wading through.

“I mean I knew it was bad. So bad the Empire didn’t want it, but I didn’t think it was this bad.”

She grinned at him, and there again was that cruel edge all her people had.

“No. No you have not Frank. In fact, you could stand to mention it more. Maybe if I told you more of other Greater Dead you’d appreciate how nice and comfortable we have it here?” She joked with dark humour. Except it wasn’t entirely a joke.

“No, I think I’m fine, thanks.” Frank backpedalled quickly. He already had enough new material for his nightmares tonight.

After a few moments of the two of them fighting a staring competition, Grut cleared his throat.

They both silently agreed to let the matter rest for now, in favour of their guest.

“Now, about Demons.” Grut cheerfully started.

Frank groaned.

The cook patted him on the shoulder in sympathy. “I know, I know, hang in there brave warrior and welcome to Blighttown: home of the finest soups within ten days of travel.”

He was winding up to something, Frank could tell.

“They’re to die for.”

While the cook broke down in laugher himself, Deli descended into giggles.

The mood was infectious. Franks started chucking himself. After all, he’d chosen to come this way. Hell, he was the fool who still preferred all this to the Empire.

The thought of some of the stuffy, overdressed and arrogant nobility of the Empire having to deal with all this? They’d run away screaming, clutching their skirts and togas.

That image broke his composure, filling him with heartfelt laughter.

Grut and Deli had ten times their courage, and he was hardly alone against all this, now was he?