They’re not called dead letter offices anymore, but Karaaz isn’t fooled by the Morcroft Mail Recovery Center banner tacked over the old sign. Necromancy works on lots of things.
“Arise!” she hisses through the little slot, and inside thousands of rectangles stand up on end. “Fly to me, my servants! Not that way! Slip under the door, you’re flat, wait not toward the sacred candle oh no not all of you, what are you MOTHS or something–”
“We knew they were bad at finding places,” Gretch points out.
“MY HAIR,” says Karaaz, trying to dampen out the fire with a sponge.
Lichcraft is fraught under optimal conditions, which is to say without thralls like Scarjob and Gretch.
“I told you to watch the alembic so it didn’t boil over!” wails Karaaz the Flagrant, rushing to beat out a small but spirited fire in her phylactery lab. Scarjob and Gretch cringe.
“We did!” says Scarjob, who didn’t (they were playing a game with Gretch’s eyeball).
“What’s an alembic?” says Gretch hesitantly.
“TWO RETORTS CONNECTED BY A PIPETTE JESUS HOW MANY TIMES,” shouts Karaaz the Flagrant.
Then she’s late to the Future Liches of Morcroft meeting and everybody snickers at her under their cloaks.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010