The brewing process was dragging on insufferably long, with Arnath muttering in a language that was definitely not the Common Tongue over his cauldron. Crow listened in with curiosity, shocked to find out that he could actually understand the words coming out of the Deathspeaker’s mouth.

“Esh’to ish’eren.” Keep yourself together.

“Esh nen’to anteran!” Stop dissolving!

And finally, an enraged “Mish’to wurf vermaen stiithim n’ish maate’ri chedevre!” May a stray dog piss on your mother’s corpse! Translated completely literally, of course. Crow could tell that it was a ridiculously elaborate way to say “go fuck yourself”. While it was quite the mouthful, part of him still admired how sweetly picturesque it was.

“Why do I know what this all means?” – He whispered to his shadow.

“It is the Elderspeech, Master.” – It simply replied.

“You’ll have to be more specific than this.” – The Undead huffed, giving the being a scolding look.

“The language that your tattoo has been written in.”

Crow looked down at it, reading it aloud for the first time in his un-life. The word rolled off his tongue easily and firmly, as if he had said it a thousand times before.

“Liristera. Caution. Arnath said that only the Eternals mark their wrists like that. So it’s all the confirmation I need, isn’t it? If I understand their language, I must be one of them.” – His gaze was glued to the grass and dirt underneath him as he said it. Though the shade had no discernible face, he couldn’t bear to look at where it should be. The thought of being one of them filled his heart with shame.

“Maybe. Maybe not. About who you used to be, I know no more than you do. But I can share with you the sacred knowledge that all shadows, big and small, are privy to. Elderspeech is the language of magic. Arnath speaks it now, for brought forth with the proper intent, its sound echoes through the very strings of Fabric of Creation and sends them into a harmonious vibration.”

“So he’s casting spells, that’s what you’re trying to say.” – Crow deduced.

“If you truly wish to put it so mundanely, master…” - The shadow seemed very unsatisfied with his reasoning.

He paid its sour tone little mind, just tapping intently at his left wrist.

“Language of magic or not, it’s still etched into my skin forever.”

“And it is more ancient than the Empire, even if it calls itself Eternal.” – Was the reply, pressing, agitated even. He disregarded it – just like the shadow seemed to disregard the fact that he had no memory beyond rising from the grave and cryptic messages were the most annoying form of social interaction he had been pushed into so far.

“Arnath?” – He dared to speak up loudly enough for the old man to hear, even if he asked him earlier not to interrupt. – “You sound distressed.”

The Deathspeaker rubbed his eyes, in a gesture of an utter exhaustion.

“The ingredients I’m using are old. Four years, laying still and unbothered in my cellar. The moss has dried up. Such a simple, everyday problem. Now it longs for water, absorbing it way too fast and as a result turning into a useless crimson goop before I can extract its miraculous abilities into the liquid surrounding it and drink it. I’ve known, of course, that it wasn’t in its best shape anymore, but still, I didn’t expect this much of a disaster.”

“So, what now? Is it useless? Will you be able to talk to the ghost without it?” - Crow asked worriedly. If they failed to complete the job, would Arnath even pay him? He already got attached to the thought of owning a lute.

“It's not that it's entirely useless…” - The Deathspeaker sighed and ran his hand through the wispy remnants of hair that he still had. - “But it might be dangerous for me. See, ingesting the moss takes a heavy toll on one's body. I dilute it in the potion, throw in some medicinal herbs that make it easier on my elderly self, and cast spells during the brewing to make sure it's completely safe. But as it is right now? This nasty looking slush could actually kill me. I suppose we'll have to use a talking board… Oh, but that will make communication so much harder…”

“Maybe I could try it? I'm already dead, so I doubt anything bad could happen. And I think I could hold back my nausea long enough for us to complete your job.” - The Undead asked, trying to salvage their unfortunate situation. He had been through so much stress already just for the promise of that reward that he wasn't willing to back down at all. Being a little sick later was not as scary of a prospect compared to the terrifying ordeal of visiting the Deathspeaker's hut for the first time anyway.

“I don't know, Crow… The idea is tempting, I won't lie, but I'm not sure if your social skills are developed enough to handle this. Calmbank is not only a ghost, he's a nobleman. You'd have to be tactful and polite…”

“Aren't I the most polite and tactful Undead that you've ever met, though?” - He asked with a little playful glimmer in his eyes. Why did this one sentence bring him so much pleasure?

“Because you like being a cheeky little shit, obviously.” - His shadow immediately delivered the answer, but he decided to still not be on speaking terms with it.

“Just because the rest of your kin can't talk at all, Crow!” - Arnath huffed with his arms crossed.

“You know what? You said it yourself before, this thing goes bad very quickly. I don't think we have the time for deliberating if other walking corpses would be more polite than me if they could speak.” - With that, Crow grabbed a spoonful of the red ooze from the cauldron and pushed it into his mouth.

“Lady Death, grant me patience, for if you grant me strength I will rip his head off! What have you done, boy?!” - The old man panicked. - “I should've prepared you for the experience first!”

“Why would I need prepaaaa… O-ooo-ooh…”

The moss hit him like lightning, and the world wasn’t what it used to be anymore. There were strands everywhere, thousands, no, millions little threads connecting everything and taking up every tiniest piece of what was before open space, yet somehow not obstructing his vision. And they swirled and folded into shapes that Crow could tell were feelings in some inexplicable way. The bend of those between Arnath and his cauldron was angry, he realized, wondering at the same time how a shape could even be angry. Deeper into the surrounding forest though, the little threads relaxed, flowing more smoothly as they etched themselves into the trees and brushes. The Deathspeaker was still enjoying being out in nature despite the fiasco with the potion, he deduced.

“This is so beautiful…” - He whispered in awe of it all, and glanced down at his own hand. Just like everything else, it was joined with the miraculous fabric. - “We're all connected, Arnath. Even me. I was never a stranger to this world. I belong, just like you.”

The strings vibrated with exasperation around the old man a split second before Crow could feel his hand slapping him hard on the top of his head.

“No! You're just high!” - He yelled angrily.

“You don't understand.” - The Undead protested, rubbing the spot that was hit with a wounded expression on his face. - “I'm touching the Divine here, I'm sure of it.”

“I'll send you to the Divine if you don't focus!”

“Relax my friend.” - Crow touched Arnath's shoulder gently. - “I will focus to the best of my ability, because I can literally see how distressed it makes you that I don't. I apologize, I never meant to bring you such pain. In return I ask you not to bring actual physical pain onto my head anymore. I think the moss makes me a little less numb than I usually am.”

“It certainly makes you much less tolerable.” - The Deathspeaker grumbled and started to drag the dazed Undead towards the building in front of them. - “Come on, we need to get inside the manor. Who knows how long you can keep it together before you need to spew it all out.”

“I assure you, my stomach has never felt better… Oh, I take that back. It is telling me that it's quite upset now that I thought about it.” - He gulped loudly.

“I thought so. I feel terrible after doing it too, and my stomach can actually handle food unlike yours.” - Arnath sighed. - “Just try to be brave, alright? And remember what I said. Be tactful and polite with the ghost. Better yet, after introducing yourself, only speak to relay to me what it is saying. The dead have no trouble hearing the living, so you don't even have to repeat my words to it.”

“You're having very little faith in me right now.” - Crow observed bluntly. - “But I can see that it comes from a place of worry for our shared well-being, so I accept the apology.”

It was pointless to argue that he never wanted to apologize, so the old man simply kept on walking until they reached the massive oaken door, and swung it open.