Jerry, Laura, Boney, Headless, Boboar, and Foxy stood face-to-face with a bow-wielding, creepy-looking creature. It resembled a human, except its skin was paper-white and everything else was pitch-black, the kind that seemed to absorb your sight and everything around it.

  Shoulder-length black hair accentuated a pale face with robust features, while black teeth—when the creature opened its mouth—served for an almost appalling antithesis. Its eyes were like the night. This color composition could easily be considered artistic if not for the sheer terror it caused.

  The creature held a bow in one hand and the tail of a nocked arrow in the other. It wore studded leather, brown with gray splashes, complete with pants, gloves, and a vest, while its feet were covered in a sturdy-looking pair of boots. More importantly, its body was taut to the point where it seemed packed to the brim with muscles ready to explode at a moment’s notice.

  This creature’s body wasn’t bulky, but slim and wiry. Built to fight.

  "You are foreigners," it observed in its hoarse voice, frowning, and these words seemed to shake everyone out of their stupor. As one, the undead rushed to get between Jerry and the creature, glaring at it with passion—especially at the tip of its arrow.

  "We mean no harm," Laura said, raising her arms.

  "Neither do I," the creature replied, evenly meeting the undeads’ glares. "If I did, it would be your necromancer nailed to that tree."

  The undeads’ hostility only increased, but they did not move.

  "You saved me," Jerry said, gaze alternating between the deader-than-dead snake and the odd creature. "Thank you, my new friend. I’m Jerry."

  "And I’m Horace," it replied. "Could you order your undead to stop staring at me? They make my hands twitchy, and I wouldn’t want to accidentally shoot anyone."

  "I can’t order them, but I can certainly ask them. Could you please calm down, guys?"

  The crimson flames in Boney’s eyes flickered. "Only when that monster lowers its bow, Master."

  "That monster does not enjoy being referred to that way," the creature said, pointing its arrow downward. "I advise you to keep that in mind, skeleton."

  Seeing this peaceful gesture, the undead visibly relaxed. "I will do my best," Boney replied, "though my skull is empty."

  The creature blinked, then chuckled. "That’s better."

  "Excuse me." Laura took a small step forward, arms still raised. "Who are you?"

  "Horace of the Akshik tribe. It is your turn to reply now, strangers; who are you, and what are you doing in my swamp?"

  "I’m Jerry," the necromancer repeated his introduction, "and these are Boney, Headless, Boboar, and Foxy. Laura, too, though she can probably introduce herself. We crash landed in your swamp."

  "Crash landed?" The creature—Horace—frowned again. "What does that mean?"

  "We were flying, then our airship broke, and we were forced to land in your swamp. We’re looking for a suitable place to camp until we can repair it."

  Laura threw Jerry a side glance as if he’d given away too much information, but he ignored her; this odd-looking creature had just saved him from a zombie snake’s attack, so the least it deserved was honesty.

  Besides, it wasn’t like he’d said everything.

  "So, that sound before was caused by you," Horace said.

  "If by ‘sound’ you mean a large airship dragging against the ground before crashing into a bunch of trees, then probably yes."

  "Jerry," Laura said calmly, still with her arms raised, "maybe you should show some more respect? This gentleman has a bow."

  Jerry chuckled. So did the odd creature.

  "You can relax, girl," Horace said. "Despite my looks, I’m not a monster."

  "Tell me about it," Jerry agreed, nodding.

  Hesitantly, Laura lowered her arms. "Very well, sir."

  "You can all call me Horace," he said. "Now, please, continue. You are clearly not from here. What are you doing in the Dead Lands?"

  "I am here to lift the Curse," Jerry said, and Horace’s brows fell.

  "Lift the Curse?"

  "Exactly. Many people die at the Damn Wall every day, and good necromancers are abhorred everywhere because of one man’s mistakes. I’m going to make things right."

  Horace’s brows dropped even lower. "You are delusional and disrespectful," he said. "One man’s mistake? You don’t even understand the Curse, yet you claim to solve it, and not even for the right reasons. My people’s struggles don’t even register in your eyes."

  Jerry stood in silence. "Yeah," he finally said, "maybe I spoke too rashly. However, I really do plan to lift the Curse, or at least do my best."

  "Then, I wish you luck," Horace replied dryly, turning to Laura. "And you? Are you trying to resolve the Curse as well?"

  "I would love that, but I’m just running away from some people." She shook her head. "Who would say no to a free excursion into the Dead Lands?"

  He regarded her evenly. "Do you have wood nettle?" he asked.

  "I do."

  "And do you know how to use it?"

  "I do."

  "Hmm." He squinted. "Are you a wizard too?"

  "A hydromancer."

  "I see," he replied, black brows rising again. "That’s excellent."

  "How so?"

  "Let’s discuss this later."

  "Very well. Now, pardon me for asking," Laura continued, "but do you know of any good places to camp in? Dusk will be falling soon, and the air is oddly chilly here…"

  "Speak out of your teeth, girl." Horace laughed—a pleasant sound. "You are neither the first nor the last travelers to pass by this place. So long as you don’t overstep your welcome, the Akshik tribe will host you."

  Laura’s smile blossomed. "Thank you very much, Horace," she replied, bowing slightly.

  "I could have definitely found a good spot, though…" Jerry mumbled.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Horace placed his bow behind his back, removing his gloves and revealing two pale hands with black nails. "Is there anyone else you should notify?"

  Jerry nodded, "A few people, yes. We left them by the airship."

  "You may go, then. I’ll wait here."

  "No need, we can all wait here. I’ve let my undead know to come, and I sent Birb to guide them, too."

  "Birb?" Horace looked at the sky.

  "You can’t see it, it’s flown away already."

  Horace snorted.

  Laura smiled. "While we’re waiting, you mentioned something about my being a hydromancer and how it was interesting…"

  "Save your words. You will not discuss that with me."

  "But with whom?"

  "My grandmother."

  ***

  The Akshik tribe was unexpectedly tidy.

  Deep into the swamp was a drier piece of land than most, surrounded by mossy weeds and invasive lichen. A dozen drywood huts were arrayed in a circle; their roofs were made of wide leaves glued together by mud, while the gaps in the huts’ walls were filled in with the same material.

  These people seemed to enjoy circles. Not only were the huts placed in one, but the buildings themselves were round in shape, as were their windows, and, to a lesser extent, their doors. Jerry appreciated the effort; round stuff was harder to build than square ones.

  A large bonfire lay dormant at the very center of the tribe, surrounded by cleanly-cut logs, on which more tribespeople rested.

  "Why don’t you have a fence?" Jerry asked.

  "Because we don’t need one," Horace replied. "We are the hunters here."

  However, these people’s appearances were more important than the apparent lack of a fence. They were all paper-white with black hair, eyes, teeth, and nails, much like Horace, making for quite an unsettling imagery; in a way, they seemed even scarier than zombies.

  "You’re odd," Jerry noted, looking left and right. "How come you’re all colored the same?"

  Laura struck him with a glare, but Horace didn’t seem to mind.

  "It is the Curse," he replied. "It left nothing untouched."

  The tribespeople had noticed them by now, and they quickly congregated around the newcomers—not with suspicion, but with curiosity. Laura shrank into the group, trying to make herself as unnoticeable as possible; Jerry himself didn’t mind, but he could understand her wariness.

  "Who are these people, Horace?" a man asked.

  "Foreigners," he replied. "From the Kingdoms."

  "Wonderful! You have many stories to tell us, yes?"

  Jerry blinked, realizing the man was speaking to them. "Sure," he replied. "A whole bunch."

  The tribespeople smiled, revealing a set of pitch-black teeth under pale lips. It would have seemed predatory if not for Jerry sensing their peaceful souls.

  Oh! he suddenly realized. Is this how people feel around me?

  These creatures seemed terrifying, foreign, and ready to tear you apart, but their welcome was the warmest he’d met in a long while. It was just another instance of appearances being deceptive.

  "What is this place?" Marcus muttered, raising his head to inspect the tall trees overhead—they reached much higher here compared to the rest of the swamp, creating a dense foliage that blocked the view towards the sky but allowed some light to seep through.

  Like the rest of the swamp, this place was covered in twilight, and hosts of gray dots danced in the air above—were they fireflies, or butterflies?

  "This is our home," Horace said , a hint of bittersweet pride in his voice. "The home of the Akshik tribe."

  Jerry smiled. "I think it suits you."

  "Does it?"

  "Yes."

  Horace smiled. His original wariness had decreased by now, replaced only by the warmth of a good host.

  "Make way, everyone," he said, still smiling. "You will have time to meet these people later. Now, they need to talk to Granny."

  A woman smiled. "Don’t you dare hog them, Horace. We want to hear their stories!”

  Everyone laughed before they dispersed, still sneaking glances while returning to their jobs.

  No , not their jobs, Jerry realized .

  These black-and-white people weren’t working or doing anything practical. Instead, they were huddled around the empty bonfire in small groups.

  Some stood before a taut white skin—looked like deer hide—and held colored brushes; taking a second look, the piece of skin they were looking at was already covered in faint drawings.

  A few others were gathered in a circle, one person banging a set of drums on regular intervals and the rest swaying their bodies to the rhythm, each in their own movements.

  In another group, the people seemed to just be sitting around and talking, but on closer inspection, only one of them was talking, and she was gesturing animatedly as the rest listened with rapt attention.

  Painting, dancing, and storytelling. Hidden deep inside a dead swamp, these terrifying people were practicing the arts.

  " You seem very cultured," Jerry said, nodding as they walked.

  "When survival becomes trivial, people turn to the arts," Horace replied, not turning back. They reached a hut placed closer to the large bonfire than others, and Horace stood silent for a moment before slightly parting the entrance flap—a piece of hanging skin—to reveal a dark interior.

  "Go in," he said. "She’s waiting for you."

  Jerry resisted the urge to spread his soul sense inside; though he was used to it by now, inspecting another person’s home felt unbecoming.

  "We are too many," he observed.

  "Then, only those who can talk should enter."

  "Do grunts count as talking?"

  Horace frowned. "You decide."

  "Alright. Come on, guys—you too, Axehand. The rest should wait here, please."

  The undead nodded, most remaining behind while Boney and Axehand followed Jerry in the hut. Laura and Marcus stepped in right after them, finding themselves in total darkness. The windows were blocked by soft fur, letting only a few thin rays of light infiltrate the hut, barely enough to illuminate a red candle and the edge of a bed.

  The flap closed behind them. They waited just inside the entrance, and for a moment, nobody spoke, until Boney broke the silence.

  "Sublime illumination.”

  "Patience, Boney," Jerry said, smiling calmly. "Your eyes will adjust, and then, you will see."

  "But I have no eyes, Master."

  They waited. Time flowed by unobstructed, all of them losing themselves in the timelessness of this place until, slowly, more shapes appeared in the darkness.

  There was a table under the red candle, and a chair beside it. The bed was covered by thick blankets, weaved by wool of unknown origin, and at its very end lay a figure so desperately weak and small that Jerry’s soul fluttered.

  It was a woman whose wrinkled, pale-white skin stood out in the darkness. Jerry followed the silhouette to her eyes, black holes sucking in his sight—he couldn’t even make them out, but as soon as he gazed into their darkness, the woman smiled, or so he thought; though her teeth were black, he could see the whiteness of her skin rise to her cheeks.

  It was a wide smile, and one filled with tenderness.

  "Welcome," came a voice, elderly but louder than anticipated, "to the land of the dead."