Hooves clicked upon silken metal roads. Everything looked polished, redone in such a fashion that the entire city glowed. Glass glinted from high towers, pearled exteriors of levitating office buildings shining in the bright sunlight. Everything was artificial, made to suit the best of the best. A shining, tense bubble surrounded the city, noisily protecting bustling streets from the reality of the outside world.

The quiet, down-to-earth man from Nerö didn't belong here, and he knew it.

Shakel. It was the top of the world. People rushed by, books floating by their heads, or briefcases clamped firmly in flashing hands. No one stopped to wonder why a traveler was here on horseback. Everything was just a blur of motion, no time for details.

The traveler hated it. No one here had ever stopped the smell the roses. They didn't know what it was like to feel the breath of a flesh and blood animal on your shoulder, to feel the grass under your toes or palms. The concept of nature was foreign to them. What terrible people they must be...

And he had to travel with one of them.

He finally reined his horse in, the mare stopping with fluid grace. Neither were exactly regal, and they stuck out in a place like this, with broad, arching doors, silver plating, and a glass sign engraved with copper, reading 'Necromancy.'

What had once been a gruesome practice was now commonplace after the war.

The man shook his head, leaping off his horse. The sudden motion caught the attention of a few passing girls, who giggled at the strange and dirty man, face caked with dust and mud, clad with worn iron armor. He shooed them off, leading his dark mare onto the polished sidewalks, tying her loosely to the handles on the front door. More people started to gawk at the creature, but the man simply brushed them off, stepping inside.

The inside of the place wasn't grand, just a room with a few couches and a main desk. A woman sat there, tapping her pen against the edge, clearly bored. One man was leaned on the couch, messing with a virtual reality device.

There were three doors in the room, two on either side and one behind the lady's desk. The two on the side each had labels, one reading "Resurrections," and one reading "Minions." The one behind the desk called for "The Necromancer Himself."

The man walked up to the front desk, attempting to brush the feeling of unease off. Here, the dead became the living. Here, body parts were torn from living, sometimes unwilling subjects, and strung together to make foul beasts that followed nobleman around like lost puppies.

"How may I help you?" The lady asked in a bored tone, lazy green eyes shifting up to look at him. Her black hair was askew, messed up in more than a few places.

"I'm, uh, actually looking for Preston Arsement. He's supposed to be the 'mancer here?"

"Preston's busy with a project right now," she drawled, "but if you leave your name and wait here for a while, we might be able to--"

The doors to the "Minions" room swung open.

"Aha!" The man jumped at the cry. "It's done! It's actually done! I didn't think I could do it! The eagle's eye, the lion's body and head, the cheetah's limbs! So fragile, so strong... It's a killing machine!"

Fits of laughter followed. The woman at the desk just shook her head.

"Is he... always like this?" The man asked, glancing back at the raving lunatic of a necromancer.

"Unfortunately, yes, he is," she groaned.

No wonder she's so worn out... And I have to travel with this son of a bitch?

"Preston, sir, it's just a minion. You've got more important issues to attend to," the woman continued.

"Ah, yes, who's this fine gentleman?" Preston started to walk over. His hair was streaked red, orange, yellow, and he was dressed in all black robes. His skin was porcelain, splashed occasionally with scarlet. He glanced at the man with the reality headset, gesturing widely towards the "Minions" door, then paused in front of the man.

"And you are?"

"Rob Latsky, messenger of the Neutral Court. You and I are going on a fucking adventure. Get ready."