The undead man left the scorched plains and entered increasingly dense woods, noting life’s return. Squirrels scurried through the trees, and birds sang until they saw him walk by, at least. It was quite a welcome sight. He did have some concerns about potentially running into dangerous wildlife. He had managed to scavenge a small knife from the battlefield but would be sorely underprepared if he ran across a hungry predator who wanted to gnaw on his bones.
The walk through the woods gave him endless time to ponder. Although he could not speak, he had plenty to think about. He thought about his new identity, the shock and fear giving way to emotions that would be considered a luxury, such as shame and embarrassment.
What would a person think if they saw me? Or smelled me, for that matter?
What would they even call him?
Monster. Horror. Abomination.
The thought made his bones shudder. It would be ironic to meet the living again just to be rebuked by them. He couldn’t recall a specific memory, but the scent of bodies being burned on bonfires pierced through his thoughts.
It might be good to prepare if anybody crosses my path. I need a disguise, a weapon, a…
A name. He needed a name.
He hadn’t figured out how to speak yet, frustrating as it was, but having a name might help him pass as a living human. At the very least he might be able to communicate via writing if he happened to come across some fabric or parchment. While it was unlikely here in the forest, it was good to think ahead.
A name. Perfect. What is my name?
Though his long-term memory was still lacking, he did remember the marking in his attire: Black Stone. Blackstone.
Blackstone.
While he wasn’t sure if the marking referred to his previous identity, the regiment, or the manufacturer, it was his now.
As Blackstone stepped over a fallen tree, he soon found himself flung high in the air by his feet. A snare trap! He dangled helplessly, attempting to find some leverage while pendulously swinging. Taking out his knife, he struggled against gravity to curl up and slash at the rope curled around his ankles. After two sorry swings at his boots, the knife bounced off the leather and fell to the grass below.
“Oi! What’s we gots here?” came a booming voice.
The branches cracked and broke as the creature made himself known. Anybody would recognize the putrid appearance of an ogre.
The ogre stood three meters tall, with a bulging gut hiding his powerful musculature. His ivory tusks dripped with a tepid slime, and wild, beady eyes opened wide in excitement for their quarry.
Pulling a sizeable serrated cleaver from his apron, sewn together from various furry forest critters, the ogre cut the rope, and Blackstone fell to the harsh ground with his feet still bound by the snare.
“Boney one aintcha? Das alright, you’s gonna make a fine soup indeed!”
As much as he tried, Blackstone could not form the words to speak. He had no lips with which to protest his capture. He was lifted by the rope around his boots through the darkening forest, back to the dim creature’s lair.
Blackstone was grateful he didn’t have a nose anymore. The hovel was full of partially eaten animals and various garbage strewn about. Strange stains covered the floss and walls with swarms of tiny insects buzzing about them. Small rodents nibbled on remaining morsels where they could.
The ogre piled firewood in a pit in the center of the dark residence. Once ignited, he slid a large cauldron over the flames, pulling a lever and releasing stored rainwater from the ceiling into the container. The monster hummed to himself as he prepared his meal, a jaunty tune Blackstone would appreciate more if he wasn’t about to be made into dinner.
The last thing Blackstone wanted to be right now was soup. He didn’t know the limits of his undeath, and he shuddered at the thought of spending his new life conscious on the inside of an ogre’s belly.
Blackstone raked his imagination to form a plan. He could not remember where he had learned the information but was acutely aware that ogres notoriously lacked intelligence. Maybe he could trick or barter with the creature.
I know I can talk my way out of this if I could just speak!
The large pot bubbled and boiled. The ogre picked Blackstone up and set him in the cauldron. The heat was immense. If he had skin, he would surely be sweating up a storm. Actually, how could he even feel anything? Was the heat just imagined? If he could still see, feel, and hear, maybe his body just hadn’t realized he couldn’t logically do those things. Perhaps if he imagined speaking, he could conjure the words!
“..hrnnghhrmmff…”
It was soft, but Blackstone had managed to produce a sound.
It’s working!
“Grrrrrmrrrr…”
This time the ogre had turned his head to see what the noise was.
“Youse trying to say sumfin skelly man?”
This was it. I just need to try one more time, and I can speak!
“SKREEEEEEAAAAARRRGH.” Blackstone’s voice exploded at an incomprehensible volume. Glass shattered, wood creaked, and the sheer volume of his attempt to communicate extinguished the flames burning beneath him.
“AAAAAGH!!!” The ogre yelled in terror and fled into the woods, spilling the cauldron as he bumped and scrambled to escape through the door flaps.
“Huh,” Blackstone uttered.
Blackstone lay for a moment, thoroughly soaked on the wet ground. He didn’t want to wait for the ogre to return. A piece of glass from a shattered lantern had struck the rotten wood floor. With some maneuvering, Blackstone managed to center the shard between his boots and cut his bindings through much effort.
Blackstone stood and took note of his surroundings. The ogre wouldn’t be gone too long, but he should have plenty of time to grab some supplies. In the corner, a refuse pile made from the discarded belongings of past dinner guests lay. He secured a knapsack with small tools, a saber worn from neglect, and a trader’s map.
He wasn’t much of a land navigator, but he could see a lake in a similar shape to one he passed on his journey. He should be close to a roadway from his position, which made sense considering the number of the ogre’s victims.
Before he left, Blackstone acquired a hood and wrap to conceal his face. He didn’t have enough time to change out of his soaked leather attire. However, hiding his identity would be prudent while he had the means.
After leaving the woods, he found the highway on the map. From what he could tell, a good-sized port city was a few days on foot to the north.
Undeath was an interesting experience. While Blackstone’s memory loss was concerning, he did not need to eat, sleep, or rest. He thought often to himself, a solid sign of keeping control of himself and his sanity.
His consciousness appeared to rest within his skull, with a projection of his life force through the fiery green glow in his eyes. His bones seemed to be held together by sheer memory rather the fact that he remembered them in the configuration in which they were set. Everything about him seemed to be based on his thoughts and will, including his voice.
As Blackstone walked, he practiced his speech. His mouth didn’t need to move; however, he had a habit of moving his jaw while speaking as if it felt natural. It was an odd sensation, as there wasn’t any muscle or connective tissue, yet his body held together because that was the only way it had ever known to be situated.
“Sssword… City… Salmon… Circus…”
Forming the words with proper diction was challenging, but the more Blackstone practiced, the more proficient he became. He could think of the words even without a tongue, and they would make themselves heard. His voice changed from a ragged statement of loud, raspy syllables to a human-sounding voice and volume.
A day of travel passed. As Blackstone was walking, a large, darkened shape appeared in the distance on the road. He took to the shadows of the forest and approached cautiously. Though he thought he saw movement at first, the closer he moved to the scene, all seemed still. He could identify a wagon that appeared to be looted, the carriage broken, and its oxen slaughtered and left to rot in the sun.
With no witnesses, he figured it might be an excellent opportunity to see if anything remained to be looted. The wagon appeared to be a merchant’s, the headless and stripped corpse of which sat against the wooden structure. There didn’t appear to be much here; whoever raided this man must have taken everything they could carry.
“Hello, is there anyone out there?” A tiny voice called out from under the wagon.
Someone is still alive!
Blackstone looked under the wagon and couldn’t see anybody beneath.
Perhaps they’re on the other side?
“One moment, friend, I’m here to help.”
“Oh joy, finally some good company!” a voice called from a wooden trunk lying on the wagon’s far side. Blackstone moved to undo the latch and free whoever was calling from inside. “Say, old sport. How did you take care of the bandits?”
“Bandits?”
Blackstone felt a short sword thrust through his midsection from behind as he spoke. Initially frozen with shock and surprise, he turned to see three men bearing down on him from the edge of the woods, with a fourth holding the blade plunged into Blackstone’s core. Blackstone turned to face his attacker, desperately drawing his saber from his belt and ripping the shortsword’s handle away from the bandit. Blackstone’s fear turned to anger, and the flames in his eyes flared.
“Oi! What the hell are ya then!?” The bandit asked in shock.
“The wrong target,”
He clumsily swung towards the bandit, who parried easily. After a rushed flurry of stabs and strikes toward his attackers, the saber was knocked from Blackstone’s hands.
“Haha! Is that all you’ve got?” the bandits mocked.
He decided to try something he’d been toying with during his walk.
“RRRRAAAAAAGGGGHHHH!” He boomed, Blackstone’s voice sending the attackers to the ground, clutching their ears with trickles of blood running down their necks. While they were stunned, he retrieved his saber from the ground and quickly thrust the point into the necks of three of his assailants.
The last bandit recovered, rushed Blackstone from a wobbling stance, and tackled him onto his back. The bandit began beating his face with bloodied fists, and the sounds of cracking bone filled the air.
Suddenly, the world went red. Blackstone was filled with immeasurable anger and hate. He reached up and seized the bandit by the face with both hands, squeezing with all of his strength as the bandit screamed. Soft blue energy began to flow out of the highwayman’s body and was absorbed by the man.
Blackstone could feel the power flowing into his bones, radiating with waves of ecstasy. The bandit’s head gave in and was crushed into a bloody pulp.
The world slowly began to regain its color. Blackstone felt good—terrifyingly good. At that moment, he had learned two things: he could absorb other life forces, and it felt incredible to do so.
Get a hold of yourself. There’s still someone in danger.
Blackstone shook his head to regain composure, then went around to the side of the fallen wagon. He lifted the end, revealing the chest underneath, which he pulled into the road.
He undid the latch and lifted the hatch to reveal a fat rat running in circles. It was dressed in a tiny red vest and miniature gold pocket watch, quite distinct from all the vermin he had observed in the ogre’s hovel.
“Oh, thank the gods! I’ve been trapped in there for quite some time!” said the rat as he was freed from the chest. He looked Blackstone in the eyes with unusual intelligence for a rodent.
“I’m not sure I understand,”
“Oh, it’s quite simple, I assure you. My name is Augustus Pierre,” the rat bowed. “And may I ask the name of my rescuer?”
Blackstone was suddenly reluctant to mention the name he had imagined for himself.
What if he thought it was a silly name?
“I don’t remember my name…”
Augustus turned his head inquisitively.
“Come now, no need to be so mysterious! Everybody has a name!”
“No, I honestly can’t remember anything, including my name,” Blackstone said, lowering his mask and exposing his skeletal features.
“Ah, cursed with a touch of undeath. Usually, you fellows spend more time wailing and stabbing the living than conversing,” Augustus looked behind the man and observed the bandits lying dead on the ground. “Maybe that’s not too far off, though.”
“I woke up on a battlefield, and I’m trying to figure out who I was,” He gestured to his armor. “This is all I had on me.”
“Hmm… indeed,” said Augustus. “Unfortunately, I am but a simple merchant. War isn’t my passion; that would be gold. However, I do have a scholar-priest friend at my destination we might be able to confer with.”
“Where are you headed? I was traveling down this road to a port city I saw on this map.”
“Oh, good fortune! That’s Freistadt. My associate and I were delivering some exotic trinkets to our headquarters to take to market. It seems like a loss I’m afraid, but not to worry. I’m sure the Merchant’s Guild will pay out for insurance. Say, you haven’t seen a stocky fellow around here, have you?”
“Does he look like that?” He pointed toward the headless man.
“Alas, poor Reginald! You know I had been miffed at him since our recent argument in which he locked me in that chest, but he didn’t deserve this! I suppose it’s only right to bury him…” Augustus nudged Blackstone.
“I suppose…” He said with a sigh. A rough gravesite was dug on the side of the road with a crude headstone crafted out of wooden debris from the wagon. Augustus spoke a small guiding prayer to honor his spirit.
“Would you like to say any words, dear boy?”
“I feel like an undead shouldn’t be saying last rights. It feels wrong,”
“On the contrary, my calcium-enriched friend. You have just as much value as any among the living. You were given a second lease on life with your own free will. Certainly, not everyone gets to enjoy that,” said Augustus warmly. “Which reminds me. If for nobody’s benefit besides mine, we need something to call you by.”
“I told you, I don’t remember my old name,” said Blackstone.
“Not your old one. A new name, one that suits you!”
He paused for a second, thought to himself, and then spoke.
“Bone Lord.”
“Haha! Magnificent! Now, how about a serious one?”
“Alright, how about this one?” He opened his hands for emphasis.
“Blackstone. Robert Blackstone,” He scratched his head awkwardly. “I’ve… been playing with the name during my travels, but I’m not sure how well it fits…”
“Robert Blackstone sounds like as good a name as any,” said Augustus. “Why, I even met a fellow, goblin type, who went by the name of Squiggs.”
“Squiggs?”
“Ah yes, diminutive that one. Last I heard, he got eaten in a swamp by some foul creature.”
“Happens to the best of us,” said Robert.
“Well, Mister Blackstone, shall we be off?”
5711 Writing 