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The dark geleton bent over his work table, eyes fixed on the red seal. As tar bubbled from under it, he sighed, preparing to toss the iron shell out into his pool of failures. Then it froze, the gel pulling the seal tighter than he'd ever set it.

He watched a few minutes longer, and… it was stable. Secure? No. Safe? Gods no. But by the skull painted on its side, it was perfect.

The skull icon had belonged to his bones' old owner, before their traitorous crew had thrown them overboard into the blacked pit; it was one of his few memories, now. They—the old crew and captain alike—couldn't have guessed that this body would be formed anew from that same pit. He clutched the amulet that hung from his neck, its once necrotic magic now apparently spent.

The skull icon would be his again, in this second life, by his right and the might of his newfound flesh.

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