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And we made it to the end of a month of dead folks ~~
22. the Voiceless Departed (“silence”)
It’s not always strange gates, crossroad slips or bloodied ceremony. Sometimes, all that’s needed is the right place, the right time, and to want it enough — and the dead can reach out to the living without calamity.
But it’s not perfect. Even if they can see each other, even if there’s a shiver of sensation as spirit touches flesh, no sound can pass between them.
A safe meeting, unaided, for both sides; imperfect, but it can exist.
23. Lady Rose (“vampire”)
For her first century, Rose was a monster.
She justified it with her own grisly death, her dishonoured burial, her horrible freedom from it — none of which changed the horrors she caused in turn.
For her second century, Rose was a bloodstained penitent, learning control.
She walked away from hermitage with a wise dead heart and tempered hunger.
For a century, now, Lady Rose is a dire guardian.
A single drink is all she asks of her supplicants.
24. the Ghost Howler (“werewolf”)
Whether wolf or man or beast between it’s always the same.
He stalks roads and hallways, forests and farms, market squares and city blocks, a snarling, howling tangle of agony and rending fangs.
Only the silver spike thrust through his buried ribcage keeps him from hunting across the entire land.
And destroying those bones will not end him.
Only returning his pelt, flensed from him with silver and spite, will put an end to his rage.
25. Mrs. Dawn (“Frankenstein”)
This time it’ll work. This time for sure.
Every new moon, that’s what she’s said to herself, to her workrooms, to the new corpse laid out neatly on a marble table while she worked feverishly.
But this time —
Alas, no. Not this time.
The dead rise; but not with new life. And a restless soul trapped in dead flesh was not what she wanted.
Another new moon wasted.
She sighs and lifts a holy blade to end yet another experiment.
Next time.
26. the Tiny Ones (“invisible”)
Not every ghost and haunt and spectre brings great harm, or takes over one’s body, or pines from a mirror’s reflection.
Honestly, most of the dead have nowhere near such power, for good or for ill.
So they do what they can, the best way they can.
A shiver of coolness against hot skin.
A knife skitters concerningly across the table.
Candles flutter when they shouldn’t, in answer to whispers of fear or hope.
Faint nudges from unseen souls.
27. Peony (“witch”)
“Why, certainly. You’ve come all this way, after all.”
Peony’s tiny cottage at the end of the twisting paths is no prime travel destination; so if someone is at his door, he pushes grey curls from his face and gets up to greet them.
And Peony has what they come for: philtre to speak with spirits? incense with afterlife visions in its smoke? Bone-knives?
Yes, yes. All of that, for a favour or a kiss.
But if malice is afoot, he knows; and taints his gift.
28. Bloody Tears (“drop”)
The origin of these deep crimson gems is unknown — are they a spectre’s crystallized trauma, the tears of a truly grieving vampire, the congealed mourning of those who lost their most-beloved? All? None?
Impossible to say.
Three things:
They cannot be faceted nor carved.
Owners of a Tear say they bring a gentle ennui that sustains one through one’s own pain. The unliving will not harm one who carries a Tear.
Rumours of curses are unverified.
29. the Doves (“mirror”)
There’s a wandering hunter who answers to Dove. He’s been around a long time, never aging.
Dove comes to the market square at evening-time with a brace of birds or other such, trades for small sundries. He’ll help if you ask him. Quiet, not wild.
Except when his eyes burn bright and pale and he shies from the graveyard.
He’ll still help. Bloodier help, then.
And say it’s the other Dove who’s too gentle for the work, and that was the end of him.
30. Dead-Kindling (“crackle”)
The dead are tied to the living world. And that tie is a weakness —
But not as much as being forgotten.
To truly be rid of the dead?
Purge them. Tear down their monuments. Burn their works, their images, their name into ash.
Listen to the pitiless sounds of destruction; know that for every single one there’s a wail of despair on the other side.
The second death’s not pretty.
And you, you’ll be remembered by others for it.
Don’t you worry.
31. the Ebon Seraph’s Book (“magic”)
It’s the work of a dozen lives — or an exemplar created by a cold hand under duress. Or neither.
The Ebon Seraph’s Book — though that title is not found on it — is a tome of deepest black, both cover and pages, its delicate notations in bone-white and crimson and silver.
Boneservants? Vampire alchemy? Becoming a living ghost? Spells of blasphemy nestled next to purity? All here.
Just a drop of blood on the clasp, there you go …
22. the Voiceless Departed (“silence”)
It’s not always strange gates, crossroad slips or bloodied ceremony. Sometimes, all that’s needed is the right place, the right time, and to want it enough — and the dead can reach out to the living without calamity.
But it’s not perfect. Even if they can see each other, even if there’s a shiver of sensation as spirit touches flesh, no sound can pass between them.
A safe meeting, unaided, for both sides; imperfect, but it can exist.
23. Lady Rose (“vampire”)
For her first century, Rose was a monster.
She justified it with her own grisly death, her dishonoured burial, her horrible freedom from it — none of which changed the horrors she caused in turn.
For her second century, Rose was a bloodstained penitent, learning control.
She walked away from hermitage with a wise dead heart and tempered hunger.
For a century, now, Lady Rose is a dire guardian.
A single drink is all she asks of her supplicants.
24. the Ghost Howler (“werewolf”)
Whether wolf or man or beast between it’s always the same.
He stalks roads and hallways, forests and farms, market squares and city blocks, a snarling, howling tangle of agony and rending fangs.
Only the silver spike thrust through his buried ribcage keeps him from hunting across the entire land.
And destroying those bones will not end him.
Only returning his pelt, flensed from him with silver and spite, will put an end to his rage.
25. Mrs. Dawn (“Frankenstein”)
This time it’ll work. This time for sure.
Every new moon, that’s what she’s said to herself, to her workrooms, to the new corpse laid out neatly on a marble table while she worked feverishly.
But this time —
Alas, no. Not this time.
The dead rise; but not with new life. And a restless soul trapped in dead flesh was not what she wanted.
Another new moon wasted.
She sighs and lifts a holy blade to end yet another experiment.
Next time.
26. the Tiny Ones (“invisible”)
Not every ghost and haunt and spectre brings great harm, or takes over one’s body, or pines from a mirror’s reflection.
Honestly, most of the dead have nowhere near such power, for good or for ill.
So they do what they can, the best way they can.
A shiver of coolness against hot skin.
A knife skitters concerningly across the table.
Candles flutter when they shouldn’t, in answer to whispers of fear or hope.
Faint nudges from unseen souls.
27. Peony (“witch”)
“Why, certainly. You’ve come all this way, after all.”
Peony’s tiny cottage at the end of the twisting paths is no prime travel destination; so if someone is at his door, he pushes grey curls from his face and gets up to greet them.
And Peony has what they come for: philtre to speak with spirits? incense with afterlife visions in its smoke? Bone-knives?
Yes, yes. All of that, for a favour or a kiss.
But if malice is afoot, he knows; and taints his gift.
28. Bloody Tears (“drop”)
The origin of these deep crimson gems is unknown — are they a spectre’s crystallized trauma, the tears of a truly grieving vampire, the congealed mourning of those who lost their most-beloved? All? None?
Impossible to say.
Three things:
They cannot be faceted nor carved.
Owners of a Tear say they bring a gentle ennui that sustains one through one’s own pain. The unliving will not harm one who carries a Tear.
Rumours of curses are unverified.
29. the Doves (“mirror”)
There’s a wandering hunter who answers to Dove. He’s been around a long time, never aging.
Dove comes to the market square at evening-time with a brace of birds or other such, trades for small sundries. He’ll help if you ask him. Quiet, not wild.
Except when his eyes burn bright and pale and he shies from the graveyard.
He’ll still help. Bloodier help, then.
And say it’s the other Dove who’s too gentle for the work, and that was the end of him.
30. Dead-Kindling (“crackle”)
The dead are tied to the living world. And that tie is a weakness —
But not as much as being forgotten.
To truly be rid of the dead?
Purge them. Tear down their monuments. Burn their works, their images, their name into ash.
Listen to the pitiless sounds of destruction; know that for every single one there’s a wail of despair on the other side.
The second death’s not pretty.
And you, you’ll be remembered by others for it.
Don’t you worry.
31. the Ebon Seraph’s Book (“magic”)
It’s the work of a dozen lives — or an exemplar created by a cold hand under duress. Or neither.
The Ebon Seraph’s Book — though that title is not found on it — is a tome of deepest black, both cover and pages, its delicate notations in bone-white and crimson and silver.
Boneservants? Vampire alchemy? Becoming a living ghost? Spells of blasphemy nestled next to purity? All here.
Just a drop of blood on the clasp, there you go …
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