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Description
Lance gripped his staff tightly.  The cool morning air was refreshing, and kept him alert.  He wasn’t expecting any trouble, but the atmosphere kept his senses up.  He liked the feeling of this morning, the way the sun came through the trees, illuminating them in such a way that everything seemed to reflect green.  In this light, even the black leather of his “uniform” had an emerald sheen to it.  Granted, at least it kept him comfortable.  Besides that, he’d generally rather burn the damn thing than wear it.  Of course, rules are rules, and when it comes to magic, breaking them can be more severe than any law.
As he approached the edge of the town, a cool breeze upset his hair, and left a few strands to fall into his face.  It was small, and felt like home, in a way.  He liked it, though he knew the town probably didn’t like him nearly as much.  In what looked like some sort of a “town square” was a statue that looked like it was dedicated to the founder, or some such figure.  Everybody was still either sleeping, or busy eating their breakfast, so the town was relatively deserted.  He carefully removed his large traveling-sack from under his cloak and rummaged through it for several minutes before producing a rather large (though somewhat squashed) sandwich, wrapped in leather strips to keep it from falling apart.
With gentle accuracy and a satisfied grin, he unwrapped the sandwich.  Slowly, relaxed, he enjoyed his breakfast of the previous day’s leftovers as the sun climbed lazily into the sky. He finished with enough time to make sure that his travel-sack was secured and ready to go, before anyone emerged.  Patiently, he waited on the pedestal of the statue.  Nobody had come out yet, but he could feel some eyes already watching him from windows.  Nobody ever feels that they can trust a necromancer.
After a short while, villagers began to emerge.  The first was an elderly woman, who very slowly exited the doorway she was creeping out of, as though she was trying to sneak away from a lion ready to pounce.  As soon as she was out, she straightened up as best as she could and walked off in the direction of her business, in what she thought was a nonchalant manor.  Very deliberately, she kept her eyes forward and tried to avoid the statue as much as possible.  More came out eventually, all generally following the same behavior.  Lance continued to wait, watching them with amusement.  He was used to this by now, and figured that he might as well try to enjoy it.  Finally a thin, young man came up, looking rather awkward.
“Uhm…  um…  yes, hello.  I, uh, I’m…  I mean, we’re…”  He paused for a moment to swallow, his mouth becoming dry.
“My family… we sent for you.”  Lance took a moment to pull his almost iridescent blond hair out of his face.
“You’re Ralph then, I take it?”  He smiled.  Ralph jumped, and almost looked a little confused.
“Yes!  Yes, I need to--“  Lance cut him off.
“Please!  Lead the way.”  Ralph nodded quickly, then motioned for Lance to follow him.  As they walked, most people tried to pretend that they didn’t exist, although Lance could occasionally see a couple of women standing at a house corner, whispering to each other and looking at him, thinking they were concealed.  They stopped in front of a house.  Ralph stepped aside and motioned for Lance to enter.
“Thank you, sir!” said Lance, bowing, then briskly stepping up to the door.  He knocked lightly, as to not surprise the residents of the household.  The door opened just enough for a single eyeball to peer through.  Lance leaned close.
“I’m here to help” he whispered softly, wearing a kind grin.  The door opened quickly, though soundlessly.  There was an older woman behind it.  Behind her was a young woman, and a girl.  Everyone in the house seemed to have the same neurotic-paranoid quality to them, save for the youngest girl (about age six), though she was still quite reserved.  Lance moved past them to the middle of the room, turned around, and began speaking as Ralph closed the door.
“Now, I know most of you are afraid of me, or more precisely, my profession.  I want to assure you, right now, I mean you no harm, and have every intention of helping you.”  His atmosphere was warm and cheery, though it did little to improve the mood of his clients.  However, “little” is still more than “nothing.”
“Are you gonna’ let us see daddy?”  squeaked the small girl.  Her sister stepped in front of the girl, as though to protect her from some sort of attack.  Lance smiled through her sister at the young girl.
“Yes, dear, you’ll be able to talk to your daddy, but only for a little while.”  Her head popped out from behind her sister, and she had the slightest hint of a smile.
“Do you mind if I…  just get started here?”  He was met with a chorus of wide-eyed shaking heads.
“Good!”  He dropped his traveling-sack in the corner of the room and pulled his staff off of his back, somewhat flamboyantly.  One end contacted the floorboards with a wooden “thunk.”  Slowly, he walked around the room, a shallow line etching itself in the wood behind the end of his tool.  As he neared the doorway, and the family, they all pressed up against the wall.  He smiled.  He was not malicious, or cruel, but found their reactions amusing.  He completed the circle, and it began to glow with black light.  He walked to the middle, and tapped the floor three times.  The rest of the diagram filled in, slowly shifting to a soft purple color as it went.  Upon the moment of completion there was a snap; the sensation that all the air in the room has been frozen in place, that it is as still and quiet as a tomb.  Such seemed to be common-place when Lance would conjoin worlds.  He cleared his throat.
“Mr. Gathor?  Are you there?”  An unmistakable sound, very soft, but perfectly audible in this deathly stillness; the deep, quick inhaling of breath from someone who’s just been awakened from a dream.  Lance stood straight, unmoving, both hands gripping the staff, keeping it perfectly upright.
“Mr. Gathor, would you come here, please?”  The circle filled with soft white light, the purple metagram still visible on the floor.  There was the sound of footsteps, and as though someone were stepping from a darkened stage into a spotlight, Mr. Gathor entered the circle.  You could hear the family hold their breath.  The moment Mr. Gathor appeared, Lance became animate once more.  He swept up his staff in his left hand, and turned around, his right leather-clad hand outstretched.
“Mr. Gathor, a pleasure!”  Gathor took his hand with a confused expression, and shook it.  He was even taller than Lance, and quite muscular, though not nearly a warrior’s build.  He had long, shaggy black hair and a thick beard of wrapping curls.  His clothes had holes in them from the blows that had killed him, though his body was whole.  He was somewhat translucent, but it was only noticeable when a source of light, like a bright window, was directly behind him.  Lance dropped his hand.
“This may all be a rather large shock to you, I’m sorry.  Now, before we continue, you may have a lingering sense of amnesia, that is fine.  Some things may be difficult to recall, but…  most of your memories are intact.  Now, I’m going to leave you; your family would like to have a word with you.”  Lance stepped out of the circle, behind Mr. Gathor.  Mr. Gathor looked around, as though searching for an answer.  The woman by the door stood up.
“Tom?” she asked, not sure what to make of the scene.
“Emily!  Are you there?”  He stared blankly in her direction.
“TOM!!”  She shouted.  Lance waved his arms up and down, and motioned for her to come over.  “Get in the circle” he mouthed, pointing at the ring of light.  She ran in, and stopped abruptly in front of him.  She reached up, gently, to touch his face.  He grasped her hand tightly, and she collapsed to the ground in a mass of sobs.  Lance carefully walked around the edge of the circle as they held each other, and approached the rest of the family.
“If you want to talk to your father, you’d better get in there.” He whispered to them, and pointed.  In an instant, all of them were up and scrambling for the circle.  As they entered, there were more sobs of joy, and soon the air of fear was replaced by one with mixed sadness and happiness.  Lance walked over to his traveling sack, and pulled out a tiny glass and a bottle of sweet liquor.  He filled the glass up to its rim, and stopped to smell it a moment.
“Cinnamon?  I haven’t had cinnamon in a while, that’s quite nice.”  He began to slowly sip at the glass, enjoying its contents.
The Gathors talked with their father for hours, reminiscing about what they had been through.  At some point, the conversation stopped, and Tom spoke.
“Excuse me, Mr….”  He looked around blankly.
“Yes?  What can I do for you?”  Lance looked up from his drink.  Tom faced in his general direction, but obviously could not see him.
“I’m sorry, but, what is this?  How is it that I’m with my family now?  Why can’t I… see anything?”  Lance set down his drink and addressed the entire family, whom was watching him with curiosity, instead of fear.
“I’ve connected the land of the dead with the land of the living, in this fifteen-foot circle.  In this area, the two occupy the same space, and as such, allow whatever is in one, to inter-act with the other.  Now, before anybody gets and ideas, don’t go asking ‘The Big Question’.”
“What’s the big question?”  asked Suzan, the small girl.  Lance smiled.
“’What’s it like to be dead?’  He can’t remember.  Nobody can, so long as they are in that circle.  The only way to know is to have died and come back, and even then, it’s different for everyone.”  He picked up his glass and downed the rest of it’s contents.
Time moved on, and Emily made lunch for everyone, including Lance.  When she set the plate next to him, she leaned over and hugged him warmly, whispering teary thank-you’s in his ear.  His face flushed, and he returned the hug as best as he could; it had been ages since he’d received any human contact of the non-violent type.  The day continued, and when the sun could be seen entering the window-frame, Lance began packing his things.  In short order, he stood, and was ready to depart.
“I’m sorry, but I must go.”  The family stopped, and turned to look at him.
“Already?” asked the eldest daughter.
“I’m sorry, but most places seem to have this idea that if a necromancer is in town after dark, he’ll change the entire city into an army of the undead.  If I’m not gone by nightfall, I’ll encounter some trouble on my way out.”  Tom rose.
“Please, if you’re going, you need to do something for me.”  Lance stopped.
“What can I do, sir?”
“The men who killed me…  I know who they were.  They killed me because I was a witness.  They stole a shipment that was going to the mayor.  It was expensive; it had a full guard escorting it.  I’m sure the mayor wants it back, he’s probably already put out a reward for it.”
“Yes, he has!”  exclaimed Emily.
“With me gone, our family will have trouble supporting itself.  They need this.”  Lance sighed, and stared at the floor for a moment in silent contemplation.
“This is going to be difficult.  Time is against me.  If I have to work after dark, I’ll have to escape the village, and that doesn’t even touch on how I will deal with whomever committed this.  Most of the money that was given to the guild to bring me hear today went straight to their coffers, I only got a small share of that.  The guild is not involved in this small…  side-track.  This leaves me the opportunity to make quite a bit more than usual.  I’ll do it, if I get 25% of the reward.”  Tom nodded.
“That should be fine.”  Lance looked at him, an expression of slight sadness.
“It also means that I need to leave.  Right now.”

Lance exited the house, walking quickly down the street.  He hates having to leave.  He feels for the people that he does work for, and knows their disappointment.  He quickened his pace, watching the sun sink ever further towards the horizon.  People were watching him with open suspicion now.  Once, he’d had to flee a town where they had prepared a bonfire to roast him alive.  He stopped in front of the house and knocked with the end of his staff.  A man with a thick brown moustache answered the door.  He pulled it open quickly and absent-mindedly, stopping halfway once he realized he was looking at Lance.  After a moment, he regained his thoughts, and his expression became one of panic and anger.  He sneered at Lance, trying to hide his emotions.
“What the fuck do you want?”  Lance’s face was emotionless, almost bored.
“I’m here to pick up the item that cost Mr. Gathor his life.”  Lance let out the smallest hint of a smirk at the end of the statement.  The man’s eyes grew wide, and he tried to shut the door.  Black lightening shot from the end of Lance’s staff.  The door was simple, easily blown off of its hinges, and turned to fragments.  The man was sprawled in the middle of the room, quickly trying to stand up.
“Mr. Wallace, could you show me where that item is, so I don’t have to kill you?”  Wallace rolled over, pointing a finger at Lance.
“HA!”  His bushy moustache bounced every time he spoke.
“You’ll never find it if you kill me!”  For a moment, nobody moved.  Lance’s face wore a smile that shone with great amusement.  He fought to hold back a laugh, then spoke.
“Mr. Wallace, if I kill you, I have the rest of eternity to ask you where it is.  I’m a necromancer.”  Mr. Wallace went white instantly
“You wouldn’t—“ he was cut off by Lance raising his staff.
“It’s in the back, in the cart, under the carrots!”  Lance walked to Mr. Wallace and towered over him.
“You know, the value of what you took from the mayor is nothing in comparison to what you took from the Gathors.  Be happy for what you do have left.”  Lance swung the staff down and cracked Mr. Wallace along the side of the head.  His skin split, but not too badly.  He was still alive, and would be out long enough to let Lance re-collect whatever he needed.
As it turned out, the entire cart was the package, loaded up with rare furs.  There was a sheet of leather covering them, and carrots had been piled over the top to disguise it.  In no time Lance had pulled a couple of horses out of the ground and had them pulling the cart up to the mayor’s manor.  As per usual, servants were minding the front gate.  They showed great distaste at having to deal with him.  He stopped the cart, and patted one of the horses on its ribs.
“What business do you have?” the first servant asked.
“I’ve recovered the lord’s lost shipment of furs, and ask for the offered reward.”
“To someone who communes with the dead?”
“Either that or I keep these furs.”  The servant frowned, then ran inside, returning shortly with a large bag of coins.  Lance waited until he had the coins and, knew for certain that they were real.  He snapped his fingers, and the horses began to pull the cart inside.  The servant suddenly became very animated.
“AH!  No---  sir, you can’t bring those filthy… things inside on the lord’s grounds!”  Lance frowned, showing great distaste.
“Fine, get your own to pull it in then!”  He clapped his hands once and the equine skeletons fell to pieces, the cart stopping immediately.  Lance turned, and began walking back to town.  There were many frustrated grumblings coming from the servant behind him, but he didn’t care.  Looking at the sunset once more, he hurried off to the Gathor’s, to give them their father’s blood.

Description
Lance gripped his staff tightly.  The cool morning air was refreshing, and kept him alert.  He wasn’t expecting any trouble, but the atmosphere kept his senses up.  He liked the feeling of this morning, the way the sun came through the trees, illuminating them in such a way that everything seemed to reflect green.  In this light, even the black leather of his “uniform” had an emerald sheen to it.  Granted, at least it kept him comfortable.  Besides that, he’d generally rather burn the damn thing than wear it.  Of course, rules are rules, and when it comes to magic, breaking them can be more severe than any law.
As he approached the edge of the town, a cool breeze upset his hair, and left a few strands to fall into his face.  It was small, and felt like home, in a way.  He liked it, though he knew the town probably didn’t like him nearly as much.  In what looked like some sort of a “town square” was a statue that looked like it was dedicated to the founder, or some such figure.  Everybody was still either sleeping, or busy eating their breakfast, so the town was relatively deserted.  He carefully removed his large traveling-sack from under his cloak and rummaged through it for several minutes before producing a rather large (though somewhat squashed) sandwich, wrapped in leather strips to keep it from falling apart.
With gentle accuracy and a satisfied grin, he unwrapped the sandwich.  Slowly, relaxed, he enjoyed his breakfast of the previous day’s leftovers as the sun climbed lazily into the sky. He finished with enough time to make sure that his travel-sack was secured and ready to go, before anyone emerged.  Patiently, he waited on the pedestal of the statue.  Nobody had come out yet, but he could feel some eyes already watching him from windows.  Nobody ever feels that they can trust a necromancer.
After a short while, villagers began to emerge.  The first was an elderly woman, who very slowly exited the doorway she was creeping out of, as though she was trying to sneak away from a lion ready to pounce.  As soon as she was out, she straightened up as best as she could and walked off in the direction of her business, in what she thought was a nonchalant manor.  Very deliberately, she kept her eyes forward and tried to avoid the statue as much as possible.  More came out eventually, all generally following the same behavior.  Lance continued to wait, watching them with amusement.  He was used to this by now, and figured that he might as well try to enjoy it.  Finally a thin, young man came up, looking rather awkward.
“Uhm…  um…  yes, hello.  I, uh, I’m…  I mean, we’re…”  He paused for a moment to swallow, his mouth becoming dry.
“My family… we sent for you.”  Lance took a moment to pull his almost iridescent blond hair out of his face.
“You’re Ralph then, I take it?”  He smiled.  Ralph jumped, and almost looked a little confused.
“Yes!  Yes, I need to--“  Lance cut him off.
“Please!  Lead the way.”  Ralph nodded quickly, then motioned for Lance to follow him.  As they walked, most people tried to pretend that they didn’t exist, although Lance could occasionally see a couple of women standing at a house corner, whispering to each other and looking at him, thinking they were concealed.  They stopped in front of a house.  Ralph stepped aside and motioned for Lance to enter.
“Thank you, sir!” said Lance, bowing, then briskly stepping up to the door.  He knocked lightly, as to not surprise the residents of the household.  The door opened just enough for a single eyeball to peer through.  Lance leaned close.
“I’m here to help” he whispered softly, wearing a kind grin.  The door opened quickly, though soundlessly.  There was an older woman behind it.  Behind her was a young woman, and a girl.  Everyone in the house seemed to have the same neurotic-paranoid quality to them, save for the youngest girl (about age six), though she was still quite reserved.  Lance moved past them to the middle of the room, turned around, and began speaking as Ralph closed the door.
“Now, I know most of you are afraid of me, or more precisely, my profession.  I want to assure you, right now, I mean you no harm, and have every intention of helping you.”  His atmosphere was warm and cheery, though it did little to improve the mood of his clients.  However, “little” is still more than “nothing.”
“Are you gonna’ let us see daddy?”  squeaked the small girl.  Her sister stepped in front of the girl, as though to protect her from some sort of attack.  Lance smiled through her sister at the young girl.
“Yes, dear, you’ll be able to talk to your daddy, but only for a little while.”  Her head popped out from behind her sister, and she had the slightest hint of a smile.
“Do you mind if I…  just get started here?”  He was met with a chorus of wide-eyed shaking heads.
“Good!”  He dropped his traveling-sack in the corner of the room and pulled his staff off of his back, somewhat flamboyantly.  One end contacted the floorboards with a wooden “thunk.”  Slowly, he walked around the room, a shallow line etching itself in the wood behind the end of his tool.  As he neared the doorway, and the family, they all pressed up against the wall.  He smiled.  He was not malicious, or cruel, but found their reactions amusing.  He completed the circle, and it began to glow with black light.  He walked to the middle, and tapped the floor three times.  The rest of the diagram filled in, slowly shifting to a soft purple color as it went.  Upon the moment of completion there was a snap; the sensation that all the air in the room has been frozen in place, that it is as still and quiet as a tomb.  Such seemed to be common-place when Lance would conjoin worlds.  He cleared his throat.
“Mr. Gathor?  Are you there?”  An unmistakable sound, very soft, but perfectly audible in this deathly stillness; the deep, quick inhaling of breath from someone who’s just been awakened from a dream.  Lance stood straight, unmoving, both hands gripping the staff, keeping it perfectly upright.
“Mr. Gathor, would you come here, please?”  The circle filled with soft white light, the purple metagram still visible on the floor.  There was the sound of footsteps, and as though someone were stepping from a darkened stage into a spotlight, Mr. Gathor entered the circle.  You could hear the family hold their breath.  The moment Mr. Gathor appeared, Lance became animate once more.  He swept up his staff in his left hand, and turned around, his right leather-clad hand outstretched.
“Mr. Gathor, a pleasure!”  Gathor took his hand with a confused expression, and shook it.  He was even taller than Lance, and quite muscular, though not nearly a warrior’s build.  He had long, shaggy black hair and a thick beard of wrapping curls.  His clothes had holes in them from the blows that had killed him, though his body was whole.  He was somewhat translucent, but it was only noticeable when a source of light, like a bright window, was directly behind him.  Lance dropped his hand.
“This may all be a rather large shock to you, I’m sorry.  Now, before we continue, you may have a lingering sense of amnesia, that is fine.  Some things may be difficult to recall, but…  most of your memories are intact.  Now, I’m going to leave you; your family would like to have a word with you.”  Lance stepped out of the circle, behind Mr. Gathor.  Mr. Gathor looked around, as though searching for an answer.  The woman by the door stood up.
“Tom?” she asked, not sure what to make of the scene.
“Emily!  Are you there?”  He stared blankly in her direction.
“TOM!!”  She shouted.  Lance waved his arms up and down, and motioned for her to come over.  “Get in the circle” he mouthed, pointing at the ring of light.  She ran in, and stopped abruptly in front of him.  She reached up, gently, to touch his face.  He grasped her hand tightly, and she collapsed to the ground in a mass of sobs.  Lance carefully walked around the edge of the circle as they held each other, and approached the rest of the family.
“If you want to talk to your father, you’d better get in there.” He whispered to them, and pointed.  In an instant, all of them were up and scrambling for the circle.  As they entered, there were more sobs of joy, and soon the air of fear was replaced by one with mixed sadness and happiness.  Lance walked over to his traveling sack, and pulled out a tiny glass and a bottle of sweet liquor.  He filled the glass up to its rim, and stopped to smell it a moment.
“Cinnamon?  I haven’t had cinnamon in a while, that’s quite nice.”  He began to slowly sip at the glass, enjoying its contents.
The Gathors talked with their father for hours, reminiscing about what they had been through.  At some point, the conversation stopped, and Tom spoke.
“Excuse me, Mr….”  He looked around blankly.
“Yes?  What can I do for you?”  Lance looked up from his drink.  Tom faced in his general direction, but obviously could not see him.
“I’m sorry, but, what is this?  How is it that I’m with my family now?  Why can’t I… see anything?”  Lance set down his drink and addressed the entire family, whom was watching him with curiosity, instead of fear.
“I’ve connected the land of the dead with the land of the living, in this fifteen-foot circle.  In this area, the two occupy the same space, and as such, allow whatever is in one, to inter-act with the other.  Now, before anybody gets and ideas, don’t go asking ‘The Big Question’.”
“What’s the big question?”  asked Suzan, the small girl.  Lance smiled.
“’What’s it like to be dead?’  He can’t remember.  Nobody can, so long as they are in that circle.  The only way to know is to have died and come back, and even then, it’s different for everyone.”  He picked up his glass and downed the rest of it’s contents.
Time moved on, and Emily made lunch for everyone, including Lance.  When she set the plate next to him, she leaned over and hugged him warmly, whispering teary thank-you’s in his ear.  His face flushed, and he returned the hug as best as he could; it had been ages since he’d received any human contact of the non-violent type.  The day continued, and when the sun could be seen entering the window-frame, Lance began packing his things.  In short order, he stood, and was ready to depart.
“I’m sorry, but I must go.”  The family stopped, and turned to look at him.
“Already?” asked the eldest daughter.
“I’m sorry, but most places seem to have this idea that if a necromancer is in town after dark, he’ll change the entire city into an army of the undead.  If I’m not gone by nightfall, I’ll encounter some trouble on my way out.”  Tom rose.
“Please, if you’re going, you need to do something for me.”  Lance stopped.
“What can I do, sir?”
“The men who killed me…  I know who they were.  They killed me because I was a witness.  They stole a shipment that was going to the mayor.  It was expensive; it had a full guard escorting it.  I’m sure the mayor wants it back, he’s probably already put out a reward for it.”
“Yes, he has!”  exclaimed Emily.
“With me gone, our family will have trouble supporting itself.  They need this.”  Lance sighed, and stared at the floor for a moment in silent contemplation.
“This is going to be difficult.  Time is against me.  If I have to work after dark, I’ll have to escape the village, and that doesn’t even touch on how I will deal with whomever committed this.  Most of the money that was given to the guild to bring me hear today went straight to their coffers, I only got a small share of that.  The guild is not involved in this small…  side-track.  This leaves me the opportunity to make quite a bit more than usual.  I’ll do it, if I get 25% of the reward.”  Tom nodded.
“That should be fine.”  Lance looked at him, an expression of slight sadness.
“It also means that I need to leave.  Right now.”

Lance exited the house, walking quickly down the street.  He hates having to leave.  He feels for the people that he does work for, and knows their disappointment.  He quickened his pace, watching the sun sink ever further towards the horizon.  People were watching him with open suspicion now.  Once, he’d had to flee a town where they had prepared a bonfire to roast him alive.  He stopped in front of the house and knocked with the end of his staff.  A man with a thick brown moustache answered the door.  He pulled it open quickly and absent-mindedly, stopping halfway once he realized he was looking at Lance.  After a moment, he regained his thoughts, and his expression became one of panic and anger.  He sneered at Lance, trying to hide his emotions.
“What the fuck do you want?”  Lance’s face was emotionless, almost bored.
“I’m here to pick up the item that cost Mr. Gathor his life.”  Lance let out the smallest hint of a smirk at the end of the statement.  The man’s eyes grew wide, and he tried to shut the door.  Black lightening shot from the end of Lance’s staff.  The door was simple, easily blown off of its hinges, and turned to fragments.  The man was sprawled in the middle of the room, quickly trying to stand up.
“Mr. Wallace, could you show me where that item is, so I don’t have to kill you?”  Wallace rolled over, pointing a finger at Lance.
“HA!”  His bushy moustache bounced every time he spoke.
“You’ll never find it if you kill me!”  For a moment, nobody moved.  Lance’s face wore a smile that shone with great amusement.  He fought to hold back a laugh, then spoke.
“Mr. Wallace, if I kill you, I have the rest of eternity to ask you where it is.  I’m a necromancer.”  Mr. Wallace went white instantly
“You wouldn’t—“ he was cut off by Lance raising his staff.
“It’s in the back, in the cart, under the carrots!”  Lance walked to Mr. Wallace and towered over him.
“You know, the value of what you took from the mayor is nothing in comparison to what you took from the Gathors.  Be happy for what you do have left.”  Lance swung the staff down and cracked Mr. Wallace along the side of the head.  His skin split, but not too badly.  He was still alive, and would be out long enough to let Lance re-collect whatever he needed.
As it turned out, the entire cart was the package, loaded up with rare furs.  There was a sheet of leather covering them, and carrots had been piled over the top to disguise it.  In no time Lance had pulled a couple of horses out of the ground and had them pulling the cart up to the mayor’s manor.  As per usual, servants were minding the front gate.  They showed great distaste at having to deal with him.  He stopped the cart, and patted one of the horses on its ribs.
“What business do you have?” the first servant asked.
“I’ve recovered the lord’s lost shipment of furs, and ask for the offered reward.”
“To someone who communes with the dead?”
“Either that or I keep these furs.”  The servant frowned, then ran inside, returning shortly with a large bag of coins.  Lance waited until he had the coins and, knew for certain that they were real.  He snapped his fingers, and the horses began to pull the cart inside.  The servant suddenly became very animated.
“AH!  No---  sir, you can’t bring those filthy… things inside on the lord’s grounds!”  Lance frowned, showing great distaste.
“Fine, get your own to pull it in then!”  He clapped his hands once and the equine skeletons fell to pieces, the cart stopping immediately.  Lance turned, and began walking back to town.  There were many frustrated grumblings coming from the servant behind him, but he didn’t care.  Looking at the sunset once more, he hurried off to the Gathor’s, to give them their father’s blood.