They tell me I’m mad, and yes, it may be true. And why not? Why not embrace madness? It is the only way to accept – to face – a mad universe. A universe where she does not laugh. Where she does not sing. Where my love breathes no more. So madness, or what the fools at the Exile Academy of Science call madness.
Very well. They call me “necro-alchemist.” They call me “monster.” As if bringing life from death, stealing from the infinite fate that awaits us all is something to be feared. So I throw my
lot in with the Grims. As long as I brew up concoctions and poisons for them to use taking their slaves, they don’t give a damn what I do out here in my own little workshop.
And so when one of their slaves does not survive capture – what a vile euphemism! – I harvest what I can, for her sake.
If she is to live again, she must be made whole again.
So yes, I cull from anything I can. From the beasts. From the thrice-damned and forty-times-cursed girrok monsters that tore into her dear sweet face. From the vulcarrion that desecrated her remains. And I take from the savage
blue demons that stole her bones.
Yes, they died by the score, didn’t they? They didn’t want her to come back to me. The Skeech, they loved her too. But she was mine. Is mine. Will be mine. Life, from lifelessness. Not the shambling half-life of walking bones. True life, for my one true love.
This will not be easy. To begin, I require many more —
[The rest of this page has been eaten away by some form of acidic chemical.]