A necromancer waits here. He has a leather belt strung over his shoulder. It has seven pouches. Each pouch contains a bell, each ringing at a different frequency. To ring one allows him to step into another time and existence, a place where there is always a gray river up to your knees, thick flowing soot against the cloak he wears. If he's got his hand on you when he rings the first you're taken with him. You fall to your knees, choking, and he pushes you down. There is a name for each one. The names are also the sound, the music. The faceless speaks these names and they ring true and he moves like a shade beside you, a burning red shadow -- out of phase -- save the bell calling our frequency... you can see them then. At twilight. The dingy mystery of a dagger, unaware of potential, seamless, unbound.
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