Chapter 7: Healing Bones
“Everything?” the undead repeated.
“Yes,” Valens said, pointing at the burnt pile of corpses before the fog. “Start with these skeletons. They seemed hungry for my flesh, and you look disturbingly similar to them.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” The undead smacked his armor with incredulity. “You really don’t know! And I thought you a racist. Can’t blame me though, now, can you? There are enough of you in Melton who hate our guts. It hurts being treated like that, but you learn to live with it.”
That oddly sounded familiar to Valens. The way the Inquisition acted around the Magi, their rootmetal manacles always at the ready, eyes searching eagerly for a missed step to take one in and hang him for the crowds...
I’m getting distracted.
He shook his head. He had to stay focused. He was talking with an intelligent corpse here, one that had a rather interesting way with words.
“I know the feeling, but as I’ve said, I have no recollection of these events,” he said, then eyed him. “It’s not like you can blame me either. That sword and the armor, you don’t paint a peaceful picture like that. How am I supposed to know you’re not the same?”
“The Heartstone!” The undead ground its rotten teeth in frustration before it waved a hand. “You know what, alright. I’m calm, relaxed. Everything’s under control. Just a misunderstanding. I’ll think of it as a tiny little lesson for a precious Priest.”
“That precious Priest has a few more tricks up his sleeve if you want to test him,” Valens muttered.
“Oh?” the undead cackled once again. “I admit you’ve some skill to have damaged my armor with your level, but let’s not get too ahead of ourselves, shall we? And what’s with your level, by the way? You’re what, twenty years old, twenty-one? How come you’re still Level 13? How does that work?”
“What do you mean?”
“Uh. A normal human gets a level for each birth year, no? The last I’ve heard it stopped around eighteen or nineteen. So how’s that possible?”