Necromancy In D Minor ✔️

Morning Serenade

The frigid winds stung Octavia's face as she stepped off the gangplank. She stared back at the vast sea she'd spent two days on to reach this island. Flat, and dreary, just like the sky that hung over it, with only the boat she'd arrived on bobbing upon its waters. The light filtering through the clouds brought no warmth with it, only the promise of winter's frigid misery.

She walked down the stone dock of Hedalda's only port, passing stone pillars worn away by salt and wind and water and boarded-up buildings. There was an emptiness hanging in the air akin to the feeling one might get when stepping into an abandoned building.

Or a cemetery.

The rest of the passengers had gathered around a large carriage. They huddled together, heads bowed and shoulders hunched like an oppressive force was bearing down on them. Children clung tight to their parents as they spoke in hushed tones.They reminded her of sheep, herded together to be slaughtered for a feast. She joined them by the carriage, but kept her distance as men loaded their luggage into the back.

The wide road leading away from the port drew Octavia's gaze. It disappeared into a forest, where black trees stood like silhouettes drawn in ink against the snowy landscape. Their gnarled branches twisted and crossed over each other in an eerie mosaic.

The sounds of footfalls against wood drew her attention back to the carriage where the other passengers were piling in. Octavia followed them inside and sat near the door, opposite a man and his young daughter. The former had an arm around the child, but his eyes were out the window, looking as though he expected something to burst through it. The latter held a thick tome close to her chest, and a curtain of dreadlocks hid her face.

Just how bad were things here, Octavia wondered. When Jaredeth had asked her to help this village, she hadn't asked for details. She never did. Wherever the scourge plagued humanity, she went swiftly and without hesitation. No matter how bad the scourge, she eradicated it.

As the carriage rolled forward, a few passengers flinched. Others clasped their hands together like they were sending up silent prayers. She frowned at them, but when she looked down at her own hands, she found them fisted so tight, the seams of her gloves threatened to burst.

It wasn't uncommon for the netherborne to have such an effect on people—even necromancers. They were good at taking lives, but they were better at robbing one of their peace of mind. Which was worse: death, or living in a constant state of fear and panic?

One by one she relaxed her fingers until her hands were flat atop her flute case. Then she took a deep breath and gazed out the window. The carriage rolled through the frozen forest. The trees, choked to death by winter's repressive fist, stretched their gnarled limbs into the sky. A fresh dusting of snow coated their branches, and they went on as far as she could see. Not foot print or animal track marred the fresh powder.

But there was something out there—the cause of the uneasy aura that her fellow carriage dwellers gave off. The netherborne hid from sight, lurking, prowling. They elicited a prickling feeling under Octavia's skin, like she was being poked by a thousand needles.

As time crawled by, the atmosphere in the carriage became more troubled. People held their bodies rigid, their lips flattened into thin lines. They looked as though they might shatter at the slightest touch.

Octavia placed her thumbs on latches of her flute case, but her sense caught up to her actions before she could open it. What would that look like, pulling out her flute and suddenly playing it? Surely these people knew of necromancers, and surely they hated them. Perhaps her voice would be a better option, though unconventional.

A prickle ran down her arm, and she winced, her hands shaking against the latches. They could think what they want. Chasing away the netherborne was more important than first impressions, both for her comfort and theirs.