To the Bone
The dim glow of flickering neon signs outside the dusty bar barely lit the crumbling alley. Inside, the place smelled of old wood, stale beer, and secrets. A man, gaunt and dressed in a tattered cloak, nursed a mug of something dark and bitter. His eyes darted around the bar, half-expecting someone to burst in at any moment.
The bartender, a burly man with a beard thick enough to hide a small animal, wiped a glass and eyed his unusual patron. “You’re not from around here, are ya?” he asked, his voice gravelly from years of shouting over rowdy patrons.
The man shook his head. “No, I’m… from Nekratia.” His voice was quiet, almost ashamed.
The bartender raised an eyebrow. “The land of arcane? The robe, the dark aura. You’re a necromancer?”
The man winced. “Yes. I am… or was… a necromancer.”
The bartender leaned in, intrigued. “So you’re on the run? Let me guess—the people in your country can’t stand the dark arts?”
The man let out a bitter laugh. “Oh no, quite the opposite. We’re heroes there. Pillars of society, even! Necromancers are the backbone of the economy.”
The bartender blinked. “Wait… what?”
The man sighed and took a long sip of his drink. “You see, our minions—skeletons, mostly—make excellent workers. They don’t need food, don’t sleep, and never complain. They mine the ore, build the roads, and work the farms. The living? We just sit back and enjoy the fruits of their labor.”
The bartender scratched his head. “So… why are you here?”
The necromancer grimaced. “Because of a… shortage.”
“A shortage of what? Skeletons?”
“Yes! There are no more skeletons left! The population’s too healthy, the graveyards are empty, and the ones who do die… well, they’re snapped up faster than you can say ‘rest in peace.’ Prices for corpses skyrocketed. I couldn’t afford a single femur, let alone a full set.”
The bartender chuckled. “So what did you do? Steal one?”
The necromancer shifted uncomfortably. “Worse. In my desperation, I… I raised a dog.”
“A dog?”
The necromancer nodded miserably. “Yes. A dog. I thought, ‘Bones are bones, right?’ But no! Grandma works the fields as a skeleton and no one bats an eye; I raise Mr. Fluffkins from the dead and everyone loses their minds.”
The bartender's eyes widened. “They… loved the dog?”
“Loved him! He was the town’s mascot, for crying out loud! Parades, festivals, even a statue! And there I was, dragging his skeletal remains through the streets, hoping no one would notice.”
The bartender leaned in, captivated. “And?”
“They noticed. Oh, they noticed. I was chased out of town by an angry mob wielding pitchforks and… and leashes!” The necromancer buried his face in his hands. “They called me a monster, a canine criminal! I barely escaped with my life.”
The bartender burst into laughter, slapping the counter. “You got run out of town for raising a dog? That’s priceless!”
“It’s not funny,” the necromancer muttered. “Do you know how hard it is to be a necromancer without skeletons? The last town I stopped in, someone threw a bone at me. I thought it was an act of kindness. It was a chew toy.”
The bartender wiped a tear from his eye, still laughing. “So, what now? Planning to raise a cat?”
The necromancer’s eyes widened in terror. “Oh, no. Not cats. I may be desperate, but I’m not suicidal.”
The bartender grinned. “Well, if you need work, we’re hiring. No skeletons required. Just good, old-fashioned living labor.”
The necromancer sighed, considering. “I suppose… it beats being chased by leash-wielding villagers.”
“Welcome to the living side, friend,” the bartender said, pouring him another drink. “And hey—no raising the bar’s mascot. Larry the goldfish stays in the tank.”
The necromancer chuckled softly. “Deal.”