Ozzy beheld the world outside the seemingly endless reach of Gozzpek’s domain for the first time. It was liberating to see the horizon in all directions, mountains in the far distance plastered with healthy looking forests and actual moving clouds that carried the expected, regular gloom of twilight.

Just outside of the Blackwood, beyond the woods and then yet another boundary of different trees that grew separately from the blackbarked ones, was a field. Far up the field was a dirt paved road that dipped over the other side of a hill which stretched off far into the distance. There was no sign of civilization in sight, except for the old man’s caravan.

The old man came in one of several covered wagons, old pioneer looking equipment, but fluffier, as if every blanket and covering that made it up was quilted and padded thick. The carriage itself was well made with large, metal-framed wooden wheels. A few chips of paint and scratch marks marred the surface of the vehicle, showing its wear from age.

Up front were hitch spots for two horses, who grazed with a small herd in the distance, eating freely off the land just outside the Blackwood. They were on the very border between a skeleton-infested magically-induced perpetual overcast and a regular world where the sun set and the moon rose behind the clouds.

The whole camp included five caravans, each of which was staked out by a small family who tended to a camp fire and did their due chores of cooking, cleaning and otherwise tending to their makeshift homes. They wore garb similar to some of the explorers Ozzy encountered in the Blackwood, the women who spoke in a foreign language, but the garb of the travelers was different and a bit more ornate.

It reminded him, in no other words, of gypsies, or at least their depiction. Their clothing was a mix of loose but thick Arabian robes and cloaks but was highly ornate, like a 50s-era living room set. The main tone between them seemed to be burgundy. Any piece of fabric that wasn’t woven or dyed with patterns was just regular burgundy colored.

The rest was far more fanciful. It seemed like the old man was the most well-dressed of them all. His clothing had rope tassels and many layers wrapped and folded in together where as the other men and women at their caravans were simpler. No one else wore a turban, either. The floppy hat was his privilege alone.

What surprised Ozzy most weren’t the cautious glares he received, a hunched over deathly-thin figure crouched down in a paper-thin piece of tapestry nearby, but the sight and sound of children. These were whole families he intruded on, with laughing children at play near the horses, tending to them while making a game out of their task to keep themselves from boredom.

It was the first sign that the world he was in was not an evil one. Any place where children could laugh and live could not be wholly wrong.

“All right,” the old man muttered. He slowly opened the curtains that held the back of his caravan shut and pointed inside. “Please, first.”

“Thank you,” Ozzy said. He quickly scurried in, out of sight, and undid his body-length napkin cover. The inside of the caravan was, essentially, a very fine bedding space. The inner cabin had shelves which stored many things, books and bottles and pouches of stuff all locked behind small tabs. The small wooden flags kept everything in place during travel. The bed, itself, was delightfully soft. Even Ozzy’s skeletal fingers could tell it was a degree of softness that he’d never experienced before.

The old man reached up with his cane and caught a hooked tab over head. He used it to hoist himself up. He got one leg in, then paused and looked like he was about to try again. Ozzy reached over and offered a hand, forgetting his gracious host was blind. He grabbed him gently by the sleeve and tugged him in the whole way.

“Very kind of you,” the old man said.

“You’re welcome,” Ozzy replied. He sat back in the corner and did his best to keep his body off the bedding. He thought it was rude to trespass his dirty, bony behind where the man might end up sleeping. The old man settled his cane into a slot in the caravan wall and slid the tab up with a knob to keep it from rolling out.

“What did you say your name was?” the old man asked.

“Uh, Ozzy,” he replied. “I - I don’t actually remember if I told -.”

“I am Ruder,” the old man said.

“...thank you once again, Mr. Ruder, for your -.”

“Mister?” Ruder repeated. “Does your land give that title away to anyone in particular?”

“Uh,” Ozzy stammered. “It just means, uh, sir. Or, just a polite -.” Ozzy paused himself and reorganized his thoughts. After encountering ye old-like English and a totally foreign language before, it slipped his mind that he was in what was essentially a different country. A place with different jargon, vernacular, and despite the same language perhaps not the same mannerisms. “I apologize. It’s part of my native land’s dialect to refer to any stranger or respected person as mister and then their family name. Or missus if it’s a woman.”

“Like they do around Renelac,” Ruder nodded.

Ozzy nodded along, somewhat excitedly. “Renelac, yes. I mean - I’ve never been there. But yes, that’s the same kind of - yes.”

The old man reached for a pouch among his many amenities and pulled out a pipe. He scooped up a small tuft of almost black weed from within. He lit it with a small candle light that was inserted into a divot in the wood near the top of the caravan, low enough not to burn the fabric of the roof. Once it was lit, he took a small puff and sighed it toward a window. The wind outside stole the smoke trail away.

“I can tell,” Ruder said, “you are far, far from home. The last one like you I met had a similar fate.”

“Like me?” Ozzy said, hopefully.

How many skeletons has this guy talked to? Or is he talking about, being from another world?

“Did,” Ozzy began, fearfully, “did he say what it was called?”

“I don’t recall,” Ruder said soberly, “but he spoke of a place and a time unlike any that I have come to know in my long life of travels. We Tartarians have no home but the world, and thus, are set to wander it for comfort as we find it. Comfort in small moments, or in great wealth, we have met the many peoples of this world. To seek and know is our calling, our ancestral rite, ordained by the first to wander and claim the world as his own.”

Ozzy nodded along to Ruder’s impassioned explanation, but he couldn’t hide his own curiosity for politeness sake. “Where did the other one of me go?”

Ruder puffed some smoke. His blind eyes seemed to glimmer with deep thought. “I was young back then. Born blind. We, Tartarians, wander, and sometimes what we are wanders from us, as my eyesight did as just a boy. But he….” Ruder passed his hand across his face and followed it, like he could see it. “He brought me new sight. And now I look through the world, instead of at it.” He locked eyes with Ozzy, surprisingly. He managed to point right at Ozzy’s face. “You don’t know it yourself, but there is a great force of power deep within you.”

“Uh, yeah,” Ozzy agreed. “I do know.” Ruder arched his eyebrows, expecting more. Ozzy was about to explain how he knew that he didn’t know what was inside him when there came a knock at the caravan wall outside. It made Ozzy “KKKHHH!!!” briefly, though Ruder seemed nonplussed, as if he expected it. The old man had already turned around to receive his guest. Ruder slid out the back and closed the curtain behind him.

Ozzy was left alone and tried to listen. The structure of the caravan was sound and solid. Not much sound came through from the tight corner he was huddled into. He could hear better near the open eyeslot window, but didn’t want to expose himself. Ruder saw him as something he was not, that much was obvious. He saw the same thing Gozzpek must have noticed, something more than skin deep. Or bone.

After a few minutes, Ruder re-entered with a short grunt as he pulled himself back up. “One of my kin was questioning the guest I brought. I told him you were weak and needed sleep, but would meet him in the morning.”

“Uh-huh,” Ozzy said. He clacked his teeth together and grit them hard to get it over with. “I am a skeleton. So that might be an issue.”

Ruder put his hand up to pause him. Ozzy waited for what he had to say. Then the old man started to slowly crawl forward with one hand reaching out. Ozzy stayed put and allowed the old man’s fingers to touch his skull and wriggle around the surface of his face. One finger slipped into his eye socket. He saw it coming the whole way until it disappeared behind his field of vision.

“Huh!” Ruder huffed. “That’s quite odd.”

“I wasn’t always a skeleton,” Ozzy admitted. “But this is how I woke up. In the ground. Surrounded by other walking, talking skeletons. That apparently hate people. But I don’t! I - I was so different they basically exiled me. And then I tried to escape the woods and was chased by other humans - and some didn’t speak my language so I had to run even farther -.”

Ruder held up his finger to pause Ozzy’s explanation. “That’ll do. I had a feeling you were not a normal man to begin with. Like he was, though I never learned what he truly was in the first place. Besides, I’ve known so much, traveled so far; and yet this is my first time conversing with a skeleton. You’ve given me an ample payment in our meeting, friend Ozzy. Your very existence has given me years worth of joy!”

Ruder laughed warmly. Ozzy could feel the temperature increase in a comfortable way. Ruder’s very presence was like a gentle space heater. His kindness radiated and filled the homely space where everything Ozzy touched was a little bit warm. He no longer felt the chill of dread or the hollowness of apathy from the depths. Being around a real human, he felt warmth in his soul.

“I said,” Ruder continued, “that I would clothe you. This, too, is part of our exchange. But, I would advise against revealing yourself to the others. Remain covered like a Tartarian and you should be fine.”

“Right,” Ozzy agreed. “I’m grateful for that.”

“Here,” Ruder said. He reached a hand deep between his mattress and his shelves to some more, unseen shelves underneath the cushioned bedspot. He pulled up a tied-up satchel and handed it over to Ozzy. It was the first part of a set of clothing in the same style and fashion as the other Tartarian men outside, complete with wrappings for a face veil like Ruder wore.

“It looks quite complicated to put on,” Ozzy mentioned.

Ruder waved his hand. “You should figure it out. There’s one pants, one, under-layer, one sarang, one robe, one cloak, one cape, only two scarves - one for the waist, of course - and enough spare to form a cover-cloak, an apron or a hat.” He patted the top of his head as an example.

Ozzy nodded slowly and tried to take it all in. He’d never worn something more complicated than layers of pants and shirts. He understood all the words - except sarang - and how they worked into an outfit, but couldn’t imagine himself actually putting them all on.

“Oh, right,” Ruder added. He reached down and pulled something else up. He revealed a bundle of quilts that were faded and slightly stained. “You can do as you wish with this. To fill it out.” Ruder patted himself on the stomach. “Or it’ll hang loose.”

“Oh, yeah,” Ozzy said. He hadn’t even considered that. It wasn’t like he was naked and could just slip everything on and expect it to fit. He had no hips, just hip-bones. No chest, just ribs. No thighs, just femurs. No feet or hands that could be seen, and no gut to cinch a belt against. He had to add all that in with stuffing and fluff.

“Sh-should I go outside and do this?” Ozzy asked.

Ruder shrugged. “No one’s watching in here,” he said with an exposed, yellow-toothed grin. He sat with his back against the shelves of his caravan and hummed a lilting little tune as Ozzy got to work assembling his outfit and filling the corners with as much fabric as he could.

Eventually, Ruder laid down to sleep, and Ozzy was only half-dressed with his pants stuffed full of ripped-up quiltwork. He still had a long way to go to pass as human. Something he never thought he’d have to do before. But it would be worth it. Only a blind man could trust a talking skeleton, but anyone else would be fast to trust a well-dressed man to be their hero.