At a certain point, the rolling foothills, pierced in places by ragged outcroppings of rock, or torn by ravines, gave way to the true mountains.

The Barrier mountains were, like their name, a veritable wall, one that scraped the sky with jagged claws formed from the bones of this plane. If a way through existed, the people of the Western Province did not know it. To them, these mountains were impassable, anything that lay beyond may as well not have existed at all.

At the boundary between these two, the village of Cragwhistle lay. Stonecutters for the most part, the citizens of the humble settlement were hard people, used to isolation, freezing winds and a dangerous life in the quarries.

Tyron could sense a little of that, as he looked up at the faces beyond the barricade. Many were wounded, bleeding openly from cuts around their heads and shoulders. They stared at him with hard eyes. Despite their outer appearance, he knew they feared him. Without ill intention, he walked to within thirty paces of the barricade, but ensured he remained surrounded by his minions.

If some archer wanted to try their hand, he wanted to have cover. There was also a slim chance the villagers could rush him, leaping over the wooden obstructions to end this new threat. He’d learned not to take chances, even with people.

“Ho the village!” he called.

“The fuck do you want?” a rough voice called back.

Great. Sounds like Dove’s long lost brother.

“To help you get back on your feet. Maybe some supplies and trade, if you have any to spare. I can’t stay long, but I’d like to assist if I can.”

He gestured to the still smouldering building adjacent to the wall.

“My minions don’t fear the heat. We can deal with that safely, as well as other odd jobs. All I ask in return is a chance to trade for supplies.”

There was a chorus of muttering from beyond the wooden barrier, punctuated by some choice swearing.

“He’ll just fucking KILL US, you idiotic pillock!” that same rough voice bellowed. “That’s a Necromancer! You’re worth more to him dead than you are alive.”

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” Tyron called out, “but I could kill all of you right now if I wanted to. I slaughtered all those rift-kin you couldn’t deal with… and saved your lives in the process. Do we remember that?”

“You shut the fuck up!” the voice called back. “We’re having ourselves a conver-fucking-sation over here.”

“Aren’t any of you worried I’ll get angry and kill you if he keeps jawing me?” Tyron wondered aloud.

His words were followed by more urgent, angry mutters, followed by a ‘Fuck off!’ then the sound of blows being exchanged.

For a moment, Tyron considered just turning around and leaving. These people were clearly far more trouble than they were worth. On the flip side, he did need supplies. He was running short on food, needed to refill his waterskin as well as other sundries for life on the road.

The handle on his cookpot had broken two days ago. If he could get that fixed, he’d be much happier. He could get the skeletons to lift it from the fire, since they didn’t burn, something he’d learned after making a stew, but it seemed strange to have his minions help him move cookery.

Any information he could get on the surrounding area would also be helpful. He planned to move toward Skyice Keep, and the terrain grew more treacherous the further south he went. As annoying as it seemed, dealing with the people of Cragwhistle would be better than setting out blind.

“Ah, that man doesn’t speak for us,” another voice called out, slightly panicked, “we’d prefer it if you didn’t murder us.”

Tyron rolled his eyes. Being treated like a storybook villain was going to get old very quickly.

“I just saved your entire village,” he reminded them. “I’m not some evil Mage coming to kill you all.”

“That would be more convincing if you weren’t accompanied by dozens of human skeletons….”

That… was a good point.

“Look, I’m going to get my cart, it has my supplies on it, then come back. If, by then, you’ve decided you want to trade, make a little coin, then we can do business. Otherwise….”

He left them hanging. They hadn’t responded well to him being nice, perhaps if he implied a vague threat, something more in line with what they were expecting, then he may get a more favourable response.

Drained of magick, he was forced to pull an Arcane Crystal from his dwindling supply and pop it into his mouth. Cool, pure magick began to flow into him, replacing what he’d lost, albeit slowly. He’d have enough to bring the cart up to the village, at least.

When he returned, he was pleasantly surprised to see a gap had been opened in the barricade. The way through was barred by several angry-looking men, including one sporting a very fresh blackeye, but at least they were willing to talk face to face.

On his side, Tyron had his full complement of undead, including his ghosts hovering out of sight. He could bury this village in a tide of bone and blood in an instant if he so chose. Obviously he wouldn’t, but they didn’t know that.

“Nice to see some friendly faces,” he said as he walked alongside the cart pulled by eight skeletons.

“Who the fuck are these guys?” Dove chirped from his place on the corner post.

Tyron sighed. The skull had been asleep a moment ago, so he hadn’t bothered to hide him. Now the once-Summoner glared down at the villagers with the purple orbs that functioned as his eyes.

“Woof. I’ve seen some ugly fucking villagers in my time, but by the Mothers teats, these guys take the cake.”

“Not looking so fresh yourself, fuck-face!” One of the men ground out, and Tyron recognised him as the rough voice who’d yelled at him earlier.

He looked younger than Tyron had expected, though older than he was. Mid-thirties perhaps? A scraggly beard clung to his chin, face blackened with soot, and no eyebrows. Must have been up close and personal with the fire. It certainly didn’t do his appearance any good.

The Necromancer raised his hands to try and make peace, only to have Dove cut him off.

“Oooh, we’ve got a talker over here! What happened to your hair? You look like my balls if I dipped them in tar. Dickhead.”

“You cockless abomination,” the villager spat. “Get the fuck out of our village, you freak.”

“That actually hurt,” Dove sounded surprised. “Not the abomination bit, the cockless bit. I really miss my cock.”

“How about the two of you shut up?” Tyron suggested coldly. He glared at Dove, then at the villager, who held his tongue, after being jabbed in the ribs by his neighbour.

When neither of them interrupted, he continued.

“What village is this anyway?” he asked. “I’m totally lost.”

“Cragwhistle,” the enormous man in the centre of the line said softly, and Tyron recognised him as the second voice he’d spoken to. “We’re just a humble village, Mage. We don’t have much.”

“I don’t need much, just some basics… and a new pot handle.”

“Well…” the man scratched his cheek awkwardly, glancing at the others around him. “We’d prefer not to let you in the village proper… if you don’t mind. We can do your trade here at the front.”

“That’s fine,” Tyron shrugged.

He approached, but still kept a distance of twenty paces between them, and kept his revenants close.

They got down to haggling. The prices started at outrageous levels, requiring Tyron to remind them several times that they would all be dead, and therefore unable to enjoy the benefits of their goods, were it not for him. The massive man, named Ortan, appeared to be a figure of some authority in the village, and did most of the talking. The loudmouth with no eyebrows stood to the side, fuming, and looked like he would burst out several times, only to catch a fist in the ribs from those around him.

Eventually, they settled on a price for some goods, a local map, some smoked meat and a cloth-wrapped bundle of hard biscuits. He tried to barter for some fresh ink, but they were out.

When a skeleton stepped forward to deposit the coin and collect the goods from the ground, there was a palpable sense of relief on the faces of the villagers. It was clear that they wanted him gone as soon as possible and expected him to buzz off now that the trade was done.

“Now we need to barter for something else,” Tyron smiled, watching as the others stiffened.

The Necromancer gestured to his skeletons.

“I need bones,” he said, “and while I’m not going to take them from the living, I find that the dead don’t have quite as much need for them.”

“Oh you FUCKING C-”

“Shut up, dickhead, or we’ll take yours!” Dove cackled.

As the loudmouth went to take another breath, Ortan surprised Tyron by turning around and punching him right in the face. He watched wide eyed as the smaller man went sprawling on the ground, spitting and cursing.

“Shut him up,” Ortan said tightly before turning back to the frightening Mage. “Explain what you want, quickly.”

The request for bones had gone down as well as a ton of bricks with the villagers before him, and he could hear the terrified whispers of others behind the wall as his words spread. He hurried to explain.

“As you can see, to create my minions, I need bones,” he gestured to the skeletons around him as he spoke, “and some were damaged in the fight to save your village. Even the arrows my archers fired were made using bones, and not many are in good enough condition to recover.”

That had been obvious even during the fight. The arrows weren’t well made enough to survive a hard impact in one piece. As he got more skilled, that would change, but for the moment…

“I know this is a difficult thing for you, but my aid does have a price.”

Ortan looked at him with an unwavering gaze, showing more courage than he had before. There was anger in his eyes, along with a certain wariness. He knew that the Necromancer could take what he wanted if push came to shove.

“How would you do it?” he asked finally.

“There are two options. I'm pretty sure not all of you survived this attack, am I right?”

Ortan nodded and Tyron held up his hands.

“You probably don’t want to do this, and that’s fine, but you can give me their bodies an-...”

He didn’t get to finish speaking before angry cries floated over the barricade and Ortan’s face darkened.

“.... which is fine,” Tyron raised his voice. “It’s upsetting having friends and family desecrated for Necromancy materials, I get it.”

He didn’t really, but he was trying to put on a good face.

“The other option is to let me into your graveyard. Point out some remains you’re relatively happy for me to take. There must be some people buried there that nobody even remembers.”

Older bones would be less useful for him, but if they’d had particularly tough bodies, the remains may still be in good enough condition to raise. Otherwise, he could use them for various other purposes. Bone armour, arrows, replacing damaged bones, more bows. His need for raw materials would never be exhausted.

“We will need to discuss this,” Ortan said slowly, “this is a difficult request. Our ancestors are buried here. Many of the families have lived here for generations.”

“I’m not looking to clear out the place,” Tyron defended himself. “Just let me know what you can bear to part with.”

He sighed internally.

“I know it’s difficult to accede to this request, but it is necessary. I’m trying to help people, just like I helped you today. I can’t do that if I don’t have materials to create my minions. The only way I can get what I need without murdering people is to steal it or ask for it. I’m trying to do the right thing.”

The villagers didn’t appear happy to hear his words, but he felt at least Ortan understood where he was coming from.

“I’ll have an answer for you soon,” he said.