Gideon stood at the bar again, tapping three of his left hand's fingers on the bar top. He wanted immediate service. The skeletal bartender was on the far side of the bar, trying desperately to look busy.

Though the skeletal man's face was sunken in, a thin hide of worn flesh vacuum suctioned to his bones, his eye sockets still held his eyes in place and he had used them to watch the black haired boy cast magic.

You might be wondering what manner of dead or alive creature would be scared of magic. Well, Mr. Barnabones Jonesy, sixth bartender of "The Dead Man's Song," that's who. Don't get me wrong, Mr. Jonesy was by no means a set of fraidy bones, but what he had witnessed on this day had his hollow bones ringing out, his already taut skin growing tighter.

The boy in black had come to the Refinery in the past and each time he rattled poor Mr. Jonesy's bones. He had never been sure the why. The boy seemed normal-though he downed his ale with abnormal vigor- but he had never upset the bar's patrons nor ventured into the labyrinths in search of the famed treasures that lay unclaimed in their hallways. He never hired a girl, though the younger ones were eager to paw him; a tender meat they had wanted to sink their teeth into.

But every time the boy had come busting through the pub's broken doors, a feeling of dread swelled up in good old Barnabones' stomach. And today, he had figured out his why. The boy was off, like a mirror that'd been broken; the pieces put back in place but not fitting quite as they should. His magic had been too strong for such a simple display. The white flash that came from the boy's hand, that was for show. No, Barnabones Jonesy had seen the truth. Nothing got by the emptied eyes of the skeleton kind; sockets that held nothing could see everything. The young boy's eyes had turned black- that's how he cast his magic- and that meant one thing. The boy that'd visited him countless times throughout the years had been a refracted; a singular being of immense power who sought to pervert nature to his whims. The jail on the Refinery, The Rose and Relinquished, was home to plenty of the refracted and for very good reason.

Barnabones saw the boy's annoyance and thought the tapping of his fingers spelled disaster for himself and the rest of his guests. With ease, the boy could curse them all into dust. He mustered up courage from his marrow and strode over to the boy.

"What'll it be?" he asked, a courteous tone in his voice, his lips bending into a smile, tearing at the corners.

"Another of the same," the boy declared, a jovial fist pounding the bar top. This boy's each and every movement could be a spell or curse in disguise. Mr. Jonesy set out to fill this boy's order with the utmost swiftness and did so, thankfully, before his bar could be torn down to the molecule and remade as something worse. The boy had every ability to do so.

"Here ye are," Barnabones said, thrusting a Noose down before the boy's bluish eyes. Hadn't they been green earlier? The skeleton shook his head. No, no, Barnabones. Don't start asking more questions. Get this kid out of the bar so you can go home to Lyla and the kids in one piece.

The boy's blue eyes grew wide, a finger tracing the digits of one of the girls who worked there, a list of her talents and prices on the grey painted skull mug.
"My," the boy started, "Annabellus Deluxe certainly... covers a lot of ground, doesn't she?" he asked, a grin housed in his eyes.

"One of our best," Jonesy replied. The boy slipped a piece of crumpled up paper from his back pocket and placed it on the table with a flamboyant flip of his wrist.

"For your troubles," he said, returning to his table and the man who'd accompanied him this time. The skeleton let out a sigh, puffs of powered organs floating into the already grainy air.

He took the paper with a trembling hand and unfolded it. What he saw written there bewildered his old bones. It wasn't an odd secret by any means. In fact, it was quite common. But for the boy in black, his secret came as quite a shock. Barnabones felt a fear drape over him like a cold cloth in the middle of winter. He felt his energy drain and decided today would be his once-every-century-sick day.

"I'm getting too old for this," he spat as he placed a bowler hat upon his head. Taking up his eagle topped cane, he wrapped a fine looking linen jacket round his thin waist. He made no attempt to cover up his hurried gait as he headed for the door.

The piece of paper that was Gideon Darqish's payment for two rounds of Noose, read, in sharply scrawled out lettering, "I'm in love."

A truly devastating secret indeed.

Gideon headed back over to his wide-eyed Captain. He wasn't faring too well now that he was landlocked. He sat the noose on the table and slide it-mind you with forefinger only-over to Captain Stormholden.

"I don't drink," the chestnut haired man growled. Gideon burst into laughter.

"What kind of pirate are you? Oh," he said, bringing the mug back towards him, the scent of acrid berries reaching his nostrils. "That's right, you're an ideal. Her ideal. Whelp, that must suck."

He downed a hearty gulp of the blackened liquid that looked more like a thick tar than a drinkable spirit. Gideon could feel the eyes on him. And he felt the Captain's eyes on each pair of their observers. Eyes eyeing each other, how dear, the boy thought. The skeleton had made no effort to hide his fear as he rushed out of the bar. In his dust, he left patrons aware and alert, good hands and shit hands, hovering above their weapons of choice. The gunpowder intensity of the room was waiting to ignite. All it needed was the tiniest spark from Gideon Darquish.

"Skeletons are always so sensitive," he said, sprawling his long legs over the armrest of the deadwood. From his duster, he pulled out another tin canister. The Captain watched with arrested curiosity as Gideon slide off the lid and revealed it's contents. Inside were thin white papers wrapped around some sort of loose fitting tobacco.

"I roll them myself," Gideon said, taking one between his fingertips, and lighting it on the table, no match needed. "It's cheaper that way."

The boy didn't need to be a reader to see all the tension in the room. Eyes were still on him. He wished he could change them, his right hand itching in agreement, but he needed this meeting to go well. After a few puffs of his cigarette, of which he never exhaled, he told the Captain of what he needed.

"I need to get into Reason. And I need you to help me do so."

The Captain stared at him wearily. Caution dotted his aura and Gideon knew why. The Captain had been created with smarts and he had was wondering why a boy who could freeze would need his help getting anywhere. And the Captain thought true. Gideon used to be able to go anywhere. But that was before the Council of Four had meddled.

"Why do you need my help?" the Captain asked, his question burning with suspicion.

"I don't need you. Technically, I need to borrow you. Technically." Gideon hated vague speech; it was boring and roundabout, but it was how he was taught. Though now, he took delight in it and the way the Captain's aura lashed out with alarm with each word he didn't speak. The creases in between the Captain's eyebrows dug themselves deeper. The allure of their interaction waning, Gideon decided to take what he needed.

Without warning, Gideon took the Captain's hand in his own and stared at him with eyes of the void. Stormholden was completely taken; the void hungry, hastily setting out to swallow the pirate's existence. The Captain's aura was a shockingly electric yellow as Gideon's eyes changed, but before he could protest, his aura paled, a hint of sandalwood and sea brine coating Gideon's tongue. A fitting taste for Stormholden's aura to have.

As the last of the Captain's aura was stolen from him, Gideon's form melted, puddles of black staining the floor of the bar. And as it did, the Captain broke free of his stasis, cracked his neck, and looked at the horrified eyes of everyone in the bar with eyes a cool bluish- gray.

"What?" he said, picking up a cigarette from the tin that'd been left on the table. He lit it on the deadwood and inhaled. As he did, he heard the clicks of gun hammers being cocked. He sighed.

"You bunch are no fun."

The Captain's body was an ill-fit for Gideon's consciousness. It was tight and rigid and too muscled for his liking. His clothes were absurd, even among the denizens of the deep layers and Gideon knew he would have to steal more clothes before he tried to ride the train into Reason. This he found daunting; he was never good at guessing and so he knew he'd have to steal many many shoes before he found a pair that fit. He could always use his magic but he hated doing so in such trivial ways. Magic was expressive and should be used to make a statement.

He made Stormholden's face break into a smile. It was hard at first, to control something of paper, but soon he managed to coerce the form to cooperate. He moved the Captain's too long legs and managed to get up from the table. As he did, he heard the guns go off, seeing the rising smoke of their barrels before the actual bullets. Gideon had been correct; bullets could only pierce flesh not imagination, and so he walked the Captain's form through them, parting the fearful lot as if he were parting the sea. Their auras were prickled with fear, the icy blue coming to sharp points that jutted away from them.

Once he reached the door, he turned around and surveyed the room. Creatures were reloading. Some were guzzling brews. A few hid, though the purpose to this, was lost on the boy. You can't hide from magic. Especially Gideon's brand of magic. The boy didn't say any parting words, or tantalize their eyes with a grand display of some simple trickery. He just left. But as he did, his eyes returned to the void, and he unleashed his aura. It was the same as the void in his eyes- black and all consuming- and it moved like fog blanketing the building. Gideon wondered the what but refused to look back.

He had a train to catch.

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The black fog moved slowly over the building, taking it in, examining it's purpose. It needed to know so it could decide how to change that purpose. It rolled in waves over every patron of the bar, reading the whores, the gold chasers, and the drunks. With it's curiosity sated, and their purposes understood, the aura flashed just once, an imperceptible light coming from the black. Then, everything perverted. The 'Dead Man's Song' became a house of learning, one of new stone and pristine woodwork, lattices and high polished glass windows. The bar's crooked, unhinged doors straightened themselves, working as new doors should. Patrons were made academics; faces full of questions seeking answers in volumes of books.

A library replaced the bar top, shelves of history and lore where bottles of shit ale had been housed. The round deadwood tables had morphed into long wooden tables to help aid in study and self discovery. The chairs had changed too, becoming sturdy but apt to tip over- a default of their construction. The ladies of the place now wore long robes and sat at desks in the back, cataloging books and tending to the shelves. The gold chasers and drunks sat complacently at the long tables, piles of books boxing them in, their thoughts deep in forgotten tongue. And in the center of the room, five, very terrified creatures stood frozen- Gideon's earlier magic protecting them from the perverse- witnessing in terror, the power of someone from the Refracted.

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On Names: Skeletons, upon their creation, are given rather normal names. However, after years of sunlight bleaching their bones a fantastically bright white (of which they refer to as their most beautiful state) skeletons often apt to change their names to something more befitting them. Though the why has been lost to the ages, it is tradition that skeletons take up the moniker "bone." This takes many forms but comes as no surprise to anyone. The most common 'bone' names are Bones, Bonesy, Boneaparte and Bonet. Less common but still widely accepted are Bonefield, Bonefirth, Bonecles, Boneada, Boneson, and Bonehilda. The oddest of names, with few skeletons donning them are Barnabones, Persephobone and Bonerri. And do not be fooled, though dead, the skeletal brethren can still be easily offended. Names such as Badabones and Bagabones are considered highly cliche and are looked at as a mockery to those of us without flesh. Avoid speaking these two names unless you aim to offend those made of bones. Beware though, because even without organs and muscles, skeletons can still be very fearsome indeed.