PLANESCAPE: TORMENT
Prologue
Lying on a slab, in a room shrouded in darkness. To the front, to the back, to the sides; other slabs, like the one he was on. On these other slabs, the vague figures of other bodies rested, perhaps those who had met the same fate as he had. The freezing coldness of the slab began seeping into his back, into his spine, like the numbing coldness of a slab of hard ice. Or rather, perhaps the icy throbbing he felt at his back wasn’t caused by the slab, but by the stark realization of where he actually was: a mortuary.
And then, gone was the slab; gone was the chill of the mortuary, of death that was eternal and never-ending.
A pillar of gray there was now. A pillar of gray, of stone perhaps, with names chiseled into it. It was too far away and too blurry for him to see those names, and far too many for him ever to count in one lifetime. Yet, as the pillar of gray started to disappear, a small part of him wondered: if the pillar was too distant to read out the many names chiseled into its gray surface, how did he know the words were names to begin with?
And then, gone was the pillar of names; gone were the many, many words on its gray surface and gone was the need to question himself as to how he knew they were names when the words were too distant and blurred to show up clearly.
Skulls…rows and rows of skulls upon the shelves of numerous racks. All of them were facing in his direction, motes of light burning in those empty eye sockets (or was that just his imagination?), dead jaws set in an eerie rictus, as if all of them were privy to some secret joke that only they knew. Staring at him, those dreadful, malevolent eye sockets; mocking him, cursing him.
And then, gone were the skulls; gone were the bony visages that belonged to men and women whom Death had welcomed to His Realm ages past.
A black symbol flooded his vision now; black like night, like darkness without light. An inhuman head, genderless, ageless, with a curving, sickle-like blade spearing it at the neck, pinning it to hellish chains with barbs and spikes that did not lack for a cutting edge. The head, seen from the side, has its mouth wide open, as if howling a lone, forlorn scream, a tormented wail that spoke of pain eternal, for soul and body.
And then, gone was the symbol; gone was the symbol speaking of eternal pain, eternal torment.
A woman, a lady; her face blurry, as if she was a long-forgotten memory that he was trying desperately to hold on to before her beautiful visage would disappear forever, as if it never existed, like all those memories that had come before hers. As he tried desperately to will her face into focus, he found his vision obscured by her long, wavy silver-platinum tresses as they sought to wrap him up in their long, wavy strands.
And then, gone was the hauntingly beautiful young woman; gone was the memory of a woman he once knew in life, to be forgotten in death.
But then, there she was again. In front of him; in finely cut clothes that bespoke of a woman of good breeding. Her silver platinum tresses trailed lazily back, as if blown by some unseen zephyr. Her large, emerald eyes glanced his way, the twin orbs reflecting all that they saw. In her eyes, he saw his self. Or was that really him. Somehow, even though he stood directly in front of her, and looked into her eyes, there was a disconcerting feeling, a gnawing in his guts; at the angle where she stood, there was no way for her eyes to reflect anyone else’s image save for his. But…the man in her eyes…was that really him?
And that he realized that she was not of flesh and blood. As she slowly took a step forward, he saw a faint glow surrounding her body, outlining it softly in a soft green, the colour of her eyes, and also the colour of the dress she wore. Yes, she was not of flesh and blood but a ghostly figure, non-corporeal from head to toe.
And then, she offered her hand to him.
Suddenly, an overwhelming urge filled his entire being. He wanted to take her offered hand, no, he needed to take her offered hand. Who was she, this angelic beauty who was now merely a ghost that traveled within these misty corridors? The look on her face was one filled with sadness, like the look of those women in the tales who waited for their loved one to come back from wherever they had gone. The women in those tales waited forever and forever, waited for an eternity for their love to come back. But the man to whom their heart belonged to never did come back.
He did not know the beauty that stood before him, but…he wanted to comfort her, and he in turn sought her comfort, her soft touch, her loving caress.
His hand reached for hers.
The glow surrounding her fingertips begin to grow stronger, as if he being so close to her was infusing her aura with more power, more life.
His fingertips sought hers.
And hers sought his.
And then…. her hand was gone.
His hand was gone.
She was gone.
There was only the cold, hard, icy touch of a slab against his back.
Chapter 1
The Mortuary
Time passed by; seconds, minutes, hours, days, years, decades, centuries…perhaps even an eternity. Who could really say just how long he had lain there, before the sudden realization hit him: he was not dead. That cold, hard, icy stab at his back; he had thought that to be a reminder of his death; a fatal wound perhaps, out of which his life’s essence had flowed out in the form of red, crimson blood. Such was how some viewed Death; tormented forever with scars that robbed them of life, a reminder of just how grisly their death had been.
But no…it seemed like Death had not yet claimed him as His own. The Dealer and Harvester of Souls had seen fit not to take his life. The evidence for this was the rising and falling of his chest, realization that he was breathing, a very undead-like thing to do. And not only his chest, but his fingers; they moved, and he could feel the cold and hard surface that he was lying on.
That really did mean he was alive, wasn’t it? If you could breath, if your fingers did not want for a sense of touch…that means, you’re still alive, doesn’t it?
He was alive, but why was there not relief in his heart? A dying man who had just died and is given another lease on life should feel relieved, almost grateful at the chance to enjoy the rest of his mortal existence. But why was he filled not with relief, but with an emptiness that made him feel hollow and cold on the inside?
And what were those dark and dreary dreams and visions that had burned so clearly in his mine? A slab in a mortuary, a pillar with names on it, rows and rows of skulls, a woman, first alive then an a wispy, ethereal figure, shrouded in mist. Were they dreams? It is often said that those who die can see their whole life flashing in front of them before they finally enter Death’s Realm. But he remembered none of those things. The pillar, the skulls, the woman…they held no meaning, no memory within him. If they were not moments in his life…then what were they?
But there was a much more important question at hand.
Who was he?
As his consciousness begin to stir, the sudden realization hit him: he had no recollection of who he was, what he had done, how he had come so close on the verge of Death’s Realm. He knew none of this; his mind was blank, devoid of any memory. The fear that coursed through both mind and body was stifling, threatening to drown him in a sea of insanity that stretched for miles and miles to the horizon, never-ending; it was all he could to not sink into panic and despair.
His eyes flickered open.
It was dark, but not the dark of pure darkness, darkness devoid of all light. No, this was a darkness that had boundaries to it, which had some light in it, however small. This darkness was far more preferable to the never-ending, eternal darkness that he had witnessed in his dreams, no, nightmares, perhaps.
His nose…it was working. He could smell the faint trace of…herbs; some sweet smelling, some less so. And something else, something that he could not quite place his finger on; something neither sweet nor foul, nor rancid or bitter.
With great effort, he sat up. Every bone in his body started to protest, and he gritted his teeth as sharp pain jolted through his entire body. Was this the cause of why he had been so close on the brink of Death? It felt like someone or something had given him a thorough beating, making sure to break every single bone in his body.
As he sat up, his eyes saw more than the semi-darkness that it had seen before.
It saw stone slabs; cold, hard, icy stone slabs. Cold, hard, icy stones slabs like the one that he had laid on all this time. On these other slabs, the vague figures of other bodies rested, unmoving. They were still, and unlike him, drew no breathe. Another realization hit him: they were all dead.
He was in a small chamber filled with stone slabs, and with dead bodies resting on those slabs. To the sides he saw shelves built into the stone walls, stacked with jars and bottles of all shapes and sizes and various other paraphernalia scattered here and there, like bandages, rolls of black steel thread, needles, bowls filled with sticky, viscous green liquid, scissors, scalpels and the sort.
As he finished levering himself up, he caught a movement from the corner of his eye.
He turned his head around so that whatever it was that he had caught sight of in the corner of his eye would now fall under his gaze.
The shock nearly caused him to topple off the stone slab.
He was greeted with the sight of a skull hovering right next to his head, mere inches away from his face.
And its empty eye-sockets were staring right back at him.
Recoiling in horror at the unnerving sight of the floating skull, it was all he could do to gather his frayed senses. Every inch of his body urged him to flee from this chamber, to flee from this hovering skull that stared at him with its hollow eyes. He did not know what it was that horrified him more; the skull staring right at him with those empty eye-sockets, or the fact that the skull was hovering on thin air, unsupported.
Before he could come to the grips of the unnerving apparition, a voice spoke out.
“Hey, chief. You okay? You playing corpse or you putting the blinds on the Dusties? I thought you were a deader for sure.”
The voice was neither deep nor high, neither rumbling nor soft, but spoke in a very brazen manner.
Because of the initial shock at the hovering skull that had assailed his senses, it took him several seconds to realize who had spoken. It was only after these several seconds had passed did he realize that the skull’s bony jaw had opened and closed as he heard the words. Which could mean only one thing: the “person” who had spoken to him was the skull that was floating mere inches away from his face.
Which assailed his already jarred senses even more.
Not only was the skull floating on thin air, but it was talking too.
To him?
There was no one else in this chamber save for the dead bodies that rested on those stone slabs, in eternal slumber, in death.
There was only him.
And the floating skull.
That must mean that the skull was talking…to him.
“Wh…? Who are you?” he managed to croak out uncertainly. His voice sounded deep, and frayed at the edges, although that was not surprising since he had just been on the verge of dying. He was still trying to recover, not only from his brush with death, but also from the sight of a floating, and talking skull.
“Uh…who am I?” the skull replied, incredulous. “How about you start? Who’re you?”
The skull’s question was one that he had no answer to.
And he was still getting over the fact that he was having a conversation with a floating skull.
“I…don’t know. I can’t remember.”
“You can’t remember your name?” the skull asked in disbelief. “Heh. Well the NEXT time you spend a night in this berg, go easy on the bub. Name’s Morte. I’m trapped in here too.”
The skull’s “name” had been established; it was Morte.
“Trapped?” he echoed, unsure of what the skull actually meant.
“Yeah,” the skull said, and it might have been a been a trick of the dim and feeble light in the chamber, but he could have sworn that the skull actually bobbed up and down, much like how a real person would have moved their head if they nodded.
The skull, Morte, continued. “And since you haven’t had time to get your legs yet, here’s the chant: I’ve tried all the doors, and this room is locked tighter than a chastity belt.”
A pressing question begun to seep into his mind; where exactly was he?
“We’re locked in…where? What is this place?”
“It’s called the ‘Mortuary’…it’s a big black structure with all the architectural charm of a pregnant spider,” the skull answered, words laced lightly with sarcasm.
The ‘Mortuary’? Just like the vision that had flashed before his eyes. Then… had he really died? Could that explain the glaring lack of memories?
“The ‘Mortuary’?” he repeated hesitantly, uncertain, confused. “What…am I dead?”
“Not from where I’m standing,” the skull answered glibly. “You got scars a-plenty, though… looks like some berk painted you with a knife. All the more reasons to give this place the laugh before whoever carved you up comes back to finish the job.”
“Scars? How bad are they?” he asked tremulously, his hands beginning to shake ever so slightly.
“Well…the carvings on your chest aren’t TOO bad…but the ones on your back…” Morte paused. “Say, looks like you got a whole tattoo gallery on your back, chief. Spells out something…”
It was then that he looked down at himself, seeing himself truly for the first time. What the skull had said about the scarring was true; they covered every visible bit of his skin. There was a tattoo on his left arm as well.
A black tattoo, of an inhuman head, genderless, ageless, with a curving, sickle-like blade spearing it at the neck, pinning it to hellish barbed and spiked chains. The head, seen from the side, has its mouth wide open, as if howling a lone, forlorn scream, a tormented wail that spoke of pain eternal, for soul and body.
The same symbol he had seen in his ‘dreams’. A strange feeling flooded him; a feeling that seemed to transcend words, a feeling of experiencing the same thing that he had experienced another time before. Perhaps it was caused by the disconcerting feeling that stemmed from gazing upon the tattoo on his arm that looked exactly like the symbol he had seen in his ‘dreams’.
But…Morte had said there were even more tattoos on his back.
“Tattoos on my back? What do they say?”
“Heh! Looks like you come with directions…” Morte cleared his ‘throat’. “Let’s see…it starts with …’I know you feel like you’ve been drinking a few kegs of Styx wash, but you need to CENTER yourself. Among your possessions is a small JOURNAL that’ll shed some light on the dark of the matter. PHAROD can fill you in on the rest of the chant, if he’s not in the dead-book already.”
“Pharod…?” he mumbled tentatively. “Does it say anything else?”
“Yeah, there’s a bit more…” Morte paused. “Let’s see…it goes on… ‘Don’t lose the journal or we’ll be up the Styx again. And whatever you do, DO NOT tell anyone WHO you are or WHAT happens to you, or they’ll put you on a quick pilgrimage to the crematorium. Do what I tell you: READ the journal, then FIND Pharod.’ ”
“No wonder my back hurts; there’s a damn novel written there,” he muttered bitterly. And all this time he thought it was because the stone slab was too hard and too cold. Surprisingly, he no longer felt unnerved by Morte’s presence… which worried him a little. “As for that journal I’m supposed to have with me…was there one with me while I was lying here?”
“No,” the floating skull said, spinning back and forth to its sides, much like a how a person would do if they shook their head from side to side. “You were stripped to the skins when you arrived here. ‘Sides, looks like you’ve got enough of a journal penned on your body.”
He growled softly in his throat; the skull wasn’t being a great help.
“What about Pharod?” he asked Morte. “Do you know him?”
“Nobody I know…” the skull begun, then continued, “But then again, I don’t know many people. Still, SOME berk’s got to know where to find Pharod…uh, once we get out of here, that is.”
“How do we get out of here?” he asked, wondering whether Morte knew the answer to that.
“Well, all the doors are locked, so we’ll need the key. Chances are, one of the walking corpses in this room has it.”
His eyes turned to take in the full expanse of the chamber they found themselves trapped in. What was the skull talking about? Walking corpses?
But true enough, unlike what he had thought before, they were not the only ones in the room. He could see gangly figures to the sides of the large chamber, near the shelves, their hands moving awkwardly to clean and gather the various unguents, viscous liquids and sharp tools that were to be found on the shelves and tables. They moved with dull, plodding steps, as if unaccustomed to putting one foot in front of another. Why hadn’t he noticed them before? Perhaps it was because his eyes were gradually adjusting to the dimness of the room, or perhaps it was because he had mistaken them for garish statues. Whatever the reason, he could see them now, albeit not clearly as the darkness hid most of their features.
“Walking corpses?” he queried.
Morte ‘nodded’. “Yeah, the Mortuary keepers use dead bodies as cheap labour. The corpses are dumb as stones, but they’re harmless and won’t attack you unless you attack them first.”
For some strange reason, the thought of killing already dead corpses made him uneasy.
“Is there some other way? I don’t want to kill them just for a key.”
“What, do you think it’s going to hurt their feelings? They’re DEAD. But if you want a bright side to this: if you kill them, at least they’ll have a rest before their keepers raise them up to work again.”
“Well, all right…” he said reluctantly, getting of the stone slab, letting his feet come into contact with the cold floor. “I’ll take one of them down and get the key.”
With a small amount of trepidation, he cautiously approached one of the walking corpses that was moving mindlessly about the room. He kept his defenses up, expecting to be attacked at any moment.
He needn’t have worried.
The zombie stopped and stared blankly at him.
It was a corpse of an old male, in reasonably good condition despite being dead and in the very early stages of rigor mortis. The almost-bald pate had a light fuzz of white and gray over it; the skin was dry and leathery and tinged with an icy blue. But the first thing that he noticed was that the number ‘782’ was carved into the zombie’s forehead and the fact that the mouth was stitched close. The faint smell that he had not recognized early clung to the zombie too, and now that his mind had fully shaken off the fetters of his deathly slumber, he recognized the smell for what it was: formaldehyde, a viscous liquid that served as embalming fluid to preserve dead flesh. That must explain why the walking corpse was in relatively good shape.
“This looks like the lucky petitioner here, chief,” Morte said with flourish. “Look… he’s got the key there in his hand.”
True enough, the zombie was holding a verdigris-covered key in its left hand, its thumb and forefinger locked around it in a death grip.
He probably needed something sharp to hack off the corpse’s hand if he wanted to get that key. His eyes spotted a scalpel lying on a nearby operating table. Walking over to the table, he grabbed the scalpel and inspected it. Though it had some smear marks on it, the blade was still sharp, sharp enough to hack off a hand from a dead corpse.
“All right, you found a scalpel!” Morte said in a congratulatory tone. “Now, go get those corpses…and don’t worry, I’ll stay back and provide valuable tactical advice.”
“Maybe you can help me, Morte,” he replied caustically as he walked back to the unmoving zombie that held the key in its hand.
“I WILL be helping you,” the floating skull jabbered. “Good advice is hard to come by.”
“I meant help in attacking the corpse.”
“Me? I’m a romantic, not a soldier,” Morte said defensively. “I’d just get in the way.”
He twirled the scalpel deftly in his hands. “When I attack this corpse, you better be right there with me or you’ll be the next thing that I plunge this scalpel in.”
“Eh…all right. I’ll help you,” Morte said dejectedly, not too keen about the whole idea.
He stood right in front of the corpse. “I need that key, corpse…looks like you’re not long for this world.”
With the comforting feel of the scalpel in his hands, he swung the blade downwards, right at the zombie’s left wrist. The blade met with little resistance, and deftly cut through leathery skin and brittle bone. The hand clutching the key dropped onto the floor with a thud.
Having been attacked, the zombie finally roused from its deathly stupor, and groaned horribly as it swung its remaining hand towards him. Death and the subsequent embalming of the zombie’s body made its movement slow; he easily dodged the clumsy blow. Before the zombie could recover from its slow punch and let loose another, he slashed the scalpel in a quick pattern across the zombie’s body, high and low. Adding two more thrusts turned the creature into a now unmoving corpse, with bits and pieces lying scattered on the floor. And he wasn’t even breathing hard.
He bent down, and pried the verdigris-covered key from the ‘dead’ zombie’s hacked-off hand. There were only one door in the room and he walked over to the door, key in hand.
Morte followed from behind, bobbing around in the air as he ‘glided’ forward.
“Some advice, chief: I’d keep it quiet from here on – no need to put any more corpses in the dead book than necessary…especially the femmes. Plus, killing them might draw the caretakers here.”
He reached the door, but paused, facing Morte.
“I don’t think you mentioned it before…who are these caretakers?”
“They call themselves the ‘Dustmen’,” Morte replied. “You can’t miss ‘em: They have an obsession with black, and rigor mortis of the face. They’re an addled bunch of death-worshippers; they believe everybody should die…sooner better than later.”
His brows knitted. “I’m confused…why do these Dustmen care if I escape?”
“Weren’t you listening?!” Morte admonished. “I said the Dusties believe EVERYBODY’S got to die, sooner better than later. You think the corpses you’ve seen are happier in the dead book than out of it?”
He was filled with more questions now that Morte had filled him in on these strange caretakers.
“The corpses here…where did they all come from?”
“Death visits the Planes everyday, chief. These lummoxes are all that’s left of the poor sods who sold their bodies to the caretakers after death.”
He remembered something Morte had mentioned before. “Before you said something about making sure I didn’t kill any female corpses. Why?”
“Wh – are you serious?” the floating skull asked, incredulous. “Look, chief, these dead chits are the last chance for a couple of hardy bashers like us. We need to be chivalrous…no hacking them up for keys, no lopping their limbs off, things like that.”
He could not understand where Morte was leading. “Last chance? What are you talking about?”
“Chief, THEY’re dead, WE’re dead…see where I’m going? Eh? Eh?”
The truth of what Morte was getting at begun to dawn upon him. However, the thought of what Morte was getting at was rather…disturbing.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Chief, we already got an opening line with these limping ladies. We’ve all died at least once: we’ll have something to talk about. They’ll appreciate men with our kind of death experience.”
“But…wait…didn’t you say before that I’m not dead?” he asked.
“Well…all right, you might not be dead,” Morte conceded, “but I am. And from where I’m standing, I wouldn’t mind sharing a coffin with some of these fine, sinewy cadavers I see here.”
The floating skull started clacking his teeth, as if in anticipation. “’Course, the caretakers would have to part with them first, and that’s not likely…”
Morte continued. “Look, chief. You’re still a little addled after your kiss with death. So a bit of advice for you: if you got questions, ask me, alright?”
“Alright…I’ll…try to remember that,” he conceded. The skull was right; at the moment, Morte knew more about where they were than he did.
His attention returned to the door. Putting the key into the keyhole, he turned it, and the door opened.
There was more light in this room, though not by any great magnitude. He saw that the stone floor was a deep set green, and the ceiling was at a height where it was within reach of two people if one stood atop the shoulders of the other. This room also had more of the…zombies. They wandered about, performing menial tasks set by the Dustmen. One in particular, though, caught his attention.
The male corpse was lumbering along a triangular path. Once it reached one of the corners of the triangle, it paused, then turned and staggered towards the next corner. The number ‘965’ was tattooed on the side of its skull. As he approached the corpse, it halted and stared at him with its vacant eyes.
“Heh. Looks like someone forgot to tell this sod to stop walking the Rule-of-Three,” Morte commented wryly.
“What do you mean?” he asked, curious.
“These corpses don’t have much left in the attic, so they can’t do more than one task at a time…when they’re told to do something, they’ll keep doing it until someone tells them to stop. This poor sod probably finished some task, and they forgot to tell him.”
“The ‘Rule-of-Three’ What did you mean by that?”
“Eh? Well, the Rule-of-Three is one of those ‘laws’ about the Planes, about things tending to happen in threes…or everything’s composed of three parts…or there’s always three choices, and so on and so forth.”
“You don’t sound like you hold much faith in it,” he said.
“It’s a load of wash if you ask me,” Morte replied dryly. “If you look for a number, any number, and try to attach some great meaning to it, you’re going to find plenty of coincidences.”
They left the corpse tracing its triangular path and moved into the next chamber. They did not have to unlock another door, but just pass under a crescent doorway to get to the adjoining chamber.
In the center of the chamber was the first living person his eyes had the chance to gaze upon. It had to be one of the Dustmen, those caretakers that Morte had mentioned; this man was sitting on a strangely shaped chair, holding a quill in his hand as he scribed something down in the pages of a huge book that was perched in front of him at an angle, held there by a small book-rest on the floor.
The scribe looked very old…his skin was wrinkled and had a slight trace of yellow, like old parchment. Charcoal-gray eyes lay within an angular face, and a large, white beard cascaded down the front of his gray robes like a waterfall. The man’s breathing was ragged and irregular, and quite audible, but even his occasional coughing did not slow the scratching of his quill pen. He glanced at the pages…and all he saw were names; names, names and more names. The book the scribe was writing in must have contained thousands of names.
He approached the man warily, but the scribe did not look up from the huge book.
Morte interrupted him before he could say anything to the scribe, however. “Whoa, chief! What are you doing!?”
“I was going to speak with this scribe,” he explained to the floating skull that hung back a few feet behind him. “He might know something about how I got here.”
“Look, rattling your bone-box with Dusties should be the LAST thing —”
Before Morte could finish his rant, the scribe began coughing violently. After a moment or two, the coughing spell died down, and the scribe’s breathing resumed its ragged wheeze.
Morte paused…but only for a second.
“And we especially shouldn’t be swapping the chant with sick Dusties. C’mon, let’s leave. The quicker we give this place the laugh, the bet —” Suddenly, the scribe’s gray eyes flickered towards them, those charcoal-gray eyes gazing not upon Morte (even though Morte was a floating skull) but focused and fixated on him.
“The weight of years hangs heavy upon me, Restless One,” the scribe said softly as he placed down his quill. “…but I do not yet count deafness among my ailments.”
He wondered if the scribe could actually prove to be more help than Morte.
“ ‘Restless One?’ Do you know me?” he asked the scribe, his voice with a spark of hope in it.
“Know you? I…” There was a trace of bitterness in the scribe’s voice as he spoke. “I have never known you, Restless One. No more than you have known yourself.” He was silent for a moment. “For you have forgotten, have you not?”
What did the scribe mean about having never known him? Since he had no idea who he was, and had forgotten his own name, was he now to be known as ‘Restless One’?
“Who are you?” the one who was now known as the Restless One asked softly.
“As always, the question. And the wrong question, as always.” The scribe bowed slightly, but the movement suddenly started a whole bout of coughing. “I…” The scribe paused for a moment, catching his breath. “I… am Dhall.”
“What is this place?” he asked the scribe, whose name was Dhall.
“You are in the Mortuary, Restless One. Again you have… come…” Dhall broke into a fit of coughing before he could finish. After a moment, the scribe calmed himself and his breathing resumed its ragged wheeze. “…this is the waiting room for those about to depart the shadow of this life.”
Dhall continued.
“This is where the dead are brought to be interred or cremated. It is our responsibility as Dustmen to care for the dead, those who have left this shadow of life and walk the path to True Death.” The scribe’s voice dropped in concern. “Your wounds must have exacted a heavy toll if you do not recognize this place. It is almost your home.”
“Shadow of life?” the Restless One asked, a quizzical look on his face.
“Yes, a shadow. You see, Restless One, this life… it is not real. Your life, my life, they are shadows, flickerings of what life once was. This ‘life’ is where we end up after we die. And here we remain… trapped. Caged. Until we can achieve the True Death.”
“True Death?” the Restless One echoed, not understanding.
“True Death is non-existence. A state devoid of reason, of sensation, of passion.” Dhall coughed, then gave a ragged breath. “A state of purity.”
“Perhaps you can explain why the Dustmen want me dead.”
Dhall sighed. “It is said there are souls who can never attain the True Death. Death has forsaken them, and their names shall never be penned in the Dead Book. To awake from death as you have done… suggests you are one of these souls. Your existence is unacceptable to our faction.”
“ ‘Unacceptable?’” he growled. “That doesn’t sound like it leaves me in a good position.”
“You must understand,” Dhall begun, “Your existence is a blasphemy to them. Many of our faction would order you cremated… if they were aware of your affliction.”
“You’re a Dustman,” he said, his tone almost accusatory, but then quickly changed to that of soft bafflement, “But you don’t seem to be in favor of killing me. Why not?”
“Because forcing our beliefs upon you is not just. You must give up this shadow of life on your own, not because we force you to.” Dhall looked about to break into another coughing jag, but he managed to hold it in with some effort. “As long as I remain at my post, I will protect your right to search for your own truth.”
There was a point that the needed to address, something that Dhall had said before. “You say that I have been here more than once. How is it that the Dustmen do not recognize me?”
“I am a scribe, a cataloger of all the shells that come to the Mortuary.” Dhall broke into a fit of coughing, then steadied himself. “Only I see the faces of those that lie upon our slabs. The dark of your existence lies safe with me.”
“Do you know who I am?” he asked Dhall, looking deeply into those charcoal-gray eyes that looked as if they held much within their depths.
“I know scant little of you, Restless One. I know little more of those that have journeyed with you and who now lie in our keeping.” Dhall sighed. “I ask that you no longer ask others to join with you, Restless One — where you walk, so walks misery. Let your burden be your own.”
This was news to the Restless One. “There are others who have journeyed with me? And they are here?”
“Do you not know the woman’s corpse interred in the memorial hall below? I had thought that she had traveled with you in the past…” Dhall looked like he was about to start coughing again, then caught his breath. “Am I mistaken?
“Where is her body?” the Restless One asked, even as he wondered how he knew her.
“The northwest memorial hall on the floor below you,” Dhall answered. “Check the biers there… her name should be on one of the memorial plaques. Mayhap that will revive your memory.”
“Are any others interred here who journeyed with me?”
“Doubtless there are, but I know not their names, nor where they lie. One such as you has left a path many have walked, and few have survived.” Dhall gestured around him. “All dead come here. Some must have traveled with you once.”
“How did I get here?”
“Your moldy chariot ferried you to the Mortuary, Restless One,” Dhall replied. “You would think you were royalty based on the number of loyal subjects that lay stinking and festering upon the cart that carried you.”
The scribe continued with the retelling.
“Your body was somewhere in the middle of the heap, sharing its fluids with the rest of the mountain of corpses.” Dhall broke into another violent fit of coughing, finally catching his breath minutes later. “Your ‘seneschal’ Pharod was, as always, pleased to accept a few moldy coppers to dump the lot of you at the Mortuary gate.”
Pharod? Didn’t the tattoos on his back ask him to find a person named Pharod? Did Dhall know who Pharod was? “Who is this Pharod?” he asked the scribe, trying to remain calm.
“He is a… collector of the dead.” Dhall drew a ragged breath, then continued. “We have such people in our city that scavenge the bodies of those that have walked the path of True Death and bring them to us so that they may be interred properly.” Dhall said the last sentence with a hint of disapproval in his voice.
“Doesn’t sound like you like Pharod much,” the Restless One said.
“There are some I respect, Restless One.” Dhall took a ragged breath and steadied himself. “Pharod is not one of them. He wears his ill repute like a badge of honor and takes liberties with the possessions of the dead. He is a knight of the post, cross-trading filth of the lowest sort.”
Dhall paused for a moment, frowning at the thought of Pharod.
“All Pharod brings to our walls come stripped of a little less of their dignity than they possessed in life. Pharod takes whatever he may pry from their stiffening fingers.”
“Did this Pharod take anything from me?” Pharod might be the person who had taken his journal.
Dhall paused, considering. “Most likely. Are you missing anything… especially anything of value?” His voice dipped as he frowned. “Not that Pharod would take exception to anything that wasn’t physically grafted to your body, and sometimes even that’s not enough to give his greedy mind pause.”
“I am missing a journal,” the Restless One replied.
“A journal? If it was of any value, then it is likely it lies in Pharod’s hands.” Without Dhall saying this, the Restless One now had another reason to find the man.
“Where can I find this Pharod?” he asked, a hint of eagerness lacing the words.
“If events persist as they have, Restless One, you have a much greater chance of Pharod finding you and bringing you to us again before you find whatever ooze puddle he wallows in this time,” Dhall muttered wryly.
“Nevertheless, I must find him,” the Restless One said, the slightest hint of annoyance edging his voice.
“Do not seek out Pharod, Restless One,” Dhall said; by the tone of his voice, it was supposed to serve as a warning. I am certain that it will simply come full circle again, with you none the wiser and Pharod a few coppers richer. Accept death, Restless One. Do not perpetuate your circle of misery.”
“I have to find him,” he pressed Dhall. “Do you know where he is?”
Dhall was silent for a moment. When he finally spoke, he seemed to do so reluctantly. “I do not know under which gutterstone Pharod lairs at the moment, but I imagine that he can be found somewhere beyond the Mortuary gates, in the Hive. Perhaps someone there will know where you can find him.”
“Earlier you mentioned my wounds,” the Restlenss One said.What did you mean?”
“Yes, the wounds that decorate your body… they look as if they would have sent a lesser man along the path of the True Death, yet it seems as if many of them have healed already.” Dhall coughed violently for a moment, then steadied himself. “But those are only the surface wounds.”
To the questioning look the Restless One flashed him, Dhall replied , “I speak of the wounds of the mind. You have forgotten much, have you not? Mayhap your true wounds run much deeper than the scars that decorate your surface…” Dhall coughed again. “…but that is something that only you would know for certain.”
For the first time, he started to consider Dhall as an individual, rather than as a talking information source. A spark of concern flared within his being when Dhall went into a cough spasm.
“You sound ill. Are you not well?”
“I am close now to the True Death, Restless One. It will not be long before I pass beyond the Eternal Boundary and find the peace I have been seeking. I tire of this mortal sphere…” Dhall gave a ragged sigh. “The planes hold no more wonders for one such as I.”
“I do not wish to live forever nor live again, Restless One,” the ancient scribe added. “I could not bear it.”
He stood there for a moment, considering the ancient scribe and reveling in this new found feeling of ‘concern.’ But…the need to find a way out of the Mortuary still weighed heavily against him.
“So be it. Farewell, Dhall.”
As he turned to leave, Dhall spoke.
“Know this: I do not envy you, Restless One. To be reborn as you would be a curse that I could not bear. You must come to terms with it. At some point, your path will return you here…” Dhall coughed, the sound rattling in his throat.
“It is the way of all things flesh and bone…” were the scribe’s parting words as both the Restless One and Morte made their way towards the exit at the far side of the room.
The Restless One, his thoughts still clouded with the Dhall’s cryptic words, nearly bowled over a female zombie as he sought the exit.
This female corpse was making the rounds from slab to slab in the room. Her hair was knotted into a long braid and looped around her neck like a macabre noose. Someone had stenciled the number “1096” onto her forehead, and her lips had been stitched closed.
Surprised, he mumbled “Uh…nice braid.”
The corpse did not respond, doubtless not even knowing he was there. As the Restless One made to move on, Morte spoke up.
“Psssst. You see the way she was looking at me? Huh? You see that? The way she was following the curve of my occipital bone?”
The Restless One tried a joke, as far as he could remember, the first he might ever have tried.
“You mean that blank-eyed beyond-the-grave stare?”
“Wha — are you BLIND?!,” Morte jabbered indignantly. “She was scouting me out! It was shameless the way she WANTED me.”
“I think you and your imagination need some time away from each other,” the Restless One quipped.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. When you've been dead as long as I have, you know the signals. They may be too SUBTLE for you to pick up on, but that’s why I'll be spending MY nights with some luscious recently-dead chit while you’re standing around goin’ ‘huh?’ ‘Whatzz goin’ on?’ ‘Where’s my muh-muh-memories?’ ”
“Whatever, Morte. Let’s go.”
As they moved on into another room, he noticed another of the Dustmen busy at a bier. She was a slight young woman, with pale features. The sunken flesh around her cheeks and neck made her appear as if she had not eaten for quite a while. She seemed intent on dissecting the corpse in front of her, prodding the chest with a finger.
He moved up to her. “Greetings.”
The woman did not respond… she seemed too intent on the body in front of her. As he watched her work, he suddenly noticed her hands… her fingers were sharp, wicked talons. They were darting in and out of the corpse’s chest cavity like knives, removing organs.
“What’s wrong with your hands?” he muttered, but Morte must have heard him because the floating skull replied.
“Eh… she’s a tiefling, chief. They got fiend blood in their veins, usually ‘cause some ancestor of theirs shared knickers with one demon or another. Makes some of ‘em addled in the head… and addled-looking, too.”
A sudden determination filled the Restless One. He tapped the woman to get her attention.
The woman jumped and whipped around to face him… He could now see her eyes, a rotting yellow, with small orange dots for pupils. As she saw him, her expression changed from surprise to irritation, and she frowned at him.
She didn’t seem to hear his attempted greetings; instead she leaned forward, squinting, as if she couldn’t quite make him out in the dim light… whatever was wrong with her eyes must have made her terribly near-sighted. Clearly, she thought him one of the walking corpses, one of the zombies who helped their caretakers to carry out menial tasks.
“You —” She clacked her taloned fingers together, then made a strange motion with her hands. “Find THREAD and EM-balming juice, bring HERE, to Ei-Vene. Go — Go — Go.”
The Restless One moved off, smiling to himself at her reaction. He tried to put her out of my mind, but couldn’t shake the conviction that he had by implication undertaken a task, a task he somehow didn’t feel right about ignoring. Fortunately, a quick search of the biers and tables in the immediate area turned up the necessary items.
When he returned to Ei-Vene, she was still dissecting the corpse’s chest with her talons. Again, tapping her to get her attention, he gave her the thread and embalming fluid.
Without missing a beat, Ei-Vene snapped the thread from his hands and hooked it around one of her talons, then began sewing up the corpse’s chest. She then took the embalming fluid, and began to apply a layer onto the corpse.
.
He stood and watched her, finding himself fascinated and mesmerised by her handiwork. Within minutes, she was finished. She clicked her talons, then turned to face him. To his surprise, she extended her hand and dragged her talons along his arms and chest. The Restless One stiffened, playing his part as a zombie.
“Looks like you have a new friend, chief,” More cackled. “You two need some time together, or…?”
The Restless One ignored Morte’s jibe.
As the strange tiefling traced her taloned fingers across his arms and chest, he suddenly noticed she seemed to be examining his many scars. She withdrew her talons, clicking them twice, then bent forward and examined some of the tattoos on his bare chest.
“Hmmph. Who write on you? Hivers do that? No respect for zomfies. Zomfies, not paintings.” She sniffed, then poked one of his scars. “This one bad shape, many scars, no preserfs.”
Her talons suddenly hooked into the thread he had brought her, and with lightning-like speed, she jabbed another talon into the skin near one of his scars. Ei-Vene began to stitch up my scars; he had expected pain, but the sensation was curiously painless.
When she was done, she sniffed at him, frowned, then stabbed her fingers into the embalming fluid. Within minutes, she had dabbed his upper torso with the fluid… and strangely enough, it made him feel better. Some of the aching pain that he had felt before, when he had just awoken from his deathly slumber begin to ebb, and he felt more vigour in his limbs.
A thought crossed his mind. If by stitching and spreading embalming fluid on his body, what she had been doing to corpses, made him feel better, then…
The thought made him uncomfortable.
Morte couldn’t resist a comment. “This may be the second time in my life I'm thankful I don’t have a nose.”
Ei-Vene put the last touches on the Restless One’s body, giving him another sniff, then nodded and made a shooing motion with her talons. “Done. Go — go.”
He nodded, saying a swift farewell to the tiefling Dustman as he and Morte left her there to continue her grisly handiwork on another corpse.
They found a stairwell down to the ground floor. He saw another of the Dustmen nearby, who he approached. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw his floating skull companion darting off to hide in the shadows.
To his dismay, the pale man regarded him with an alert, stony gaze.
“Are you lost?” the Dustman asked him, his tone somewhat haughty.
“No,” the Restless One quickly replied. In his mind, he wondered why he had said no, when he could have answered yes. Perhaps it was because, unlike Dhall and Ei-Vene, this particular Dustman looked like he won’t take kindly to strangers, living strangers, in the Mortuary.
“If you are not lost, what is your business here?” the Dustman pressed.
“I was here for an internment, but there seems to be have been a mistake,” the Restless One replied. For one brief, giddy moment, he wanted to continue, to say the mistake was that he was the internment, but he wasn’t quite dead yet.
“Who was interred?” the Dustman asked, his sharp eyes narrowing. “Perhaps the services are taking place somewhere else in the Mortuary.”
“That could be,” the Restless One conceded. “Where are these other services taking place?”
“Several internment chambers line the perimeter of the Mortuary. They follow the curve of the wall on the first and second floors. Do you know the name of the deceased?”
Trapped by his own prevarication, there was only one answer for him to give.
“Yes,” he replied.
The Dustman was silent, obviously waiting for more. He had to make up something quick, to come up with a name.
“The name is… uh, Adahn.”
He had no idea why he had used the name ‘Adahn’. It just seemed to have come out of his mouth without any forethought, out of its own accord. Could the name ‘Adahn’ mean anything to him?
His short reverie was broken by the Dustman’s sombre voice.
“That name is not familiar to me. Check with one of the guides at the front gate… they may be able to direct you better than I.”
“Very well,” the Restless One answered solemnly, nodding. “I will do that. Farewell.”
He turned to leave, with Morte darting out from the shadows and following closely behind, glad that the Dustman seemed so eager to return to his interrupted duties, that no suspicions had been raised.
Both he and Morte descended the stairs that would take them down to the first floor.
