The sun rose and broke through the clouds. The ever-present gloom over the Lichyard remained gray and unaffected by the rise of the morning and the presence of noon, but the rest of the world moved despite it. The Tartarian way of living was led forth before Ozzy’s eyes.

They were a simple folk with an uncomplicated sort of life. They carried all their belongings in family caravans that served as their beds and storage for everything they needed. Just like in Ruder’s mobile cabin, everything they required was hung up and bolted into place. Families slept together, and the caravans with children had small hammocks where the little ones could hang over their parents heads.

The horses, meanwhile, were left to wander nearby. They were polite and tame horses, not at all like the sturdy wild steeds they could be. Part of what kept them in line was the special garments they wore. The horses had leathery straps that were layered with a series of thin wooden tiles which clack together when they moved. It made it easy to hear when and where they wandered in the open plains.

Ozzy’s job as the new tenant, and the first step toward paying off the debt of Ruder’s good will and old clothing, was to watch the horses and keep them out of the forest, both of the Blackwood down the valley and the other forest some distance away where a road devolved into a beaten dirt path. His job was simple enough that he didn’t need to spend much time on it.

As long as all eight horses were in sight, he was doing his job, and if not, he had a special trait that allowed him to keep them in line. His clothing was stuffed full of nothing but cotton fluff, and his skeleton body had comparatively little weight. He was well under 100 pounds, possibly not much higher than 50, but he had the strength of an average man.

He learned of his lightness in the lichyard, and of his bottomless stamina in the Blackwood. He could run at horse-chasing speed and never tire, nor need to draw ragged breath. He was a natural herder who grew no aches or pains from a life on the range. A body and constitution perfectly fit for the hard duties of ranch handling.

I wonder how scared these horses would get if they saw my face, though. And they don’t pay much attention to me up close. They sniffed me and just kind of shook their faces at me. Maybe they can tell there’s nothing human under these clothes. Do horses memorize people by their smell or their faces? Cause I have neither.

As long as I can run after them, that’s good enough. They’re just eating… Speaking of.

Ozzy turned to the caravan. He was part way between the camp and the horses up the field and noticed small lines of smoke rising up in a little clearing where the caravans were circled. In addition, several ornate rugs and tapestries hung on lines to air out like flapping walls. The women and kids tended to the open air kitchen. Two large pots boiled over a shallow fire pit, and at the end was a large skillet that absorbed the heat of the coals into a shimmer which warped the air above it.

Do I need to eat?

Ozzy glanced down at his padded stomach.

I haven’t felt hunger, pain, tiredness - nothing. I’ve just felt kind of okay, or occasionally chilly. This, obviously, isn’t a normal body. I mean, what would I even be replenishing? Whatever I stick in my mouth, it’ll just go down and stain my mattress-filling, probably. But they’ll suspect something if I refuse. I’m going to have to do something weirdly inhuman sooner or later…

While the women tended to the cooking, the children played and chased each other in the field, and while the horses fed themselves on wild grass, the men of the caravan set up for their daily work: trading.

The caravans didn’t exclusively hold their own goods. Roth and Marman stood at the back of one unoccupied caravan which was stocked top to bottom and all the way inside with provisions. Salted meats, preserved fruits, vinegar-drenched vegetable medleys, smoked fish, mushrooms and moss gathered up in clumps; they had a portable grocery store, and more besides. They also had armor pieces and metal trinkets, weapons of war and objects pertaining to violent nature. Preserved skulls hollowed out and inlaid with wax candles - just like those in the catacombs.

They were sellers of all manner of adventuring goods, it seemed. And they had takers. Only a few through the morning, who came and chatted for some long time until they left with mild dissatisfaction and new tools for their belts. The wanderers came from different roads, but all went to the same place. Ozzy couldn’t help but eye their trade down with ire as they sent random souls into the Blackwoods with barely enough food to feed them for a day.

After noon, when the sun started to drop from its zenith, Ozzy saw a group of men come out of the Blackwood who approached the caravan. The travelers looked ragged, defeated and beaten up. Their once mighty armor was marred with mud and chipped all over. One of them was tied down to the back of a haggard looking horse. They looked like they’d just barely escaped Marrowbane with their lives.

“Ozzy?” Ruder asked.

Ozzy turned around with a start, and with a jump so big his veil lifted to reveal a flash of his bony white teeth to the blind man. He’d been so captivated in his thoughts that he was snuck up on in the middle of an open field. He answered at once with a “KKKKKHHHHH!!!!!”

Ruder smirked. “Lunch is ready for you. It’s been agreed, since you are tending our horses, to get a portion as part of our gratitude above your debt.”

“Oh,” Ozzy sighed. “That’s - oh.” He leaned in close to whisper. “I don’t actually need to eat. Being what I am.”

Ruder nodded. “I suspected as much,” he said, “and have already eaten your portion for you.” Ruder smirked while Ozzy squinted. It wasn’t exactly a kind gesture, though under the unique circumstances, it was the best favor Ruder could have granted him. “But the bowl is still there. Make like you’re eating and offer it back to the ma’am so she thinks you ate it. She is worrying over you. Let her know you’re doing well.”

“I will,” Ozzy replied.

“And the horses? They’re fine too?”

Ozzy turned around. The horses were still in sight, and fine. “Yes. When should I bring them in?”

“Once it gets dark,” Ruder said. “The one with the sloping back, if you ride him the rest will follow. They’re well trained.”

Ozzy nodded his head and noted the one Ruder mentioned. It had broad shoulders, strong in the front, but looked like its back legs were slightly lacking. The rest of the horses had much less of a slop and were more dipped in the middle.

“I’ll….figure that out then,” Ozzy said, stopping just short of admitting he’d never even so much as pet a horse before, let alone rode one. Ruder nodded and went back to the other men of the group to discuss their transactions over the day. Ozzy gave his thanks to the madam, the wife of Roth and mother of the children. She seemed concerned for him and his ability to look after the horses. He assured her that he was well, the food was fine, and the horses were safe with him.

Ozzy prepared to return to the horses, a bit closer to make sure they corralled themselves over closer to the caravan as the sun dropped, but he was halted.

“You there,” a man called. A taller man with olive skin and a long, flowing mullet with a properly trimmed crew cut up top hailed him. He wore a piece of armor with metal segments strapped in place by thick leather belts which criss-crossed in front of his chest and coiled around his back, where a broad sword was holstered. His pants were similarly armored, with pieces of uneven metal strapped around the thickest parts of his legs and layered over deep, wading boots.

“Get over here and sell me something,” he demanded. Ozzy looked around to confirm whether it was he the man wanted, or someone nearby that went unseen. The man just waved his arm over once more. So Ozzy complied.

Traders, Ozzy reminded himself. These people are traders. Wandering salesmen. I’ve done retail before. I should be able to -.

“Listen here, Tartarian,” the man proudly spoke. He thumped his chest and the metal over his shoulder shook. “I am a Defender! One who fights the monsters which threaten this fair land! I am a noble, proud and strong warrior who requires only the finest wares in his never-ending fight against evil!”

“Yes, of course,” Ozzy said with a polite nod. Just pretend you care about his job, then pretend that whatever you sell him will help. “And, you’re about to embark into the Blackwoods, no?”

The man scowled. “YES!” he shouted. “I am. To the Lichyard to slay the dread Gozzpek and his unholy horde of debased demons. And so, I require a replacement.” He drew the blade from the holster on his back with a deft, long pull. He held a heavy looking, blunted sword with many scratches and an unbuffed surface. The wrapping over the handle was also split. “This sword has seen many adventures of mine. It is no less an heirloom, which I would part with, for one of your finest instruments of war.”

“Uh, let me check,” Ozzy said. He turned and hopped up to inspect the nearest caravan. It was all daily items and preserved goods, no weapons to be found. None in sight, that was. He knew from Ruder’s cabin that the most important wares were kept out of plain sight, things of sentimental or perhaps higher monetary value had to be stored under the mattress. Ozzy lifted up the layers of quilting as best he could and discovered a few weapons. Sort of. A spade, two axes, a sledge hammer for driving fence stakes and a large wok-dish with wide handles.

“Ah, perfect,” the man said. He was leaning over Ozzy’s shoulder to inspect the goods. He reached down for the hammer. Ozzy dropped the quilting, which pushed the man’s arm against the wooden frame until he dragged it out.

“Sorry,” Ozzy said. “I need to check with the manager - the, uh, trade manager, what the prices are on these. We don’t sell them often so -.”

“But, sir,” the man began, sounding falsely offended, “I have already offered you my prized possession. A sword which has many times saved my life and granted me bounty. The story of this blade is priceless, and I would not depart with it for anything lest it be absolutely necessary to my survival.”

Ozzy glanced at the sword. It somehow looked even worse than the first time he saw it. He didn’t know much about how Tartarians traded but sentimentality didn’t seem like a high priority.

“Uh,” Ozzy began, “let me check with -.”

“I’m working under a good cause,” he protested, “soldiering on into that dank abyss to rid the world of one more threat to humanity’s existence. The least you could do is treat my weapon with respect as I create new legends with the meager implements that you can hand over!”

“Well,” Ozzy said, attempting to once more defer to his superiors, but the man was insistent that he was in the right. He was the worst kind of customer, one who believed he could get away with being an ass to the staff to get what he wanted. Even in another world, such practices existed. It was a reminder of Ozzy’s past life, and an unwelcome one, which summoned up a verve within him. A dim light of a heroic spirit glowed from Ozzy’s eyes.

“Have you been in the Blackwoods before?” he asked, assertive.

The man seemed off-put. He shook his head up and down, a nervous and rapid nod. “Y-yes, I have. I have fought -.”

“Have you made it to the lichyard itself?” Ozzy asked. “Or the tombs below? Tombs filled with skeletal monsters that were born from the dirt walls of that crypt mangled and changed in form, such that no human could have ever wrapped around them in a past life? With spears for hands, blades for elbows, crossbow ballistas built into their chests and a joyful disregard for all things living and whole?”

“I…..haven’t,” the man admitted. “But the least -.”

“The only thing I can give you for free,” Ozzy said, “is a warning, from a man who’s been there. There are horrors and monsters that don’t care what stories you have to tell. That lichyard, Gozzpek’s godless grave, is where all those stories end. The least I can do, as a favor, is tell you to bring back at least a dozen men. There is a monster guarding the crypt that nothing short of a tank will be able to fend off.”

The man squinted at Ozzy’s rant. Firstly, because he had no clue what purpose a tankard would bring to fighting such a beast. Ozzy realized too late that tanks weren’t real in the new world, but barrels of ale probably were. Secondly, because he felt Ozzy’s conviction, and was all at once shied to his former noble calling.

“I - I’ll be back,” he said, “with more Defenders. More money. We’ll negotiate for your wares together, as a group.” He turned and walked up the path to a horse that waited on the side of the road. Ozzy felt glad to see another headstrong fool steered away from certain death.

He turned to tidy up the shop and saw Roth and Marman, who were not quite so pleased that a customer of theirs was turned away by the hot, breathless ramble of their should-be quiet guest.

Ozzy smiled, nervously. His face didn’t show it, until he grit his teeth a little harder. His jaw sockets creaked up and lifted the corners of his veil, just so to show an apologetic grimace without exposing his fleshless face below. Though, if he did, they’d see he was all teeth from chin to lip. A forced smile in any other world held the same connotation.