"The dead are rising!" a savior's cry defiles my ears. Trembling with panic, I feel it resonate with my bones.
Recovering, I slowly lift my head to gaze upward.
I watch his ragged silhouette as it limps forward, emerging wreathed in smoke and bloom.
Thick leather boots crunch cinders beneath deliberate, heavy steps. Weighed down by the clinking crude implements hanging from his side. His stained patchwork of rags tell his legacy, each seam a testament to years of trudging through mud and mire.
His hair is grey as grave-dust—wild and unkempt for a man his age.
Leaning over he lights a stubby cigarette with slow ceremony, squinting through the purple haze.
"Boy, you better not be playing!" he booms, a deep, sonorous voice carrying through the smoke.
Halting before a smaller shadow, the man ruffles the curls of his brown hair.
The touch is not gentle, but purposeful, like an artist correcting their brushstrokes.
Flinching, the boy's face now contorts, discomfort etched into every crease, yet he doesn't pull away. Instead, he mutters a stiff, begrudging, "Thanks, dad."
"Yer the dead one, eh?" he spits, turning toward me.
Deceased? Huh. That was mere moments ago. Now I'm alive — don't act like you don't know it.
"Dead? Can't you see I'm alive, old man?" I snap, rising stiffly to brush the grime and ash from my tattered clothes.
He looks more intently, his lone eye narrowing beneath the weathered shadow of his brow.
I've felt this pressure before… in the beasts who hid amongst us men.
"Yer a corpse — I've seen it with my own eye!" He yanks up the cracked leather eye-patch as if verifying reality itself.
"The dead risin'... ain't never been nothin' natural about it."
A hollow socket stares back.
Dry, empty, yet somehow still watching. Observing me in all my inadequacy.
If this bastard saw my corpse, why is he trying to talk to me now? Bluffing? No… I can't risk it if he is. How the hell do I convince this miser?
I know.
My hands clasp. This trick always works.
A haunting smile creeps across my cracked lips. My once-trembling fingers rub together like a merchant about to hawk miracle tonics to the elderly and needy.
"I was merely sleeping."
"..."
He blinks.
"Sleeping… dead corpse? That's a new one. Even the Cult of Bloodborne Ascendancy never came up with that nonsense. You're speaking yonk shit — and I know it."
Cult you say, I understand. Here is my ticket.
I lean in, voice low but steady, only determination in my gaze.
"Look here, sir. It's a rare condition. Born with it, actually. They call it the 'Nine Serenities Spiritual Body'. When I'm in deep meditation, there's no pulse. No breath. Easy mistake to make. Mistakes like yours happen all the time.
I almost forgave you… But now, I hear you slandering my good name."
His eyes darken in deep thought.
"Nine Serenity? Sounds like some Eastern cultivation talk. You sure you ain't just a filthy corpse-eater?"
I shrug, feigning innocence.
"If I were a simple ghoul, as you so obnoxiously claim, then how come I'm here talking to you?" I snort smugly in retort.
Checkmate. This man is simply in the palm of my hands.
"Why didn't you say so earlier?"
His smiles grows with an unusual, toothy grin, then, he flicks his homemade cigarette toward the very mound I'd clawed my way from.
It catches instantly.
Purple flames writhe upward, reaching into the shaded night like some long-forgotten tale.
The dead, well they cackle too, mocking my previous efforts.
"Name's Jimson Plank, and this little scuttler is Timothy Wood."
The boys back jolts forward after receiving a slap. Scowling he mutters a defiant, "Sorry," before walking away.
"Old man, don't think I've forgiven you. You almost burnt me alive. I need compensation for… psychological damages." I flick my fingers, indicating the universal sign for money.
"Here."
He rolls out a stone and drops onto it, setting down a cup with a practiced hand.
From his belt, he unbuckles a flask: old, dented, but polished where the fingers groove.
"I save this for special occasions. You're lucky… night," he mutters, glancing around as if checking the time.
His hand pours the liquid with reverence; the amber liquid catches the firelight, glistening in molten memory.
Finishing, he rests a cup on the stone beside him with a pair of old worn boots, his knuckles rapping the boulder with a dense sigh.
A peace offering. Or a bribe?
Shrewd old man. It's his personal flask; either way, I should take it. If it is poison, shame on me, I guess.
I sit next to him and put on the boots.
Paying me no heed, he gently kisses a pendant, placing it on a nearby stone.
One. Two. Three seconds. A ritual, maybe. Some sign of respect for the dead. I make a mental note to remember it.
"So, what is it you do here?" I break the silence.
"Ta-ta-ta."
He clicks his tongue, wagging it provocatively and gestures at the cup in my hand.
Our once-full cups clink with hollow resonance.
Carefully, he rests his empty cup on top of the flat column with a bowed head.
That stone again? A mural? No…
An unmarked grave.
For the dead, I presume.
We sit there, sinking in the remembrance.
He lights another cigarette, shielding the flame from the gentle wind.
A long inhale.
He leans back, eyes tracing the ash that drifts like dirty snowflakes—filthy, heavy.
Loitering.
A long exhale.
"Now you're going to tell me?" I raise my voice, eyes locked on him.
"We're burning corpse piles, as you can see," he replies curtly, voice gruff as ever.
The purple flame continues to burn. Crackling, humming in the background.
"Why—?" I interject.
"To honour the fallen, You see, this is how it is here."
He takes another drag, pausing, building suspense for some long-winded tale.
"When people die here, sometimes… they rise. And it's our job to prevent that from happening."
"Do you know why? That doesn't sound normal," I say, leaning forward, curious.
"Do I get paid to know why?"
". . ."
Then he squints at me, tapping his cigarette at my face.
"You… What's yer name, young man?"
I glance down and scavenge around the tattered sleeve of my shirt. Embroidered there, just barely, in fine thread:
"Desmond,"
The man shakes his head, incredulous, but continues speaking.
"Well then, sir… 'Desmond.' To answer your question real, polite, and proper — Don't know why, don't really care. All I know is, it pays extremely well." He lets out a hollow laugh.
"From the sound of it, you don't like cultivators," I mutter to myself.
"Cultivators," he interrupts, holding a singular finger to his lips lowering his voice. "They're called the 'transcended ones' here and you mustn't let them hear you talking like that, or I might just have to add you to the pile."
He gestures forward.
In it, Tim struggles with a barrow. He hauls another load to feed the fire raw. Corpses, stiff and hard, land with the meaty weight of butcher's refuse, all striking with a grotesque but percussive rhythm.
Skulls clank, limbs scatter.
"That sound!" I choke out but before I can finish, he shushes me.
With a wet nose and puffy eyes, I watch as the last lick of my hope for compensation pours out into the scratched bronze of my mug, of which I take a sip of brew.
His head slowly nods, arm resting on my neck, whispering sweet nothings into my ear, whilst gesturing forward as if introducing me to a show.
"It's beautiful," he breathes softly, his wet words brushing against my ear like an invasive feather, tickling and uncomfortable.
I cross my arms around my chest, agitated.
This man has no morals. Hand on my shoulder. What am I, some hooligan in need of spiritual guidance? Tries to burn me one minute, comfort me the next.
Tsk. Well, at least his embrace is somewhat… comforting. It's not all bad.
He gently clears his throat.
And just like that, I see…
Ashen smoke plumes skyward before the wind claims it, dragging it over the cliff's edge like a funeral shroud torn from the pyre. Debris trails behind in endless grey streams, cascading down into the abyssal beneath.
"What!" I exclaim, brows furrowing, mouth open like a tin-can.
The stone rolls beneath his weight, tilting back as he folds his arms. That same wrinkled face splits with a crooked smile, eyes gleaming with clear amusement at my reaction.
"First time, huh… Well, we call it the Great Expanse. Few of us left out here, so the name just stuck."
Well that describes it well. I glance down, mouth hurting in quiet agreement.
"Might be wise to do something for that," Jimson mutters.
As I'm about to accept his proposal, distant howls reverberate across the nocturnal ether—wolves and nameless entities alike, all entwined in a singular mournful lament.
It is a sound both primal and profane in nature… deep, guttural and seeped in drooling hunger.
He stands, dropping his cigarette, treading out its firelight
"They hunt in the morning."
"What does—"
"Few have seen them and told the tale, all we know is they are the 'prowlers', stuff of nightmares so the folks back at camp say."
"Sounds spooky, good thing it's… night," I gesture up, nose snorting.
"It's always dark around these parts."
"Well shit."
He pauses, looking over the cliff edge, he gestures ahead.
My gaze looks upward in response observing as the oppressive void looms above and the chasm of endless darkness swirls beneath.
"Where do we go?"
"Settlers' Camp. Six-hour trip, give or take. Gotta be quick or else."
He stands back, slinging a sack over his shoulder, nodding to himself.
"First and only town run by us normal folk. Mostly that is."
His whistling strikes at the air, as his fingers carve circles through the stale earthy smog.
"Timmy-boy! Pack up, we're done here!"
He takes a step, then returns to me and leads my fumbled trudge back toward the carriage, as I fiddle with his eyepatch playfully.
An old dog; scarred and grey-furred, trails behind us as we climb into the wagon.
The dog leaps up and settles on the front bench, leaving me and Tim to sit opposite each other in the back. His fingers dancing over a crude hatchet's haft, eyes sharp fangs boring through me with silent venom.
The wagon shudders forward.
"It might be useless," the man pipes up from the front, "but us mort's need at least some protection from threats."
His grip tightens around his torch, a singular pupil narrows in the corner of the flame, with me set dead in its sights.
"'Mort?'" I burp. "Never ever heard of it."
He barks out another hoarse but wheezing laugh.
"Bwahaha; Mort's just what they call us. You ascended ones, that is. Short for 'mortal.' But it also sounds like Yonk shit, and they can't get enough of it. I guess it's kinda funny."
My lips twitch, the laugh clawing its way up my throat — I try to bite it back, but it's no use.
"Pft... Yonk shit!" I chortle before looking back at him guiltily.
"Sorry."
My head hangs low as my throat twitches under my heavy breath.
"It's fine." He chuckles bitterly. "From your eyes, we probably look even more useless than yonk mort. And ain't nothing we can do about it."
I tilt my head side-ward.
"So… what's a yonk?"
He jerks his chin toward the front. There two creatures strain against a harness, dragging us forward—hulking shapes, like bulls, with furry mains but not quite, and much, much faster.
"Them's a yonk."
He pats the side rail and adds, "Cindy and Samuel. Word of warning, make sure you never let me catch you disrespecting the almighty yonk near my ears."
"All hail teh yonk then," I mutter, sarcastically.
"Haha ain't that the truth," his curt reply ruins my mood.
Silence hangs for a moment, the cart shakes onward.
"Say... you're not from around here, huh?"
He glances back at me, eye narrowing slightly.
"Where is here, huh… nowhere; all I know is, you almost burnt me alive—"
"Pft. Yer, right, sorry about that." He waves a hand dismissively.
"But that hurt me. In here." I slam my chest exasperatedly. "I saw him again, death he was mean. I'm lucky you're so nice to me, or else I don't know what I would've done." I shudder at the thought.
"I understand, greatly. No more questions offered, no beatings received, right? Ain't that right, Timothy?"
The boy's grip loosens slightly. His stare softens — not by much, but little enough.
"We'll just take ya back to the city. You can tell whatever higher-ups you answer to, that we took good care of you here. Don't need none of your yonk business."
Awkward quiet returns, but the boy stares. Hard. Like he wants to say something but won't —
Is he afraid his father might get angry?
What should I say about that? I usually enjoy silence, but now that I'm in front of people again, I want to speak—to say something.
I glance down at my shadow. It shimmers, urging me: Go on... do it, say something. I dare ya.
I hiccup.
"So… you come here often?" I blurt out before I can stop it.
"No."
Flat. Dead. Tossed to the pile and burned. The conversation is over before it begins.
My gut wrenches… It's shame.
I curl onto my side, embarrassed as I retreat under the ragged veil of the burlap quilt, clearly woven for the dead.
Cold. Hungry. Tired. Drunk. I close my eyes.
Darkness welcomes me.