Yutzen

"WHAT!? SAFETY INSPECTION!?"

The indignant caw of Lord Swartrabe, the Master Bonesmith, the Scourge of the Riverlands, the Hellbound Marshal and Pilferer of Hades' Vaults, echoed throughout his lair. His burning violet eyes were trying to glare a hole through the figure before them, no matter how far his towering form had to bend down to meet their gaze. And the brighter those flames in his eyes grew, the darker the place itself got, as if the very light of the torches surrounding them had become nothing but fuel for his wrath. Nothing seemed to remain in the corridor but him and the intruder, with the raven's second in command barely even visible.

But the figure didn't budge. They simply replied in a half-muffled, husky voice and impassive tone: "Yessir. On behalf of the LDSA - Lair & Doomhold Safety Administration. I'll be your inspector today, call me Portiére." Going by the thick, midnight blue robes with bizarre strips of very reflective gray, and the starry black hat they wore, curved back and with a downcast brim that was wider at the front, this was a mage, and a strange one at that... Insolent as well, seeing they outstretched their thickly-gloved hand out to shake talons much more important than them, staring back with those begoggled eyes and a likely smile behind that alchemist's mask. "You'd be Lord Kaspar Swartrabe, then?"

Lord Swartrabe did not take it. He merely turned his glare towards the shrike at his side, who was almost trembling in his shadow before he even turned. The raven hissed his words at him like the inspector wasn't even there, his eyes and hands ablaze as soon as he began: "Al-Kaud, would you kindly care to tell me how this upstart hedge wizard GOT IN HERE!?"

The shrike could only offer a helpless shrug, struggling to meet his lord's gaze. "M-my lord, I tried to bar them from entering, but it was impossible! I set off every defense I could, but this one just passed right by them, like they knew what they did! Then I headed there myself, but I was just brushed aside like nothing, and the moment I had enough, I..." He trailed off with pained eyes, lacking the words to continue. Reaching into his endless vest, all he could offer as proof was one of his weapons: A shining spiked mace, with one half's spikes snapped or bent and its handle visibly curved. In fact, if he looked closer, the raven could see an actual dent on its head, the epicenter of an impact where the bludgeon was worst off.

The inspector's voice broke them from their shock, sounding just as nonchalant as before. "I took the liberty of having a look around your hold while you made your way back, sir." As Swartrabe turned back to them, his eyes couldn't help but focus on their hat... it looked strangely solid, like that wasn't actually fabric. But its owner's words snapped him out of it again: "I'll need to ask you some questions on my findings, sir, because it's not looking good."

"Not looking good!?" The Lord practically shrieked his words at first, needing a second to wind down. "This is a fortress, my own personal domain! It isn't MEANT TO BE SAFE!" Swartrabe took a moment to stand at full height, wings outstretched towards the distance, no longer looking at the abjurer in his throne room. "When I, Lord Swartrabe, set out to gather the riches of the world, in tomes and gems alike, I knew this covetous world would do its best to snatch them from my claws! And so, every vault, every stronghold, every castle and tower that has been risen from the earth by my command must take this into account. They must be impenetrable! They must be vicious! They must be utterly DEADLY to all those that wish to pilfer my belongings!" Then, he rounded back on this shameless little mage that called themselves an inspector, jabbing one bony claw right between their goggles - finding, in the process, that they couldn't actually push far enough to touch them. "The only things meant to be safe in such a place are me, my minions, AND MY RIGHTFUL BELONGINGS!"

Portiére didn't budge, or miss a beat, they just replied with just a tinge of amusement in their voice. "There's the thing, Mr. Swartrabe, neither you nor your minions might be safe in here. And going by these hallways, they aren't. Let me give you an example, sir." The inspector started walking, sliding an ornate quill out of their sleeve and a spellbook with thick, scarred covers from their robes; the Lord followed indignantly, unwilling to listen but even less willing to let this intruder move around unsupervised. "What you got here, sir, is a chokepoint for both your guests and your minions. I understand the need to funnel uninvited guests into this kind of setup, but there's no bypasses here. No secret doors, or gateways, or even vents; any underling of yours will have to cross the meat grinder with all its risks. That's wasteful at best, sir, and counter-productively deadly at worst."

"Deadly...?" Swartrabe parroted the word back at the inspector in confusion. After a second, he raised both his winged claws in the air, conjuring and grasping vile green flames that almost seemed to look like flickering skulls. "You think me so foolish as to funnel my beasts, or my builders, or him through these corridors of death!? I am a necromancer, you upstart! All of my minions here are RISEN BY MY HAND! THEY ARE ALREADY DEAD! Not only do they feel and think nothing, I can have them back to peak condition in a *literal snap of my claws!"

"I'm not doubting you can, sir, but believe me, you want to keep that to a minimum for everyone's good. Which brings me to my next point..." With that, this nosy inspector flipped the page in their spellbook, jabbing a thickly-gloved finger right under a number written in red. "The NMP level here's far past Empire standards, I'm afraid. That's gonna be another point against you, Mr. Swartrabe, you can't keep living employees, livestock or security beasts anywhere near this kind of environment, and it's inching in on the SR threshold for about half of the sentient species you currently employ. And just about every species you currently keep in your corpse storages."

"NMP...? SR Threshold...?" the raven repeated, ever more baffled, both claws outstretched helplessly towards the inspector. His fingers tensed visibly, as if they were on the verge of springing out and grabbing Portiére by the throat (if he could even find it under so much robe). Further words bubbled out of his beak in rising, though incoherent fury, as the raven found no right place to start and too much to be upset by. "You're just inventing these, you're all just making these up, aren't you!? By what right has the Empire the right- did you say you were in my THRONE ROOM- WHAT IN THE NINE HELLS IS AN NMP!?"

Yet again, Portiére didn't even flinch, simply adjusting their goggles, letting the raven lord see his own apoplectic expression in them. "Necromantic Particulate, sir. Fine bone meal, motes of corpse dust, aerosolized ectoplasm, and so on, all suspended and infused with energies from the spell that got it all moving. Necromancy's a contaminating discipline, sir, even the basest of spells leaves a remnant in the air and that can take some time to clear. Soaks into structures, objects, flesh and bone... Most creatures can handle it up to a certain point, but you've got a steady minimum of 100 ppm all around the stronghold, peaking over 500 ppm in your throne room." The unperturbed magician showed the Lord a hollowed crystal dome with the half-clenched skeletal claw of some four-fingered creature entombed within - and on a closer look, he saw markings and numbers right along the inner edge. The claw twitched and curled, its index finger's claw scraping the inside... pointed at a spot slightly above the 200 mark. "At those levels, you're looking at severe health problems for most living creatures in just a couple years of exposure, not to mention spontaneous reanimation of remains, which is where the SR threshold comes in."

Lord Swartrabe stared at the measuring instrument with his beak slightly agape, closing it little by little as he processed just what he'd heard. "These... illnesses, that I may have neglected. I may need to adjust certain... wards." He couldn't help but spare an uneasy glance at the shrike, who was trying very, very hard not to look back at him. But the lord's wrath wasn't quelled, and he quickly turned back to the inspector, looming over them. "But what in Avernus would make the 'spontaneous reanimation' of anything that dies within my domain a problem to me? Or to any that would call this stronghold their home!? How is striking fear into the hearts of those that seek to pilfer this place, thanks to the idea that nothing they might strike down will stay down, something to strive against!?" Yet again the lord's voice rose, and he jabbed one finger onto Portiére's chest, a finger that never reached them. "If anything, the thought that something these 'adventurers' struck down will rise back and avenge itself keeps this place SAFER! If anything, I should be keeping the air thick with this... particulate of yours!"

They just shook their head. "I'm afraid not, Mr. Swartrabe. Regulation 559.21 C: Necromantic Particulate levels must be kept below 50 ppm in all facilities that may store or process more than 15 corpses at a time. Spontaneously reanimated undead aren't considered controlled, sir, we've had cases of them turning even against experienced necromancers." The raven couldn't help but glare, but the inspector met it without pause. "With your current setup, sir, you're looking at a potential mass uprising, maybe even an uncontrolled bone legion crawling out of your pits and tearing down half your stronghold. That's how Archmage Melak lost his tower three centuries ago, sir, you can't play around with these things."

That name stopped the Lord in his tracks, seemingly striking a chord. His voice rose from a near-whisper to an outright yell, laced with horror throughout. "Melak? Lord of Skulls, the Blight-Bringer? The one who grew the Bone Barony into a Kingdom proper, that Melak? Is that how he fell!? I look for the truth for decades on end, with every lead clearly buried by those that succeeded him, and this is the closest I get in all that time!? An offhand comment, by you of all creatures, that he was buried alive BY THE REFUSE OF HIS OWN ART!?"

Portiére only shrugged. "Believe it or not, sir. Now that Barony territory's part of the Empire things like that come to light. I ain't surprised they tried to hide that detail, wouldn't be the first time. Wasn't the last either..." They set off deeper into the stronghold, penning something in their spellbook as they went. Once again, the true owner of the lair was forced to follow, though more alarmed than furious this time. "On the plus side, sir, you've got more options than he did to deal with this, now that we know it's a problem. With your arrangements here, I'd recommend some gravestone arrangements; they've proven real effective in keeping the air clear of these contaminants, and keeping these energies where you can track 'em."

It would make sense to a necromancer, and Swartrabe could puzzle the mechanics of that out, but right now it was just one piece of a bigger puzzle. "Done in by his own work. And here I had not even considered such... by the Nine Hells, it would match up, wouldn't it. There was no rival sneaking into his tower after everything, nor any ultimate weapon lashed from bone and flesh, was it? It was just... a damnable accident. An undignifed mistake." Finally he looked away from whatever distant spot he was looking at, back to the inspector: "Gravestone, you said? That would concentrate things, the resting place of death's energies... which Melak tore down to strip even the least of his foes of any name and history. If this detritus of our work can indeed hang in the air so restlessly, without settling, then..."

Portiére cut in, to finish the thought the raven had trailed off on. "Like I said, Mr. Swartrabe, you can't play around with these things. The Dread Empire of Letum looks after its citizens, sir, and we don't want things like these happening to our enterprises, new and old. The Imperatrix would put it in harsher terms, but I'm sure you know how she is."

To that, Swartrabe couldn't help but roll his eyes. "'Looks after its citizens', you say. I'm sure what she truly meant was 'we don't want them embarrassments in my battle with the Heavens'. Pah, she simply refuses to understand why we call this an Art, a perpetual pursuit."

"Sir, I understand what you mean, but the numbers don't lie, and neither do the ruins left over from Melak's tower." The inspector's tone was sharper, as they made another note in the spellbook and adjusted their goggles with one end of their quill. "And besides, if you don't mind me speaking candidly, it was something of an embarrassment, and a great one at that. A reign of terror five centuries in the making ended unwittingly by one's own hand? You and I can at agree we can't have that in the Empire, right?" Then, they started flicking several pages ahead, as if seeking something. "The real shame of it is, that wasn't the only time. It wasn't even the first or last. I wouldn't be here otherwise, sir."

The lord picked up a certain smug undertone to that last sentence, but once again his mind was running elsewhere. The Blight-Bringer hadn't even been the only one. He was just another in the list. Is that what this imperial toady meant? Were they told this tale, so deeply buried Lord Swartrabe himself couldn't unearth it, just as a persuasive tactic of some kind? How many other tales like this did they have? How many mysterious ends to his forebears in the Art had been just like this!? The thought burned brightly in his mind... and brought him to a long, despondent sigh. A source was a source.

"Not even the only one, you say." For the first time in decades, the Lord's voice was trepidant. "Would this happen to include one... Elmiz, She of a Thousand Fangs? Lady of Beasts Unburied?"
Portiére hummed, flicking through the pages, before pinning one down with their gloved finger. "It would. Improper disposal of risen flesh leading to... vermin buildup from the looks of it. Even a fly's maggots can become a menace when they eat enough necrotic meat, sir." The raven barely caught whisper of "Ongoing, huh", a surprised tone when he very much didn't want one.

"Black-Marrow, Revenant of the Forge? He had some very helpful treatises on the outfitting and modification of skeletal minions. Surely he didn't?" He stopped himself from a hopeful smile, knowing it was improper, but even a necromancer still needed hope sometimes.
"Black-Marrow, Black-Marrow... here", the inspector said, making the raven wince. "Improper desecration of scrap, looks like he tossed Paladin armament into his crucible before the divine magics had left it, and it reacted... badly." Despite the mask and goggles, Portiére's sudden grimace was entirely visible. "Blessed charges are no joke, sir."

Swartrabe gripped his staff tightly in his talons, feeling like it was the only support he had left by now. "Mishurrad, the Putrid King?" He almost didn't want the answer now, the King had never been one for raising minions, but with the spells he left behind he never needed to.
"I think that one took us a while to puzzle out." Yet again the nosy mage spoke with nonchalance, unaware they were making any cracks in the very foundations of the raven's world. "Let's see... right here. Plague tank overflow, improper ventilation, improper disposal of noxious gases, and... oh, my. Improper control of ignition sources, and failure to fireproof. One clang of steel against stone and the whole castle went up." They looked back up at the raven, taking a happier tone they didn't realize was almost mocking right now. "On the plus side, that took care of the Champions of the Ember! If you ever wondered why their rampage stopped so suddenly!"

The raven had to swallow his fear before he dared utter his next words, his final question: "Blutkralle, the Fel Raptor...?" And as it left his beak, he realized it didn't completely work. Stray scraps of Blutkralle's work might have been the reason he got a start in the Art, and he really didn't want to hear what might come next. But he was a mage, and thus, he had to know.
Portiére confirmed his fears after a torturous half-minute of flipping through pages, until they finally reached the near-end of it. "...yep, here she is. Looking like... one of the classic blunders: Improper structural support. Monuments to one's greatness should be kept to ground level, sir, unless you have a very solid ceiling. Seems here she very much didn't, brought the whole tower down before it could be sieged even once... erm, are you feeling okay, Mr. Swartrabe?"

No, he wanted to say. How dare you ask something so idiotic, he wished to scream at this impertinent mage that had barged into his fortress and kicked out half the foundations of his path without even having the awareness to enjoy it. He wanted to strangle them through that absurd mask, but even if it had any hope of working on a powerful abjurant like this, he would lose more than he'd gain. Because now he knew the foundations he stood on had always been cracked and he couldn't even see it... and this overbundled little wizard might be the his only path to sealing those cracks.

"...I'll be fine, you nosy little... let us move on. Just... let us be done with this quickly, since I think all of us have better things we'd rather do. Go ahead with the rest of your... inspection, I'll be with you momentarily." He didn't even look them in the eye as he spoke, the lord just pointed further down the hallway towards the depths beyond his throne room, and refused to look up until Portiére had shrugged and started moving. And only then, he looked at their bundled back... before turning to the shrike right behind him, still hidden in the shadows.

"...my lord, before you say anything, placing a fortress here and accepting imperial patronage was your idea." Swartrabe hadn't even said anything, and he was already trying to defend himself, so typical, he thought.
And so, the Lord shook his head. "I am aware, little butcher, and perhaps objectively, it might have not been a mistake after all. Oh, no, it seems clear I may have made plenty more of those than I ever imagined, but this might've not been one." Before he could continue, he made a long, long sigh, one of quiet, dreading resignation, before heading further in, dragging his talons. "This will be a painful evening, I'm afraid. Not just for me, either; I might need to lay you down on a slab for some time, Al-Kaud."

And before the shrike could ask what he meant, Swartrabe was gone into the dark, chasing the inspector's side... leaving Al-Kaud to have a realization that brought his wing to the side of his face. "Ah, right, the... poisoning, of sorts. I hope that works, I really don't wish to be a revenant just yet..." All that was left was to chase after the two, and overhear just what other things were either killing him, or almost killed him, throughout his stay at Lord Swartrabe's side.