The Player gives you a tight smile, possibly relieved though she still watches you oddly. "It's this way," she says, gesturing down the road that parallels the Boneyard wall. "This street is Dustwalker's Down. Mordekye's the only person in residence here...and it's a long street."
Dust swirls around your feet lightly as you trail the Player. The back of your neck prickles a little, but you resist the urge to glance over your shoulder.
Ahead, the Player has turned from the path to walk up a few steps to a doorway, possibly the only solid door you have seen since you set foot in Boneyard Row. An image of a leering white skeleton is frozen in mid-dance on the wall above it. The Player taps on the door, and for a long moment there is silence.
A faint metallic rattle breaks the stillness as the bolt is drawn back, and the door eases open on squealing hinges. Blood-colored light spills from the red-paned lantern the coroner carries.
The man is bone-thin and ghastly in the ruddy light. His hair hangs in long, lank strings around a fleshless face, the skin pulled tight over sweeping brow. A tophat is canted rather rakishly on his head, its plume a drooping, half-shredded peacock feather, and his dusty formalwear hangs on his shoulders like a shroud. The only thing lively about him are his eyes which flash back the red lanternlight as they dart between you and the Player. His parchment lips peel back to reveal yellowed teeth filed to points, and with a rattle of a laugh he beckons to you. Taking a deep breath, you start after him and the Player, who has already slipped into the house.
You nearly take a tumble as something small and furry twines between your feet as you cross the threshold. A blur of brown-and-white fur is all you glimpse of the creature before it vanishes into the recesses of the house.
The entrance hall opens up into a small parlor, already lit with a few candles; Mordekye opens the lantern to puff out the flame and sets it aside, motioning for you to take a seat. The couch lets up a puff of dust and fine white hairs as you sit.
Settling into his own seat, the old man turns his gaze to regard you. Unsettlingly, his eyes still retain that red glint despite the extinguishing of the lantern. He flashes those teeth again. "So, you wish to have words with me. How may I be of service?"
Necromancy Blackhealing Undead Creatures The Boneyard The Deadlands Demons
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