On the night of the Necromancers’ Ball you have to serve looks. All of the Houses will be there, in their own styles and finery.
The House of Eternal Flesh will present themselves contour gowns, their shambling servants arrayed in funeral best.
The House of Ebon Spirits will attend in somber black, surrounded by the nearly perceptible wisps of a thousand spirits.
House Wollstonecraft will appear, gaudy costumes wrapped in funeral shrouds, all their bone creations skittering behind.
And I will arrive, though they killed me a century ago, to show them nothing stays buried.
It will be a scream.