[Skell]
"How long do I gotta stand like this?" I groaned, hands stretched stiffly at my sides. "I feel like a puppet."
"Until I'm done," Cynthine circled me, examining my body up and down.
"And when's that?"
"When I'm finished."
"…You know what I mean."
"And you know what I mean," she passed behind my view. "Count yourself lucky I'm capable of glamouring you at all."
I half-turned, eyeing her. "How are you so sure you can change my appearance anyway? I figure being dead makes your job more complicated, compared to the usual… breathing clients."
"Because I'm Cynthine Valzo," she pointed my bony chin forward. "If I can make mermaids appear as legged women and centaurs as… well, legged men, turning a dead body into a 'living' one will be child's play."
"I'll, um, take your word for it."
What in the Abyss is a mermaid? Or a centaur?
"All right," the glamour mage stopped in front of me. "Now that I've noted your proportions, it's time."
Her words sparked a dormant excitement inside me. During our earlier argumen- er, conversation, we weren't at our best. But with the air cleared, I could breathe easy, and Cynthine could focus on her specialty.
"Glamour Kit!" she incanted. In a flash, numerous rose-pink tools materialized around Cynthine, calmly hovering in the air.
"Woah! What's all this?" my arms fell.
"Skell!" she scolded, grabbing a rose-pink paintbrush floating in front of her. "Again, you are to remain completely still. Move during the glamouring process and your body becomes a horror story."
"Woah…" I raised my arms, deadpan, "what's all this…?"
"The tools of my trade," Cynthine grinned proudly. "Chisels, erasers, calipers, scissors, quills - as you can see, the list goes on."
"So these magical instruments are what you'll use to make me look human? Wow-" I eyed the floating saw. "…You won't have to use that one, will you?"
She grabbed the saw with her other hand. "These tools affect your appearance, not you. So when I 'paint' you, your underlying body will remain untouched. And when I 'chop' off your arm, you won't feel a thing."
"…When you do what now?"
—————————————————————————————–————
Monks, if I remembered the stories correctly, were masters of willpower. Able to sleep on beds of spikes and meditate for weeks on end.
They had nothing on me.
Cynthine, in her grace, chose the one spot in the room's center where the many mirrors wouldn't reflect her work. And I, her skeletal canvas, was ordered not to move an inch. Meaning I couldn't even drop my chin to see the work-in-progress that was my body.
The urge to jump in front of a mirror or look down at myself was tremendous, one I resisted for silent hours. But it was eating me.
As for Cynthine? Absorbed in her work. No snarking, not even small talk. Besides the occasional grunt she just chipped away at my glamour, running through every magical tool circling her.
Maybe a quick question wouldn't hurt. Just something to chew on - distract me.
"You mentioned glamour horror stories earlier," I kept my jaw as still as possible. "Those common?"
"Almost as common as glamour success stories," she answered offhandedly, focused on my eyes. "Why? Frightened? Stay still and you won't be the next."
"Not scared. Curious. What are those like?"
"You'd rather not know." She grabbed the thin paintbrush, lifting it to my head.
"But… what if I sorta do?"
"Then you're quite the demented soul. Then again, I suppose I'm no different."
She made some strokes I couldn't feel, then returned the tool to the hovering ring. "Fortunately for you, I've also mastered multitasking; I'll tell of a couple tales. First that comes to mind is Callahan's. Once, a mute man traveled the land, desperate for a method to speak. He came across a novice glamour mage selling a solution. Long story short, Callahan ended up with six long rows of teeth, none where a mouth should be. Moral is, always enlist a professional."
"Ooh," I said, morbidly interested, "so could he finally talk?"
Cynthine nodded. "But only out of his eyes. "
"…Gross. Got anything else?"
"Liar. You aren't disgusted in the slightest." Cynthine smirked. "Well, I'll give more details for this next one…"
Following this conversation was a strange few hours. While working on my glamour, Cynthine told me of a guy covered in a dozen tentacles and twice as many eyes, a lady who's glamour endlessly spiraled into her head, and a man with a humongous… organ she only described as a crime against humanity, among others.
All terrible accidents, yet despite the horrific subject, they kept me from re-dying of boredom. If you claimed I was secretly unhinged for finding the stories so fascinating… then yeah, fair enough. All the time, I learned new things about myself. But this aspect came with a bonus.
Peace. For once, Cynthine and I simply… exchanged words. No ulterior motives, or derision. Just normal talk about decidedly abnormal stuff. She was still a crazy old witch, but apparently, a crazy old witch I could tolerate.
"I'd think you'd turn up your nose at matters like this," Cynthine raked a rose-pink comb over what I assumed to be glamoured hair, "considering Hand of Decay is the epitome of macabre."
"Come on, that's different. Hearing gruesome stories and actually doing gruesome acts are worlds apart."
"Is that so? Then I have a hypothetical: say that after this, you find yourself in mortal danger. Would you cast it again?"
"…I won't have to," my eyes turned away. "I've got your glamour."
"Assume danger finds you regardless. And there's no other options. What then?"
"I… I never want to feel flesh rot under my hands again," I decided. "But, if I could find another use for the art, maybe I'd be able to stomach it. Emphasis on 'maybe'."
"Hm. I pray we won't have to learn which side of the dilemma you fall upon." Cynthine stepped back, examining me from every angle. "In any case, I'm finished."
Surprise smacked me across the face. "F-finished? Already?"
"What do you mean 'already?' Check the curtains," she pointed. "Daylight's been leaking into the room for some time now."
A whole night passed? Just that quick?
"Ah, and when I say done, I mean for now," Cynthine plopped herself on the edge of her bed. "Your glamour needs a couple finishing touches. But for the purposes of seeing yourself, it is complete."
"Really? I can finally move - finally see?"
"That is what I said," she released a tired breath, laying back on the sheets. "As for me, the bed calls. I look like I brim with youth, but underneath this glamour is a woman too mature for all-nighters. As for your glamour, I'll perfect it once I wake."
I heard maybe half of what she said. The rest was drowned out by internal celebration.
Sure, I earlier argued that a glamour would only alleviate my chronic diagnosis of "death", and I meant every word. Even so, a human appearance was a massive, undeniable improvement from before. One I couldn't wait to see.
I raced to Cynthine's full-body mirror. In it, an unfamiliar man grinned at me. He was young, around twenty, face and build average - just like I asked. Short, purple hair added to the unassuming look. A color, I noticed, very similar to Cynthine's…
"I see you've taken a gander at the hair," Cynthine sat up in the mirror's reflection. "Purple is a fairly common hair color in Lumerit; I thought it fit your request of 'average'. Also," she rolled proud fingers through her hair, "it's my favorite color,"
"The eyes are purple too…" my words were trance-like. Then I realized the obvious.
I have eyes? Not eyeholes, not glowing sparks, but pupils, irises, and lashes? They're all here. And they all work.
My eyes dropped to my jaws, which unsteady hands reached for. I tugged on my "cheek". It felt soft and porous. Like living skin.
"How? How'd you make everything so real?" The words spilled from my mouth. Each syllable, my lips, teeth, tongue, all moved to pronounce. Even my shock was clear as day in the reflection.
"Magic. Magic, and many, many years of effort."
"What about my emotions? They show. See? I'm smiling, and my eyes are wide."
"It's actually quite simple," Cynthine stood up, casually making the bed behind me. "First, I used my tools to connect your thoughts and your expressions. It sounds complicated, but once I use my scissors to blah blah blah, then snap your blah blah to your blah blah with my blah, it becomes as easy as blah. Reminiscent of connecting wires, really. After that, I-"
She never said blah. I just tuned her out. Not on purpose, but because what I saw in the mirror stole every ounce of my attention. In it, the burden of undeath lightened by the second.
Those seconds turned to minutes of staring. It took Cynthine snapping fingers in my ear to finally snatch me back to reality. "Goodness, seems I haven't lost my touch. Long time since I've had someone this satisfied with the final product. Even longer, since I've crafted such genuine tears."
My gaze shot back to the mirror. Wetness built at my eyes, knocking at the door of the dam. "That's what this is? I thought something was wrong with my vision, but it's… I'm crying?"
She nodded.
A droplet fell down my cheek, stopped by the tap of my finger. On it was a bead of fabricated water. "But, these aren't real…"
"You couldn't be more wrong. Those tears are an illusion, yes, but the emotion behind them is genuine."
I wiped away the tears. More replaced them. More and more, gushing like twin waterfalls. In that moment I realized: sadness didn't cause them.
Happiness did.
Before, emotions were trapped in my mind. No level of joy would spark a smile, and no amount of sadness would let me cry. But even if it was illusory, my feelings finally had an effect. They could be seen. Understood.
With a wide, dumb, tear-drenched smile, I turned to the glamour mage. "Thank you, Cynthine!"
—————————————————————————————————
A grin with bulging cheeks. An inquisitive look, stroking my chin. A crazy expression where I stuck out my tongue and blew on it, flecking spit all over the couch.
…I mean, it wasn't real spit.
Engrossed with my reflection in the hand mirror, I ran through several expressions. All were perfect. Underneath, I was as much a skeleton as ever, but the glamour almost tricked me into forgetting.
But as much as I wanted to lay on the couch and explore this new appearance, I couldn't. Pocketing the mirror, I looked to the front door. An entire night passed. Oliver was still gone.
During the glamouring process, it was easy to assume he was touring town. Belza had shops, shows, and sights in spades, after all. But it was dawn. And considering Ansel's backpack - including the money inside - still leaned against the wall, he clearly hadn't rented an inn room.
Doubt he's in danger, or that he left town, but still… I walked to the backpack and threw it onto my shoulders. Besides, he's gotta hear about Ansel. Shame that'll spoil his reaction to my new form, though…
I turned back to the loft. By then, Cynthine was lost in a dream about cats or something. She wouldn't even know I left.
But one thought slowed my steps to the front door. The "finishing touches" she mentioned.
An overreaction, gotta be. The sort of finicky hang-up a professional might have, that'd go unnoticed to everyone else. I've checked every angle of everything. Even… under my clothes. Everything's perfectly fine.
I shook off the concerns, gripping the doorknob. Now, I was human - at least on the outside. No longer would I have to hide.
Oliver needed to know the truth. And I wanted to see the town too. Walk the streets. Smile at the sun. To… show my face.
Desire directed my hand and forced open the door.
As always, fear was with me. But now I had the tools to fight it.
Oliver. I'm on my way.
—————————————————————————————–————
Looking back, I never had a chance to see the sun.
Watching the skies was the last thing on my mind back in Sienna. Ever since, I'd been too worried about angry mobs to take off my hood. Only during solitary nights would I lift it.
Never in broad daylight.
Stepping onto the cobbled street, I glanced back at Cynthine's house. Blue lanterns lit the front and the roof came to a crooked, eccentric point like those old mage hats. Besides that, her place was a wattle-and-daub home like the rest lining the street: double-storied and spacious and set upon raised foundations - the kind of place that wouldn't be so bad to settle, once my life was my own again.
I barely noticed my feet strolling down the street. Assorted objects sat outside these homes: barrels, flags, even a steaming pie or two in the windows. Boring, everyday stuff. But to a man only familiar with silhouettes and moonlight, the mundane might as well have been a festival for the eyes.
A distracting festival, it turned out, since I didn't see what leapt off the raised foundation between two houses - crashing into me.
My vision and body reeled before I knew what happened. Using my hands I stopped from hitting the ground and making a complete clown of myself, wobbling upright. I spun around to find a pint-sized kid. He sat on the street, grimacing and massaging his knee.
"You all right?" I asked before thinking.
He looked up at me, hesitating a second. Fear struck when I remembered I was an undead in disguise. His pause could've meant anything.
"…Yeah, I guess," he crossed his arms.
Whew. So nobody can tell the difference. Thanks again, old witch.
"Just didn't think an adult would ruin our game" he pouted. "Now I'm dead."
"Huh?"
From the corner of my eye leapt a sprinting girl off the foundation. She landed on the stones below - right by the boy - and tapped him on the shoulder.
"Killed you!" she beamed smugly.
"Ugh, whatever," he got to his feet and glared at me. "See what you did?"
"Oh," I instinctively rubbed the hair where my skull used to be. "Wasn't trying to interrupt your game of tag-"
"Tag? Tag's for babies!" corrected the boy.
"Yeah!" the girl tried to stand taller. "We turn seven this year!
"…Sorry," My eyes narrowed. "Had no idea who I was messing with."
"You didn't!" she agreed.
The boy pointed. "Hey, why're you only wearing one glove?"
I looked at my hand, remembering I'd recently turned the accessory into fine dust. "M-my glove? I er… lost it."
They shared a glance.
"…He's weird," decided the boy.
The girl nodded. "He's dressed funny too. Remember when Mama said only creeps wear all black?"
"What? What's wrong with black?" I asked.
The boy nodded. "Let's play somewhere else. Where there aren't weirdos."
In agreement, the two ran up someone's stairs and through a crevice between homes, voices growing distant - while I was left speechless.
…I don't look like a creep, do I?
I shook my head. Whatever. Least the boy isn't hurt. Which reminds me: Oliver. But where to start? Belza's far from small.
While brainstorming, my eyes wandered. Particularly, to my clothes.
Grow up, Skell. Insults from kids shouldn't bother you. But then again, they have a point; these rags are dirty, scratched, and cheap. There's plenty of shops down in the Lower Layer… the same place Oliver was interested in.
A grin slowly spread across my face.
Wonder if you could hit two birds with one stone…
—————————————————————————————————-
A social butterfly, I was not. More than a few conversations and, much like mana, I needed a day to recover.
Today was a bit different.
Wandering through the Middle Layer's winding streets, I just couldn't help myself, shooting friendly smiles and dipping in and out conversations with everyone who passed. After following a few people's helpful directions, I circled the Layer long enough to reach my destination: the grand steps connecting the town's ring-shaped sections.
Though before looking down, I looked back.
A broad, bustling avenue stretched behind me, lined in trees and streetlamps. End of the distant path, standing tall over countless buildings and people, were another massive set of stairs built into the ascending hill. Atop those was the impressive peak of the town: the Upper Layer.
Hospitals, libraries, the town jail, and the Baroness' manor - whoever that was - were all rooted there, according to a signpost.
I'll head up there sometime, if only for the view. But for now…
My gaze returned ahead. I stood atop the crown of the stairs connecting the Middle and Lower Layers. Straight ahead was open air. I easily peered over the town walls, taking in the relatively even plains as they expanded into the horizon. Far below, at the base of the steps, were enough swarming bodies to remind me of an anthill I'd stepped in during the journey there.
I pulled at my collar, gathering courage.
So many eyes. Way more than around Cynthine's house. But… I'm just like them now. I am them. Take the plunge.
And I did. Each stair was as long as a leap and wide enough to hold a hundred people shoulder-to-shoulder. Most of that space was being put to use. Being around so many, it'd have parched my throat were it not already bone-dry and nonexistent, but one thought kept my mind off the unease.
I'd really, really hate to fall here.
Reaching the bottom, my attention rolled across the busy town square. A symphony of voices and conversation filled the air as groups buzzed around. Many carried bags of food or clothes, pooling from the square's left exit.
That way, then.
On the way, I passed a tall fountain - the square's centerpiece, and the crowded corner plaza that stole Oliver's interest before. His face wasn't among those awestruck. Two other faces, however, stopped me in place.
Atop the plaza stage, two men in white face paint and striped clothes smiled before the audience. The left one covered his mouth with gloved hands, then stiffly placed said gloves above the ground as if groping an invisible box.
They're just prancing around, making exaggerated faces. Why're everyone's eyes glued to the stage?
The right one slipped behind the other and shoved him. I expected the guy to fall flat on his face and that'd be the show, but something else happened.
He did fall, but the man landed softly on the air he previously pretended was a box. "Ooh's" and "aah's" floated from the crowd, but I crinkled my brows trying to figure how the man floated on nothing.
"This is incredible!" a woman whispered to her clearly unamused friend. "Belza Hill's mimes are the best!"
The prone mime slapped his face in shock as he slowly rose over the crowd, the other stomping his feet in contorted anger.
"It's just a simple light art," the friend tugged at her wristband. "Some nonsense with reflections and light, and voila, a box you can't see. Even you could do it, if you ever practiced."
The first woman frowned. "…I can't take you anywhere, can I?"
This is light magic!? The element undead are supposed to be weak to? It… doesn't seem that dangerous.
I scratched my fake cheek. Then again, looks can be deceiving. Either way, I should keep moving; else I'll spend all day watching these 'mimes' and their shenanigans.
—————————————————————————————–
"Crispy firebird on a stick, get your firebird on a stick! Chaud! Chaud! Always hot and naturally spicy! Perfect to keep you moving!"
I continued walking, ignoring the street vendor's desperate plea for rounds. Finally past, my eyes raised from the paved brick road, one of many traveling through the Lower Layer.
His food looked so good, too… Steaming, choice cuts of firebird, glowing that mouthwatering red. And up ahead, more food? Fruit tarts, turkey legs - a whole pizza!? Come on! Just give me one chance to sink my teeth into something here…
I tried to ignore the desires, but their stranglehold was tight. My glamour was flawless, but an illusory nose still couldn't smell, and an illusory tongue still couldn't taste. My eyes wandered.
Ugh, it's market stands on one side - vending food and useless souvenirs, or buildings on the other - selling furniture and overpriced jewelry. Besides that item I picked up earlier, I haven't found anything useful. Where's a clothes shop when you need it?
I never did find that clothes shop. But after a little more walking, I realized I should've aimed higher.
"Bo'Rah's Armor and Repairs?" I read the building's attention-grabbing banner, hanging over the door. All thoughts of food immediately vanished. I crossed the road, getting a better look. The store's interior was blocked by several stands of the shopkeep's most eye-catching armors.
Wares from here would be way better than casual wear. After all, we're traveling to the capital. Attire that won't rip easy, or isn't a pain to wash the stains out of, would be a perfect fit for the trip. Plus, safety isn't guaranteed even on patrolled roads. Protection could come in handy…
Good points, I patted myself on the back… though I knew full-well some part of me just wanted to try on a suit of armor - the same way kids want to hold a real sword.
A shame I left the place with much more than I bargained for.
—————————————————————————————–————
"Come on in, come on in!" said a deep, throaty voice hidden somewhere in the store, upon hearing the door's chime.
Craning my neck, I searched for the speaker between aisles of armor stands and tables of shields, but came up with nothing. The second I stepped forward to keep looking, two white tusks peeked out from behind a nearby suit of iron armor. Then a huge gut. Then the rest of him.
"Uhk-uhk, a young one visits!" he spread boisterous arms.
I looked the bald man up and down. He was more than a head taller than me and about ten heads wider, standing close with hairy hands on his sides. If someone were asked to describe him though, that wouldn't be where they'd start.
No: they'd mention the curved tusks extending from his mouth, or the small, beady eyes, or the long snout covering his front teeth.
A Wildfolk, he was. Specifically, one with a boar's attributes. I'd be lying if I claimed I knew much about their race, but I was aware that despite a Wildfolk's varying animalistic features - standing halfway between man and beast - they were as human as I was. Potentially more, depending on who you asked.
"My name is Bo'Rah! But enough about me!" the shopkeep rested a hand on his bulging buttoned vest, "What brings you to my establishment?"
I realized I came in without anything solid. "Um… armor?"
"Armor? Uhk-uhk," he laughed. Or snorted. It was hard to tell. "Well that's the house specialty, says as much on the banner outside. How's 'bout I give you the rundown, help you find that perfect piece o' protection?"
"Yeah, sure. That sounds good."
Bo'Rah then grinned with human teeth, turning around and walking ahead with a wide-armed gait. I followed.
"On your left," he motioned, "my heavier pieces. Want blade, arrow and fang to glance off your defiant steel? Well, my friend, this is your best bet! Currently we offer a three percent sale on the scarlet plate set. Perfect for fashion and function and finance!"
Just three?
"Hmm," he turned back, "your eyes do not sparkle. No matter! Look instead to your right. If heavier metal doesn't meet your mettle, try my lighter pieces. You'll find chainmail, brigandine, even the chitin gathered from giant berserker crabs!"
"This kind of armor," I scanned the selection, "feels more my style. Always figured the weightier stuff would slow you down."
"Some of my best customers swear by the lighter articles, my friend. I could point you to my most nimble pieces."
I smiled. "A recommendation would be great."
Though…
I stopped in the center of the shop, double-checking the lighter armor.
"A problem, my friend?"
"No, nothing's wrong," I said. "Just… don't take this the wrong way, but I feel like something's missing."
"Uhk-uhk? Missing?" his jaw sunk, lowering his tusks. "Whatever could be missing from my selection?"
"Sorry, I just- oh, I know what I'm thinking of: leather!" I pointed. "I've always wanted to wear some nice, sleek leather armor. But I don't see any in stock."
"Ah, leather…" Bo'Rah's posture deflated, like a big man trying desperately to squeeze into a small box.
"Is… there something wrong with the material?"
Troubled, he scratched at his snout with thick, leathery fingers.
Oh. Ohhh…
"Well, uhk," he said, "leather armor don't sell well 'round this corner of the world. Y-yup, that's right."
You can just tell the truth…
"But," continued the Wildfolk, "I'll see what I can do! I believe I keep a couple pieces in the back. Please, a moment, and I guarantee your needs will be satisfied!"
"Yeah, of course. Thanks…" I trailed, watching the conflicted man head to the end of the store and around the checkout counter. Squeezing through a door behind that, he shook his head.
Second the door closed, I kicked myself.
Shade, I should've just taken the crab armor…
A while later, Bo'Rah crammed himself back through the door, holding a suit of leather armor like a dirty diaper. "Seems I only have the one set. Here's hoping you find it to your liking!"
Masking his disgust, he laid it - and tall matching boots - across the checkout counter I rested my elbow on.
Masking my remorse, I gave the armor a good look. And instantly fell in love.
"Those doors near the entrance?" my gaze flicked. "They are dressing rooms. Aren't they?"
Seeing my hungry eyes, the Wildfolk's distress seemed to ease. "Definitely so, uhk-uhk!" he chuckled, "Go. Dress yourself, then tell of your honest opinion. I'd be happy to be rid of- I mean, bestow that armor upon a satisfied customer."
By then, I'd already grabbed the armor, ignoring his slip of the tongue. "Sure, I'll be back in a bit!"
—————————————————————————————
Long, black leather sleeves climbed to a dark leather cuirass - decked in several black leather plates on the shoulders and biceps - and ran across diagonally by a thin black belt.
Below, dark leather cuisses defended my legs, assisted by… black leather boots, layered with… black straps.
I stopped checking my reflection in the dressing room mirror, realizing my clothes had only gotten darker. A moment later, I waved a dismissing hand through the air.
To the Abyss with those kids; I'll wear black if I want!
I took one last, proud look in the mirror. An average-built young man, hair purple and armor black. Underneath, I was still undead. But now, I was clad in the choices my path brought me. Concealed and protected by them. I smiled at my decisions.
I never felt freer, standing in that dressing room.
Behind me, my old clothes sat in a pile. I picked them up and left the room.
Outside, alongside the wall leading to the store's entrance, was a small wastebasket half-full with old food and trash. I checked the old garments in my hand.
A single glove. Worthless. For the same reason I didn't grab the armor's matching gloves. Hand of Decay - if I ever needed it's vile power - would've made me a mismatched mess, along with whatever other trouble I'd have found myself in. Trashed.
The trousers and boots? Nothing about them gave a hint to my past life, besides maybe that I was broke - if they were even mine at all. Otherwise, they were just dirty old clothes, tearing slightly at the seams. Trashed.
The mud-stained shirt? I couldn't even make up an argument for it. Trashed.
And last, the hooded cloak. Long, black and flowy. A priceless tool. Before. Now that I had nothing to hide, I had no need to keep it.
I stared at the thing, holding it over the wastebasket. A hole peeked through it, and even thorough washing couldn't completely erase the soil of travel.
It belongs in the garbage, I told myself.
But my grip wouldn't loosen.
I stood there, debating myself. The front doors ahead opened before I could decide either way.
Pushing through was a single, confident man who commanded attention. As for me, I stuffed the hood into my pants' spacious pockets, trying not to look weird. But my hand and I quickly froze when I realized who - or what - he was.
Silvery, shining plate shielded all but his head, from bold, sectioned gauntlets to weighty, pointed greaves - all fitted to his muscular frame. Each step of his, a solid clunk followed.
But what trapped me in chains of fear was the insignia on his chest: two heads, a crimson lion and ivory eagle, their menacing faces surrounded by a hexagon.
The insignia of the undead slayers.
T-Templars!? Here!?
"Bo'Rah," he fumed. "I've returned. And I'm in no humor to waste time."