The sun hung lazily above Grin Hollow, casting its warm glow over the town's cobbled streets. The annual Risen Bazaar had arrived, a celebration where necromancers and their apprentices showcased their latest creations—undead, reanimated, and often quite bizarre. The streets were teeming with people from all walks of life: merchants hawking their wares, children playing tag between tombstone-shaped booths, and the air thick with the scent of cooked meats, herbs, and old magic.

  Lilac, with her signature purple hair tied into an intricate braid, walked through the bustling market square with Autumn at her side. Both women, though different in many ways, had grown to become an inseparable pair—at least, for the moment. Lilac’s gaze darted around, taking in the sights, her armor glinting in the sunlight, while Autumn was more reserved, her autumn-colored hair falling around her face like a curtain. Her eyes were calculating, always assessing, but there was a softness in her expression as she glanced around the vibrant chaos of the bazaar.

  "You’re going to love this," Lilac said with a mischievous grin, her eyes scanning the crowd. "The Risen Bazaar is always full of surprises, so says Potabeau."

  Autumn raised an eyebrow, her arms crossed loosely over her chest. "I thought this was a place for... for necromancers to show off their work," she said skeptically.

  "It is!" Lilac replied, her voice taking on a teasing edge. "But that’s just the beginning. The real fun is the auction. Potabeau’s been working on his *auctioneer* skills this year. Let’s just say it’s not your typical bidding."

  As the two women weaved through the crowds, Autumn glanced over at the large stage set up at the far end of the square. Azrath, her long-time friend and the aspiring necromancer, was standing in the front row, looking thoroughly uninterested. His expression was one of pure boredom, his pale fingers folding and unfolding in irritation. Despite the deathly theme to the atmosphere around him, Azrath was as out of patience.

  Lilac couldn’t help but laugh. "Don’t mind him. Azrath’s only ever excited when he’s deciphering ancient texts or making his own little undead army. Social events, not so much."

  Autumn smiled faintly, still studying Azrath. "He’s always been like that, hasn’t he?"

  Lilac’s smile widened, her eyes twinkling. "Oh, perhaps. But today, the real star is going to be Potabeau."

  Before Autumn could respond, the crowd erupted in cheers, and Lilac’s sharp eyes spotted Potabeau standing on the stage, a large wooden gavel in hand. He was wearing an outrageously large top hat that was somehow even more comically exaggerated than his usual outfit, complete with a bow tie and brightly colored suspenders. His grin stretched across his face, eyes gleaming with mischief as he surveyed the slowly quieting crowd.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, ladies and gentlemen!" Potabeau’s voice rang out over the crowd, startling a few nearby pigeons into flight. "Step right up to the Risen Bazaar’s finest auction—*where death is not the end, but the beginning of a deal too good to refuse!*"

  Azrath sighed, rubbing his temple. Despite his usual disinterest in the bazaar’s festivities, he had to admit there was something about Potabeau’s antics that always managed to rub him the wrong way. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate his witty friend—it was just that Potabeau’s tendency to treat necromancy like a circus act grated on his nerves. But there was no getting around it: The public was Potabeau’s domain, and Azrath had learned long ago that it was best for all to let him have his fun.

  Meanwhile, on the stage, Potabeau was working the crowd with the kind of exaggerated flair only he could muster. He strutted back and forth, striking poses like a performer under a spotlight. "Feast your eyes on this fine specimen!" he called, gesturing toward a set of skeletal figures arranged in a neat row behind him. "No, they’re not just any skeletons, folks—these fine lads have been resurrected with a touch of flair! They’re not just your garden-variety bone bags, oh no! These fellows have got moves, style, and a knack for dramatic duel-challenging. Perfect for any party or small gathering!”

  Stolen story; please report.

  A few of the crowd laughed, clearly amused by the over-the-top presentation. Potabeau threw a wink to a nearby merchant, who raised an eyebrow but gave a small nod of approval. “Starting bid, five gold pieces—who’ll give me five?” Potabeau’s voice grew louder, the excitement infectious.

  Autumn, her arms still crossed, leaned closer to Lilac. “Is he... serious?”

  Lilac couldn’t contain her grin. “Of course not. He’s Potabeau. He never does or takes anything seriously.”

  Potabeau continued, his enthusiasm undeterred. “And what’s that, you say? Who's the *rising star* of the undead market, you ask? Well, I’ve got just the thing for you!” He dramatically gestured to an enormous coffin at the far side of the stage. It creaked open with a dramatic flair, revealing what appeared to be a rather disgruntled zombie wearing a monocle and a top hat.

  “This,” Potabeau announced, voice booming with grandiosity, “is *Sir Reginald the Reanimated*! A nobleman brought back to life—not just once, not twice, but THREE times! He knows how to *negotiate* and *hold a grudge*! A truly unique acquisition for any collection!”

  The crowd burst into laughter as Sir Reginald—an impressively poised zombie—nodded stiffly, his monocle wobbling precariously in his empty eye socket.

  “Do I hear ten gold? Fifteen?” Potabeau’s voice rose to a fever pitch, egging on the laughter and the bidding frenzy.

  Azrath stood off to the side, trying not to roll his eyes. Potabeau's enthusiasm was endless, and sometimes, his humor—while undeniably entertaining—felt like a constant disruption. But even Azrath couldn’t help the occasional snicker when Potabeau kept trying to get the zombie to wave its top hat like a proper nobleman.

  Lilac leaned in toward Autumn, her voice full of amusement. “He’s been practicing. He’s got the pantomime of these undead creatures down to an art.”

  Autumn’s lips twitched upward in reluctant amusement. “He certainly doesn’t lack confidence.”

  Potabeau’s voice rang out once more, cutting through the chaos. “And don’t forget, folks, every undead auction item comes with a guarantee! If your zombie doesn’t perform ordered tasks within the first week, your gold pieces will be returned, no questions asked!” He paused and gave a wink to the crowd. “Well, except for the one question we all ask: ‘Why are you bidding on dead things in the first place?’”

  Laughter echoed through the bazaar, and for a moment, Azrath couldn’t help but smile. Despite everything—the absurdity, the chaos—Potabeau had a way of making even the most bizarre situations feel oddly charming. Maybe, just maybe, the Risen Bazaar wasn’t the worst place for him to be today.

  As the bidding war for Sir Reginald raged on, Azrath, with his usual brooding expression, couldn’t help but wonder what he would do if he, too, one day became a legend. Would he want a silly auctioneer like Potabeau leading his legacy, or would he prefer something a little... more serious?

  Either way, the Risen Bazaar would be a memory worth keeping.

  - - -

  As the town grew apace his own mastery of necromancy, Azrath realized that no matter how vast his power over death became, he was still a mortal, and time was his greatest enemy. To truly transcend his limitations, he would need to defeat death itself.

  The answer lay in a forbidden ritual known as the Lich Ascension—a dark and treacherous process by which a mortal could bind their soul to an object of great power, achieving immortality at the cost of their humanity. He found little reference helpful to pursue the ritual, but often found himself spending whole weeks possessed attempting to find more detail.

  So in the heart of Grin Hollow Potabeau spent efforts before his upcoming mayorial election listening to the whispers of the world beyond. Azrath, with his commanding presence and mastery over death, spent his days cultivating his scrying power, gathering bodies and body parts to fuel his dark magic. The furthest graveyards and forests were never safe from his reach. His necromantic energies stirred both the living and the dead.

  Ever the opposite to his grim companion, Potabeau’s talents weren’t in the dark arts, but in diplomacy, trade, and persuasion. He found profit in nearly every situation, from haggling with local merchants to setting up shady deals with passing caravans. His charm and eloquence had turned even the most unprofitable situations into lucrative opportunities. He briefly paused his mayorial campaign to dredge up information of the world with the same efficacy.

  But unexpected news from the wider world began to reach the Hollow. The crusade from Heeloxl—a distant, war-torn continent—was a topic that seemed to gain more momentum with each passing day. Word spread of a holy war against dark forces. A crusade that motivated itself with the promise of riches and the chance to expand their dogmatic influence and power: Both Azrath’s and Potabeau’s investigations turned hither.

  Azrath, ever intrigued by the notion of investigating powerful forces of light, began to consider what role he could play opposite this grand endeavor. Potabeau, always with an eye for opportunity, saw the crusade as a perfect avenue for both political fame and mercantilism.

  Through tavern gossip, secretive whispers in back alleys, and messages delivered by ravens, the two studied the core of the crusade’s goals: originally it sought to liberate the continent of Heeloxl from a shadow that had long plagued it. Yet, despite the righteous cause of the crusaders, the unification of Heeloxl under their banner was achieved with great persecution of their people.

  Now, there were murmurs of grander things at work and Potabeau’s sharp eyes noticed patterns in the news—power struggles, ancient relics, and powers beyond the comprehension of mere mortals.

  The time in Grin Hollow had been profitable and peaceful, but the time would soon come when Azrath and Potabeau had to make their decision: stay building the safety of their wealthy growing kingdom or embark on a journey that could take them to the heart of a crusade fraught with potent danger? One they themselves had perhaps lured nearer?