They find a necromancer willing to make a new body for the poor idiot. But the person will lose all their magic and have to learn everything back from square one. Maybe learn better manners and respect as well.
@internutter/challenge-03245-h336-2020-hindsight -- Anon Guest
"I don't know about the rest of you, but I'll need a holiday after this. I'm getting old and creaky."
Yngvar, barely visible under a newly-invented Helm of Obviousness, said, "How long do Kobolds live?" His voice was almost a whisper on the wind.
Rawr said, "One hundred and twenty, I heard... though the un-joke is five seconds after they meet an adventurer." He winced at it instead of a pity laugh. "Kobolds and Adventurers have become wiser since the last time that was a joke."
Lady Anthe, who did not look creaky at all, harrumphed. "I should hope so." In attitude, she was an old lady for certain.
Wraithvine finished muttering into hir sending stone. "Well the good news is that it's arranged. The bad news is that we have to descend into Grimgyre."
"Nylcorath? Really?" said Anthe. "I thought we were done with her after the thing with the snake priests."
"The thing about turning people to the side of good is that they then become people you can call to fix things. I've called ahead so Nylcorath has abundant time to exempt us from her array of traps." The other thing about turning to the side of good was that others found that hard to believe.
Grimgyre maintained its decor of dribbly candles and the bones of intelligent creatures, though to make people curious, Nylcorath had also added googly eyes to more than a few eye sockets. And constructed a few ridiculous bone creatures as escorts[1]. She had also added glitter to the resident cobwebs.
"I'm still a necromancer," grumped Nylcorath upon confrontation about it. "I've got to keep up some appearances. Do you know how long it takes to learn how to make steam or smoke form a skull in the air? I'm not giving that up for anything."
"The only difference being that you say 'watch this' before showing off," allowed Wraithvine.
"Exactly. So... who's the ghost?"
"Not a ghost. Not yet," said Anthe, and told the story.
"Gods, you're creepy," said Nylcorath.
"I've been told," said Yngvar.
There was much ado with tomes and research. And tea with suspiciously skull-shaped steam coming off it. After some very long hours in many a quaint and curious tome of forgotten lore, Nylcorath made her evaluation.
"You're fucked."
"I don't wanna be a demon," Yngvar wailed.
"Well. If you stay in this life, you definitely will. However, I can arrange for an express reincarnation. Find a pregnant person within one hundred and twenty miles of this point, one who hasn't had a soul come to the foetus yet, and... install you. You won't remember us, we won't recognise you, and... you will have no magic of your own. Unless some god takes pity on you or something. The Weaver takes care of your fate from then on in. All we will know is the name of your mother."
"Not that I'd be inclined to track you down," grumbled Anthe.
"I might have to," sighed Wraithvine. "It seems to be my fate."
"The Weaver's the only one to say for sure," Nylcorath threw a rug off a magic circle and set up some dribbly candles. "Now. If you're willing... step inside and get reborn."
There was smoke, and chanting, and a prayer to all the gods of rebirth and the Weaver of fate.
The last hints of Yngvar... vanished forever. The helm clattered to the floor and a voice of multiple deities came forth from the centre of the spell.
"Magnolia Oxbrydl."
In retrospect, it explained a lot.
[1] Like those spiders made of bones or birds with phalanges instead of feathers you see in tacky halloween displays.
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / Gretta_me]
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