Welcome to Necropolis. Or, as its residents more commonly call it, Gravetown. Created 2,000 years ago by an otherwise-unknown sorcerer-gone-lich, the purpose of Gravetown's existence is to mutually benefit the living and the undead. For the living, there's no longer the fear of the undead plaguing their world and taking their lives. For the undead, it meant a world entirely their own, where there was no holier-than-thou faction out to kill them all.

While the creator of Gravetown has since disappeared, his dream still stands strong. The city has since grown, developed, and has become a sanctuary for undead of all forms, where both magic and technology have grown. Barring a few distinct differences, most prominently how all its residents are undead, Gravetown is otherwise your everyday city. Why are there no living? It's thanks to a miasma the city's creator spread over the city; an otherwise-invisible gas that is lethal enough to kill any living thing with a single breath. To the undead, it's just as safe as breathing air.

So whether you're a ghoul inhabiting the city's nastiest neighborhoods, a banshee who makes her living singing, or a lich entrusted with the ambitious duty of maintaining Gravetown, what ties you together with everybody else? You're a citizen of this city. That's it.

The Rattling Chain, Crypt District

The dull thrum that always came from a busy tavern leeched out into the street in front of The Rattling Chain, the echoes of various voices, as well as the backdrop of cheery Irish music. From on the street, it might have been any normal bar in the world, if it weren't for the fact that they were underground, stalagmites hanging down from the earthy ceiling. Soft light bathed the street, slipping through the rough glass of the windows and a few cracks in the wooden walls.

However, were one to step inside, they would find themselves faced with a nightmarish sight, by normal world standards. The tavern itself looked normal enough- A large hearth at one end of the room on a raised platform for performers, a few tables strewn about the floor, a bar covering most of the left half of the building, shelves of booze behind it. Even a pair of pool tables put off to one side. However, the occupants were what gave this place its hellish atmosphere. Behind the bar, a hunched form stood, rubbing the same spot on the bar with a filthy cloth constantly, occasionally sliding somebody a drink. The figure was wearing tattered rags for clothing, flesh in a mild state of decay, shackles around its neck and wrists with chains jingling from them, likely the cause of the tavern's name. All along the bar sat an array of people- A pair of ghosts at one end, muttering between themselves. A banshee hovered in a corner, idly combing her hair while half-listening to a mummy ramble on about how his arm kept falling off.

On the stage, a strange group stood. Several men of Irish-looking decent, two of them with their heads sitting in their laps. It was from them that the Irish music came, one of them standing up front and singing to the tunes. Not bad for a bunch of dead guys. Everything from ghosts to zombies to mummies sat around the bar nursing drinks at various tables in their own little groups, a shady looking vampire facing off at pool with a skeleton.

One skeleton in particular was drawing a good deal of attention from the crowd, up on stage with the Dullahans. They played their music, as the skeleton hopped back and forth on the stage. He was juggling a trio of mugs and a skull- His skull, to be precise. The jaw moved even as the head went in rings around his body, voice exuding in an unnatural manner over the tavern, tone light and lilting, matching the music playing beside him.

"And so we have the tale of a club-foot knight and a flatulent dragon! Our knight, the greatest vampire in the kingdom! Even with his club foot, none could compare with him as he swung his mighty iron club on the fields of war! The moon shone off of his obsidian armor every evening, blood splattering over its surface with every blow of his club- And mud splattering with every step of his club foot!"

"Now, our dragon is quite the unusual fellow! His brothers and sisters were infamous for their hording of fine jewels, and the fire they spewed from their maws! But Grant the Dragon was different! He refused to leave his treasures laying around, instead ingesting them! This gave the fellow horrible indigestion, and every time he moved to huff smoke or breath fire, he would fart, and it would come out the wrong end! The Flatulent Dragon, while odd among the world, was wanted for a high bounty..."

His story trailed on, full of comical phrases and actions, the hilarious tale of the club footed vampiric knight and the flatulent dragon Grant one of medium length and maximum laughter. Throughout the tale, the skeleton describing it continued to dance around the stage, slowly acquiring more and more objects to juggle, his skull ever in the mix, floating through the tossed rings constantly. Eventually he was juggling a good seven mugs, two skulls- One his own- a femur, and a very irritated looking zombie pygmy, who sat cross-legged, cross-armed, and grumpy-faced even while floating through the air with every flick of the skeleton's wrist, his little hat askew on his decaying features.

A decrepit semblance of a samurai limped down one of the streets of the crypt, it's body rattled with a hollow noise and its faulty action was closer to a marionette puppet than that of a warrior. If those brutes in the Yomi district would have been more prone to questioning, Trist might have been able to explain why he was lurking in the walls and shadows of their conspicuous gathering. He could've saved this quite interesting set of armor from anymore damage or wear, and he scorned himself for it now. Now it was barely being held together, causing his ridiculous gait, and the katana was left pinning some ghoul to the building through some still-intact ribs. The only benefit being a few new sharp collectibles rattling inside him. The ultimate result was a successful night. He remained unrecognized, as well as his client.

Sounds of familiar music and happy rambling reached out into the dark street just like the eerie light that escaped the doorway. Those sounds and smells were of a time he did not usually partake in as a spirit, which left him feeling bored as he glanced at headless minstrels, and even a headless juggler! Vania wasn't a far walk, even without the weightless norm that Trist had grown slightly more fond of. Just slightly. Not enough to trade for his old self. Never enough. Shaking off the thought, and almost his entire helmet, Trist looked forward to hanging this heavily-mustached mask on his wall. Next he was looking down, thanks to a leg lost unexpectedly. Fed up, he picked himself up and sat against a wall just around the corner of an alley, then detached from the hulk of metal hugging its own leg, and without a head.

Trist wasn't the mischievous type, but something compelled him. Maybe it was to break away from the constant and crushing solemnity of his job. Maybe he was answering the prayer of a rather unenthused pygmy. Maybe he just wanted a good laugh. He entered the tavern with little the notice that having silent steps and partial transparence brings. As nonchalantly as possible, he floated up and kept his back to the ceiling, eyed the barren shoulders of the skeleton under him, and dropped the helm for his empty cervical spine to catch. A prankster would've taken his leave, but Trist just glided onto an empty stool where the music was louder than the banter.

"...And no matter what I try, the thing just keeps dropping off at the slightest hint of strenuous activity. Of course, I bandage it back on and let the tissue regenerate as much as it will, but it breaks off the next time I lift a stack of books, or try to unstick my door. Once it came off as a client was shaking my hand. Of course, I immediately-”
“'Course you did,” said the banshee, cutting off the mummy's raspy, droning speech. “I think I've heard all I need to. Should be a simple fix.” Khaemtir leaned forward, looking pleased. “Really? Excellent! I was worried it would-”
“Yeah I'm sure.” The banshee had intentionally interrupted him again. How irritating. She stopped brushing her hair and looked at him. “Okay, so first? You're a mummy, and an old one. You shouldn't exactly be lifting weights. Hell, it's a miracle you haven't crumbled to dust already.” The mummy stiffened, the smile dropping from his lips.
“I'll have you know, young lady, that aside from this temporary condition I am in perfectly physical-”
“And secondly,” She continued hurriedly, “All you need to do is wire it on for a bit. It should fix itself after a month or two. Just needs some time to strengthen up.” Khaemtir smiled, but only slightly.
“Very well. I thank you for your assistance.” He began to stand up.
“Thank your wallet. Hey, where do you think you're going?” She grabbed his arm and tried to pull him down, but it instead tore away from his shoulder with a sound like a snapping twig. “Oops, sorry. Yeah, but maybe it'd do you some good to try having fun. Live a little, gramps! You know, metaphorically speaking.” Khaemtir glared at her and snatched up his arm. He stuck it back up his sleeve and muttered a few words of ancient egyptian. A warm glow blossomed and then faded beneath the cloth at his shoulder- a spell of healing just strong enough to keep it from falling off from its own weight. Only when he was done did he look back up at the banshee, who had been watching a skeleton juggle his own head and a good few mugs.
“I'm not a grandfather,” He said. The banshee slowly rolled her head back towards him.
“With your attitude? Honestly? I didn't expect you to be. I'll be over there with the cute ghost.” She drifted directly through Khaemtir, bathing him momentarily in a sensation not unlike being stuck out in the arctic for several hours. Had he been alive he probably would have shivered.

He was left sitting alone at a table in the corner of the bar, with loud music all around and the skeleton close by, who was now juggling an inadvisable amount of objects. Dressed in a old brown suit, clutching a book, and sitting stiffly in his seat, he felt and looked very out of place. He snorted.
“Hmph. Bitch.”

The Rattling Chain

Possibly the oddest sight in this tavern of undead was not, in fact, the obviously unliving occupants. No; in this city of corpses no amount of rotting flesh was at all notable. Rather, it was the child sat at the bar itself, drinking a rather thick milkshake. Chiildren, it could be surmised, were not supposed to hang around in bars on their own, and undead unfortunate enough to have not physically reached adulthood--or some other indicator of age--were a sight indeed. Still, there were more than a few around as you scoured the districts of Gravetown.

Rather, the weird thing was that she barely seemed to be dead at all. Not a hint of decay, no indication of rotting lungs as she sighed at the 'entertainment'... and she'd rejected alcoholic drinks because they got her drunk too easily. Undead, one generally thought, were not in the business of getting drunk. For someone to have all systems working and even somehow cheat to keep their flesh warm... well, it was easy enough to see why a few of the other patrons thought the small blonde was a vampire. Pretty few things could ever seem so alive whilst enduring the mist.

Kitty, for her part, didn't care what anyone else thought so long as she wasn't called upon for displays of magical talent or the like. So long as the barkeeper kept serving her--even though she wasn't exactly buying the bar's normal fare--and the patrons didn't bother her, she would be happy to keep drinking in peace.

Today's story, however, was just annoying. And that had nothing to do with her full glass having somehow ended up in the juggling pile.

"Ye really ought to learn another story."

Her day starts with a cup of coffee. Tea was for stuck up prats who walked and talked as if they had a gyrating stick up their bottom.

This was a very fine day indeed, for the balcony she sat in had a perfectly good view of the Foggy Lake, with all its foggy splendour. Of course the sounds of the occasional ear rending banshee shriek adds to the atmosphere. Why have birds when you have banshees? Oh and of course, as of every morning since last Tuesday, there seemed to be a group of them coordinating their shrieks. And speak of the devil, for their voices came just as she was thinking they disbanded, rattling her mug on its place as they gave different pitched and toned shrieks in succession. This time it seemed to be..... Mozart, the sixth symphony. How oddly refined. So in short...

"I miss Ireland." She gave a long sigh. At least there were some good music out here, a cappella shrieks or not.

Cornelia IV von Elzbern du Swarztheim, or just Amelia O'Garry before she decided she needed a grander name, was understandably bored after all the time she spent alone within the confines of the castle. She'd torture some of the maids, but she didn't feel like doing any of that when Silvia, her main maid for torture was taking her day off, leaving only the head maid Hilda on duty.

Her small wings, condensed for convenience's sake, started to beat nervously as she considered going back to Ireland. It was not possible however, for the moldy old bastards up in their tower would never let her do that, and the wall itself was for the protection of everyone in this place if she recalled correctly.

She hatched a devious plan as soon as the maid on duty excused herself for a moment, no doubt to find some more thread for her arm. Normally she would berate her for not sewing it on properly, but her mind hatched a devious plan as soon as she realized there was only one maid watching over her.

Her wings burst open to their full size as soon as the maid disappeared down the hallway, looking like a mass of black shadows vaguely shaped like batwings. With a powerful flap, she flew to tremendous heights, and spiralled down towards the Foggy Lake itself. If she recalled correctly there was an arts teacher who teaches her all those fine arts thing. Cornellia was a bit confused by her however, for the arts teacher, The arts teacher still wore such shabby robes when her pay was enough to buy better middle class clothes. Did she have an attachment to such a plebeian garb?

Working off memory alone, she identified the art teacher's house, and zoomed in towards the window.

She crashed against the wall beside it with enough force to rattle the windows, recovered from her daze, walked around to the front door and knocked.

"It is I! Cornelia IV von Elzbern du Swarztheim! I have need to speak to you, Ms. Art Teacher!"

All was quiet in the Foggy Lake district of Gravetown. At least, as quiet as a district with a large portion of the banshee population could get. Not that Natsumi minded the noise. It was something she'd grown accustomed to, and this district wasn't nearly as crowded as Yomi. That was her entire reason for moving here, after all. Much easier to pursue art when there's not thousands of jiangshi and yuki-onna walking right outside your tiny apartment. She went back for festivals, but that was it. For the most part, she remained in Foggy Lake, sometimes going to Mortem Park or The Crypt for either a drink or a one-day tutoring thing.

Yes, everything was quiet in Foggy Lake. WAS. While she was painting a scenery of snow and ice, something crashed into her wall. It startled her enough to cause her hand to fly across the canvas, effectively rendering at least a couple hours' worth of painting completely ruined by a new big black line across the canvas. Whoever it was, they were knocking on the door next. Typically not the angry sort, this person with a ridiculously long name was already irritating her. Natsumi answered the door, and looked at the person. A vampire. That explained why she was so obnoxiously loud. She had need to speak? "Then speak up."

The Rattling Chain

His master wanted him to pick up some wine for a party.

Salem looked at the map in his hands then stared at his surroundings with wide, inquisitive eyes. The Rattling Chain...this was the place. "Excuse me," he tapped one of the banshees on the shoulder, but the woman simply turned away to chat with a rather attractive ghost. "Oh, thank you." Salem shrunk back and weaved his way through a couple of snickering ghouls. "Is this the Rattling Chain?" The wide-eyed flesh doll looked very lost and out of place. Not to mention, everyone was far too busy doing their own thing to answer his rather obvious question.

"Oi, you." A voice called out and Salem spun around to see a skeleton in a tux, he was one of the Rattling Chain's waiters.

He blinked slowly then looked left and right. "Me?"

"Of course you, who else would I be talkin' to? Idiot." He smacked the palm of his hand against his forehead the stared at Salem with empty eye sockets. "Your Thorrion's newest pet aren't you? He told me he'd be sending you over to pick up a few bottles of our finest Irish wine."

"Yes that's me," Salem nodded his head and watched as the skeleton disappeared behind the counter to pull out a box. The waiter walked up to the flesh doll and placed it into his hands. "Send Thorrion my regards, alright kid?"

Salem stared at the box then answered slowly. "Yes sir," he was just about to turn around and make his way towards the door when he noticed Piper and Casper were no longer tucked snugly into his coat. There was the sound of loud purring and the flesh doll swiveled around to see the Casper flitting playfully across the stage while Piper nibbled on a certain mummy's bandages. Thorrion told him no good would come from bringing kittens everywhere. He hadn't listened.

"Oh no," slowly, he placed the box onto the table and sprang towards the little skeleton cat. "Piper, bad girl. It's rude to bite." He picked the kitten up and tucked her into his coat. "I'm very, very sorry." He sounded sincere though the expression on Salem's face remained blank. Salem gave Khaemtir a small bow before his eyes flitted towards the stage. Casper was doing somersaults in midair and starring at the little zombie midget that Rattle was tossing into the air.

"Casper," Salem frowned at his friend, but the little kitten simply purred loudly before it fell onto one of the dullahan's laps.

The sound of her own native music and of the usual merriment in The Rattling Chain was almost like a mermaid's song to a sailor. An irresistible invite to follow. Caoimhe was no stranger to the bar, a rather frequent customer. Whenever she wasn't working, which wasn't very often really, she could be seen here most the time. So it wasn't much of a surprise as the banshee came through the door, rather noisily. She could have come in in a more conservative manner but it just wasn't her style.

"Ah! What a lovely sight as always! Good evening to you all, my dears!" Caoimhe sung, a smile lighting up her ghost like features. Her arms spread far out as she greeted the other people idling around. There was a mixture of reactions at her display, some rolled their eyes and others stared, some just ignored it. It didn't seem to damper her mood as she hummed softly to the music for a moment before she made her way towards the bar. "A drink of ale please, I don't care much for the brand of it." Caoimhe said, her nails drumming away at the countertop for a moment.

The variety of different creatures in the room made her take just a moment to scan what was happening. The Dullahan band was playing, decently of course, but she had a bet that she could do better. She could always out perform someone, it was a silent thought but her confidence was known. There was a banshee here and there, Caoimhe waved to one that floated in a corner, comb in hand. Couple ghosts just hanging around, and a few more different undead scattered about. The one that she really paid attention to was the skeleton, telling some comedic story. The idiocy of it made Caoimhe's lips part into yet another wide and toothy smile. "Oh, how nice." She remarked, although it wasn't clear if she was laughing because of the story or because of how stupid it seemed. Either way, she seemed to enjoy it.

Lin Wei adjusted her hat. Now was the time that, well... she didn't feel quite as confident, to tell the truth. She wasn't nervous or anything though! Just, well... singing and dancing helped her be more confident. And at the moment she was really just going for a bit of a walk, so she mostly just hoped no-one... surprised her or anything. Yeah, that was all. The girl lacked the stiffness of her fellow jiangshi, even her sister. She moved around far too much to be so stiff, really. It came with being an idol. But right now, she was just on a walk.

She paused, for a moment. This wasn't where she had been intending on going... that bar definitely wasn't her destination. She frowned. Even after living here for a while, the jiangshi idol only knew her way around Yomi very well... anywhere else she usually was being driven or had an escort. This time she just went a little further out of her usual comfort zone and ended up... some... where.

Er...

Maybe she should ask for directions.

Lin Wei headed up to the bar and opened the door.

"Um... hello?" she asked, "I'm... I think I took a wrong turn somewhere, does anyone have directions back to Yomi?"

She rubbed the back of her head awkwardly as she spoke.

Rattle had been in the middle of a sentence when a series of events drilled him all at once- First, the falling of a helm from the ceiling. The armored headpiece landed solidly on his shoulders with a metallic clank, barely kept on by a bit of his spine as it slid forward- The interruption did nothing to the man, who simply rolled with it in the generally infamous Rattle'von'clatter manner. Just as -his- skull reached the bottom of the juggling ring, he shrugged his shoulders and the helm rolled from his neck, landing right on his head! Skills. The now armored head continued in its story for several seconds before another pair of interruptions arrived.

First, a young-looking woman on the bar top, sending a rather drab comment about finding a new story at him. Rattle huffed, suddenly dipping down into a bow to the woman. The items he'd just been juggling, one would assume, were liable to smash into the ground with quite the obnoxious sound. This assumption would be wrong. With some artful wiggling around on the skeleton's part, they all landed balanced over his back and arms, spread out at his side- Even his head landed back in its place on his spine, helm and all! Skelly-skills.

"Why, finding a new story? What a brilliant idea, my young-looking friend! Why don't you join me up here and help me cook up a new tale to tell?"

As he spoke, the grumpy gremlin he'd been juggling straightened up on his back, promptly dropping to the floor and viciously kicking Rattle in the shin- Obviously to no effect, given Rattle's lack of nerves, and thus immunity to feeling, well, anything. Still, he cast an irritated glance at the zombie pygmy as it wandered off- Or at least it could be assumed to be irritated. No face to show emotion, and all. He straightened, going through a few more comical motions to disperse some of the juggled objects- The extra skull and femur thrown back to the skeleton they'd been borrowed from. Most of the drinks tossed back to their original owners. The pygmy zombie had already gone off on his own- He even punted the helmet that had been dropped onto his shoulders back to Trist! Rattle misses a lot less than he lets on...

However, he kept a pair of drinks. One, likely his own, and the other the one he had conveniently stolen from Kitty. That, he held out to her.

"Join me on stage!"

Throughout all of this, the Dullahan's hadn't even stopped playing. Though, Rattle's attention was quickly snatched by the sigh of a ghost cat sitting on one of the band-member's laps. He set his drink down, extending a hand to pet the undead-beast.

"KITTY CAT! Hello little one. Who's an adorable floaty ghost cat? You are! Yes you are!"

And, quite briefly as Lin Wei entered the bar, apparently lost, he pointed a foot to Khaemtir.

"Lost lady at the door! He's a mummy. Mummy's know everything. Ask him."

His attention then returned to flicking between the ghost cat Casper, and Kitty.

"Then speak up."

It was said that in some parts of the world, vampires needed invitation to enter someone's house. Unfortunately Cornelia was the type of person who would just invite herself in to someone else's house. Upon the door opening, she strode in confidently, putting aside the question for the moment, looking around the art teacher's house like a lord surveying his realm. Or an overcurious vampire who haven't been out of the castle for centuries.

"Is this one of your paintings?" Cornelia looked over a painting still set up on the easel. "Hmm, not very good. You have a large black line through the middle. Not satisfied with it, I suppose."

A commoner's room. How odd, how drab, how utterly full of unluxurious things that was somehow interesting. Her wings, now condensed and small for convinience, could barely stop flapping from excitement. How was it that such drabness could be so interesting in a commoners room. There was even this book with two men embracing each other, holding a broken sword. No doubt it must be of something chivalrous and brave. How unexpected of a commoner to have such refined taste in knights and...

Her wings stopped flapping the moment she flipped to the middle of the book, and she put it down gingerly, a slight look of embarrassment on her face. A moment later however, she turned to the yuki onna with a flourish.

"NOW! Fulfill my request, and thou shall be handsomely rewarded!" She flourished her cape dramatically, halting a moment as she tried hard at remembering other old English words she could use and failing.. "Disguise me and guide me through the Gravetown, to areas other than the Foggy Lake and without being discovered by my servants."

"...and.. uh... where do you get other books like that?"

"Nae respect..." the 'child' muttered, crouching, taking aim... and jumping straight for the skeleton. The first expected result, going by her physique, was to get a few feet and then crash to the ground. With the speed she had somehow obtained, this wasn't an option. The second expected result would have been to simply miss whatever she was aiming for, either by crashing into the skeleton or not getting close enough at all.

Kitty, defying all logic, managed to seize the milkshake in passing, take a sip from the vanilla foam, and finally spin round so her feet were facing the onrushing wall. For a few brief seconds, the milkshake hung in the air as the undead child released her grip, kicked off the wall to flip over the glass, and was finally caught. All without spilling a drop and with her coat floating down so it hid whatever she had on underneath.

She specialised in physical enhancement and was loathe to remove such enchantments even in ideal circumstances. It was perfect for showing off now and then, really.

"Ye should nae ask yer audience ta help, ye ken?" the blonde asked, glowering further at the skeleton, and stalking back to her seat in a manner that would have been intimidating had she been a good deal taller, but mostly just made her seem petulant. The flaws of being forever nine.