So, I sauntered my Pale ass on down to the depths of the basement that I alluded to last time. Surprise! There were workers down there. They gave me the once over, were vaguely sure I was flesh and blood, and then pointed toward the rear of the warehouse. “Back there,” they said, assuming I was their exorcist. “It’s cold, there are wraiths, and we refuse to work back there.”
“No problem,” I say, cracking my knuckles, giving a wry grin. “Whatever you hear, stay away. It could be heated. You know how the average wraith gets once you start frying them.”
They nodded at me, took me in again (hey, I’m not hard to look at), and went back to stacking boxed artifacts, gold, and maybe even some precious silver.
My rude mechanics up front were correct. The further back you journeyed into the warehouse, the colder it became. By Kyber if I weren’t wearing dragon-skin armor, you’d see my nipples poking out. But I was wearing dragon-skin, so there’s no show to report or schedule in your black books.
Speaking of black books, I sense necromancy at work here. Perhaps a foolish young neophyte had slid in during the midnight hours, conjured up some spooks, made a pact, and slid out without so much as a “thank you” and “go to Khyber.”
Darkness surrounded me as I entered. Cold as a lich’s ass, balls, or maybe schlong. I don’t personally know for sure, but one can imagine. I lit up my fingers with arcane flame, prepping a fireball in my left palm, and magic missiles in my right. I was ready to cook, and all I needed was a willing target.
A dozen paces into the shadows, and my first perp rose from the cold floor. “A willing sacrifaccccceeeeee,” it whispered with joy. See, things like this desire form above all else. As spiritual undead, they begin that way, vaporous and empty. But let them possess a body, and you got problems. I didn’t suffer this fool a second longer. I crashed down with arcane flame and arcane bolts. The wraith had enough form to burn, so it ashed up really well, and in the blink of the eye, the wraith vanished into nothing again. It would take it a long while to re-achieve its material status. A pity really.
I found my first document on top of a crate not six feet away from the ashes of the wraith. I shoved in under my dragon-skin britches and summoned the magic back to my palms. Look, I don’t want to bore you. You’re probably stopping by long enough to glimpse some ass and attitude and go on chasing poon. So, I shall simply say the next two wraiths suffered the same fate. Documents, like the first, were lain neatly out on boxes. What in Kyber was this? A test?
Fifteen minutes later, I was handing over the documents to Jim Darkmagic.
“Record time,” he said, glancing at my bosom. Dragon-skin hides them from pervs like Jim. All he saw were a couple mounds. Coins danced in my palm, and I gave him a crooked smile.
“Come back tomorrow,” he said, just a prayer away from panic. “We’ll have more work for you and more coin. Where can we find you in case of emergency?”
“Moonstone Mask,” I say over my shoulder. Indeed, I was headed there now to unwind, flirt, and buy a round for my friends. Ah, the life of a wizard in the old Pale league. Life doesn’t get any better than this. I least, I don’t think it does.