Dirge of the Dead

The flickering neon light of the stylized sign illuminated Valeria’s porcelain-white complexion with a vibrant green hue. She winced as the sign reading New Pandora’s light danced between the words New and Pandora. She was not entirely sold on the aesthetics of the club’s new design. Despite the marketing firm’s assurance that it matched the tone and vibe of the techno-themed nightclub, she held her reservations.

Valeria twirled a long strand of black hair around her finger as she studied the exterior of the newly rebranded nightclub while anxiously awaiting the arrival of the necromancer. She was thoroughly uncomfortable in the cool spring evening air. Adorned in a simple yet chic retro black pencil dress with matching black stiletto heels, she preferred the warmth within the club, but did not want to confront the powerful necromancer in such a private setting.

“Not your best work,” a male voice chimed in from behind, snapping her attention from the club. She turned to meet the familiar visage of Oxivius Soulforge, the Lamian necromancer, strolling casually down Exchange Street. He was well dressed, as usual, with a crimson red mandarin collar shirt under a black crushed velvet vest with matching black slacks. His cane tapped the cobblestones under his feet in a rhythmic unison with his footfalls as he approached. His long black hair hung about his shoulders, bouncing with each step. He was dapper, one might even say dashing, for a filthy human. Valeria’s lips curled into a seductive smile as she drank in the sight of the man approaching.

“I prefer more enticing work,” she purred in response as Oxivius came to a stop before her. His piercing, ice-blue eyes fixed on hers as his brow furrowed and his normally pleasant demeanor faded.

“I assure you Val,” Oxivius answered in a low and firm tone. “I am not on the menu tonight, demon.”