Having returned, I set the camp to packing, noting meanwhile that Stefan’s wagon finally had smoke rising from its brass chimney. With a satisfied nod I decided to let him keep working, since packing the rest of camp took half the day anyway.

For posterity, the arrangement of the caravan at this time: My lovely compartmental wagon to lead, driven by Raufa, her muscles and constant grimace the only deterrent against no-good anti-capitalist bandits one could need. Then came Henrique, with his and May’s wagon, a creaking shithole I haven’t even peeked inside since I handed it off to them. Then Madison's canvas-covered affair with her tent, tools a-rattling. Then May with Raufa’s, then Stefan’s wagon, driven by myself. Pritchard always manages to take the rear, since by some unconscious force he manages to lag behind and we manage to not care.

May worked hard as usual, despite having Henrique chatting her ear off. I kicked them apart and set Henrique fetching water twice during the day. It never got done. Half rations for a week for him. Madeline made one last purchase of rations while Raufa bridled the horses. All set and ready around two in the afternoon, I approached Stefan’s still brewing wagon, and knocked thrice.

Sounds of bubbling, rolling liquids sloshing in beakers and vats.

“Hey!” I banged thrice more.

“Yes?” That dusty voice came.

“We’re moving! Pack up for a bit, I can finish tonight!”

No response. Good enough. With a quick whistle and cheers of profit The Dragon Piss Merchants set off to Vo.

A nice stiff breeze set my eye wandering, enthralled by the waves of grass and battered trees of the Daedrus Plains surrounding Vegalhold. Long views, scattered but inoffensive clouds above, an orchestra of avian calls and clattering hooves set my mind at ease, distracting from the burnt cat vomit scent wafting every other second from the wagon beneath me. A pleasant, nostalgic scene of gently swaying greenery, their rhythmic movements cast in the rays of old Grandfather Sun, a real sight to behold when I could keep from blinking away the acrid, clinging rot before it liquified my eyes, as it has been known to do on occasion. A glance behind showed that, indeed, the wagon’s chimney was still producing, pumping out fumes of smoke the colour of a sunburned corpse. Those toxins would settle in the ground and water in a week or so. I hope no-one nearby is pregnant.

“Oskar!” A fly whining in my ear. Actually, Pritchard from behind, but all the same. He’d taken his wagon slightly off road to try and catch up to mine, waving his hands through the air as though that would help. “OSKAR!”

“Pritchard!” I raised my hat to him. “Pleasant morning, aye? Mind getting back on the road? Don't want another broken wheel.”

“Could you tell Stefan to quit his work?” The man said, over gesticulating as usual with those frail hands of his. “It’s barely tolerable in camp, but I’m right in the smoke trail! Or at least let me in front!”

I peered expressionless at him for a moment, before frowning with amazement at the column of smoke. “Oh, my, indeed! Industriousness at its best! Quite the hard worker, is our Stefan!”

“Oskar, I can’t breathe behind you,” he said, a hand to his vested chest that failed to match my own. “Please, please! Ask him to stop!”

“It’s quite alright, Pritchard. We’re well on our way!! Not long to go before we stop for the night. I promise, I recognize the stage he’s working on. Liquefaction, quite harmless by products!”

I don’t really know what stage Stefan could be on, and only half a guess at what liquefaction means.. I do know what Morale means, though, and betters with a cumbersome vocabulary were just the thing for it!

“I promise, Pritchard,” I said as he opened his mouth once more. “He’s almost done already, only a little longer and our entire batch will be good to go by nightfall, ready for quick sale. That means pay for everyone, don’t you know?”

The man removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes as I so dearly wished to do myself. I resigned to blinking away the tears and keeping a smile on my face. “Sun’s rays, fine,” he said, and pressed his handkerchief to his face. “I’ll stay to the side for a while, if you don’t mind. Can’t stand it.”

“Up to you, my friend,” Icalled over as I kicked my horses into action, closing the distance to May driving Raufa’s lodgings to leave the man-child behind. “But if you break a wheel, it’s your pay!”

I smiled and stared straight ahead until, peeking behind, I was sure Pritchard couldn’t see me any longer. I quickly tied my own handkerchief to my face and even donned that spare pair of goggles I left for such occasions. Thus sheltered from the fiery wrath that burst forth from a dragon’s urinary tract, I set about enjoying my fogged up, sight-impaired view of the countryside. The ride beyond remained relatively pleasant. Even the dozen or so birds that dropped out of the sky gave their own sort of amusement.

We stopped somewhere before nightfall, though I’d started dozing far earlier.. Pritchard staggered from his wagon and let all know he’d spent half the ride vomiting, but apart from a bit of paleness I hardly saw anything worth complaining about. I set Madeline and Raufa setting up camp for the night while I rattled on Stefan’s door again, this journal in hand, ready to hash out just what his issue had been.

“Open up, good sir,” I said through my teeth, glancing about to make sure everyone saw the at-ease smile smothered generously on my face like jam on burnt toast. “I’d love to see what we’ve gotten! Can start counting our money now, aye?” I gorilla-gripped the door once more. “Stefaaaan?”

A few clicks, some metallic, the rest hollow proceeded the door opening up a fraction, the bright, lantern-fueled light. I entered and left the door ajar, journal tucked behind my back.

What miasmic scents had escaped the chimney remained here, subdued, but more primal and deep in their attack on my nostrils. I’d tilted away the goggles, but quickly replaced them and the face cover against the onslaught as I purveyed my investment.

A mere four feet across, the inside of this particular abode remained nevertheless barely navigable, so bulging with used retorts, vials, alembics, vats and distillers and half a dozen other alchemical things with names too convoluted for my tongue. Shelves and cupboards left open, filled with scraps and scraping of ingredients. The substance of the place, cluttered and disastrous as it was, slipped by as I recounted just how much my spent on it all.

There, at the end of the wagon, stood the cloaked ‘man’ himself, Stefan Petal. Hood up, that wooden, white-washed, placid-faced mask in place, he’d shed his usual oversized cloak for more form fitting, simple clothes which sat on his bones as convincingly as a pig in a dress. At his hands, there was no effort at all. Phalanges? I think that’s the word. The old, ancient bones clacked against a small vial, examining some final product against the light of a candle. He turned to me at last.

“Oskar,” he said, a young man’s voice muffled only vaguely its coverings. “I dislike working on the move. I could kill us all, and by accident for once.”

“Your sour moods continue not impressing me, Stefan,” I said, clearing off a table-edge to lean against. “But I’m hoping it went successfully all the same?”

“A runt’s excretions, Oskar. That’s what you gave me. It’s not that easy to work with.” He placed the vial down, turned to the large, covered vat behind him, dominating that end of the wagon. “But yes, I managed to succeed quite well despite those difficulties.”

“I knew you would, Stefan. No-one else could have!”

“No-one else, Oskar. No-one else in this entire prison of a solar system knows the methods I use.” That flat monotone rose dropped a pitch or two. “Remember that next time you try to batter down my door.”

I stepped across the room, planted my hands on his shoulders. His framed moved about as much as a brick wall would, my hands feeling just as welcomed by the thin layer that covered his collar bones.

“Come on, Stefan. This was quite a haul, you know? Easily a few thousand worth iin there. We’re doing it! This plan is finally in proper motion!”

“Yes, and now that it is…” Deep from the hood that voice came, low and murmuring, as if ashamed. “Listen, there’s something I’ve needed to talk to you about. Something rather serious, and the future of our partnership depends on it.”

“Stefan? Is something wrong? I… I’ve never heard you talk like this. Please, tell me. I’ll take care of it.”

“Its…” His head hung low, skeletal hand gestured helplessly at the world. “This place is unbearable. The décor… I can’t vomit, Oskar. My skin would crawl if I had any.” His index finger shot to the wall panels. “This wood, it hasn’t even been varnished recently! And the colour.”

“The décor? You cook down Dragon Piss in here, Stefan…”

“A more difficult, intellectually challenging task there has never been! No-one but I can purify it, in this world or any other. That ought to earn me at least a hint of recognition, a semblance of class and standards worthy of my history and efforts. But instead I’m forced into this rotting, oaken squalor.. I’ve had enough of it! The money has better uses yes, but I’ve earned my pay as well as you or any other lackey, and this is how I want, nay, demand it be spent. No more hiding in shame, for either of us. A true, brave capitalist such as yourself ought to veil me in silk, encase me in transport worthy of a king!”

“The silk would be ruined rather quickly, you know,” Isaid, looking about at the thin veneer of yellow overlaying every surface as the dense mist settled. Better a sweaty armpit to dig my nose into, than that smell.

“Then we’d buy more!” His hand thrust out, grasping into the air as if the wealth were there to take. “Look, it’s… I’m only asking for a small amount, a stipend to improve my… I used to be important, you know.”

Oh what pity I felt at that moment, looking down at that ancient being, brought so low. I opened my mouth to say something comforting, something grandiose. Then I got to taste the air and nearly gagged. Besides, it was late, I was tired, and I got the feeling he enjoyed wallowing in his misery. Most folk seem to.

“Stefan, we’ll talk about it later, but I promise at least some nice curtains, maybe a miniature chandelier?” His wooden mask tilted up from its droop. Puppy dog eyes almost, without the eyes of course. “Consider it taken care of and put it out of your mind. I wanted to ask your opinion. Here.”

I handed this book to him, and asked him to read the first entry. He took it without a word, turned his back and bent to read. Bone scraped paper as he flipped through, back and forth twice at least, before shutting it. He dropped it to the workbench, brought his hand up to his mask, and pulled it free, resting it on the bench before him.

“Oskar…”

I sighed at his tone. I removed my goggles and mask, the room having aired out through the open door for the smell to be only moderately incompatible with human anatomy. “Yes, Stefan?”

“You know that I’m the last," he said, back still turned.

“Yes, Stefan. The last Lich, and very proud of it. You’re a legend.”

“And the last rebel.”

“Yep.”

“The sole pupil of Giorgo Denviarnach, the man who nearly ended this solar contest, The Enemy, the Scourge of the System…”

“A-yahuh.” Though he’s very impressed with himself, I’ve always found Stefan’s history-dump dry and tiresome, very overdone. You’d think, after centuries of practice, one could develop some style in monologues.

“So why, when I ask you the simple request of keeping a diary, do you instead squat down and take a shit on my heritage, on everything I’ve worked for with your pathetic, miserable, simple-minded attempt?”

“You… left something in the bushes this morning?”

It’s often quite hard to think of Stefan as anything but an eccentric hire, a sequestered genius tucked into his wagon, doing as he says and asking for little. Only a handful of times had I really gotten a clear idea of what Stefan really was. A Lich, the final Lich.

He turned, and the fluid movements of a living being were gone. He did not so much twist as rearranged his bones to have them face me, dropping his hood as he did so. That skull, empty and plain save for the gem and engraved symbols adorning its forehead. Despite the plentiful light, I saw no inside to the empty sockets before me, only dark and foreboding. My spine cringed, my hair stood on end and my sphincter puckered, unwillingly and very uncomfortably.

“I get the feeling you’re upset,” Isaid.

The Lich said nothing, didn’t so much as move.

“If there’s some way I ought to improve, just tell me, dear brother. We’re in this together, remember?”

“I could tear you apart and not a single one of your contracts would activate.”

“I’m sure.”

“Without me your entire operation fails, and your chance for immortality is gone.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re lost to mediocrity while I find someone else to help me topple the contest.”

“I know all this, yes.”

"Perhaps you know it, but do you understand, Oskar?” Stefan said, and finally that statue of a corpse moved, stepping back, only then letting me know he’d been inches away. Missing or not, his eyes were captivating. “I asked you to journal because you need to know who you are. This is drivel! This thing is drier and less emotional than the mildew on my inner thigh. I’m dead, but I’m not this dead inside. You’re supposed to be reflecting! Introspection, self-knowledge, meditation. You’re trying to figure out who you are as a person, not what an amazing businessman you think you are.”

“Ah, you see, there’s the problem. Those are the same thing.” I nodded and pointed as I explained. “I am an amazing businessman, and an amazing businessman is what I am!”

“Oskar you are shockingly amoral, entirely materialistic, and a charlatan through and through. It’s not that you don’t know those things, you’ve never even thought about them!”

“Why would I? I’m busy doing real work. Money doesn’t make itself!”

“Oskar if you can’t figure out who you are, you can’t become a Lich. Holding ones identity intact is a key part of the ritual! Answer me this: Why do you want to become like me?”

“Because… I don’t want to die?”

“And why not?”

“Because dying is bad?”

“And why is that?”

“Because… then I couldn’t make money.”

His arm moved, I heard a crack, and pain sang out from my cheek.. A slap by a bone hand is not so much a slap as it is a very wide, knobby punch. I braced against the table, holding my face, working my aching jaw, blinking away the stars. After a moment I realized those weren’t stars at all, just light reflecting off piss samples.

“That’s a worthless answer, and I know it’s not true,” Stefan said, not even giving me the time to pout at his strike. “I know why, and you need to find out, or you will die.”

He grabbed my book and shoved it into my chest – another almost-punch. Worst beating I’ve received in my life, I’m pretty sure.

“Go write about today, and reflect. Morality, meaning, conscience. Why, why, why. You go and write a decent entry, or I’ll spoil this batch and ruin your business.”

“You wouldn’t,” I managed. “You need it too. You’d never be so petty.”

“Oskar, I am 1428 years old. I’ve had a lot of practice being petty.”

At that I could only nod.

“Get out and write. Come back when you have something worth thinking about.”

So I left, said goodnight to the few still awake, climbed into my cabin and wrote this.

And here’s some reflection: I hope a rat shits in Stefan’s skull. I hope this because it makes me happy to think that he might finally become who he really is, a shit-brained pretentious skelly-fuck cock

Just, fuck you Stefan.