"The furniture," Woe repeats, almost in a daze, with an underpinning of absolutely exhausted indignation, "The furniture stood alongside you. You went into conflict beside an armoire - you broke bread with a table - you confided in a chair?"

No. Even this affably dim boychild would surely not be so delusional, if he's yet to turn and introduce himself to the bench. Woe has heard all types of grisly rumors about what flesh necromancers get up to with their underlings, and has had to clean up the messes herself.

"You wouldn't happen to have brought any of this furniture with you? They sound much better informed than you - no offense," she adds, offensively.