There it stood... stood... stood... and stood, ever present at the Dark City’sgates, since the dayitselfwas created: a skeleton, or more precisely:anUndead Skeleton.


    Itwas near perfect in every sense. Clean,polished,white wereitsbones.No scratches or dents upon them.No bone mismatched or seemed out.


    The teeth nestled initsjaw,snug and neatly to a tee.Afine group of pearly whites.


    Where eyes would be, instead were haunting pale lights.Acold flame that swirled gentlyat each sockets centre.


    And initsright grasp was a rather plain and simple looking spear, new and stainless of any blood.


    Hm?“Who made thisUndeadyou ask?” “And for what purpose?”


    Well, to answer the first:Alocal, of the Dark CityZiligish,as it is called. ANecromancerby the nameofNurglishAvitch,one of the many who hope tohave theirnames heardthroughoutthe ages, written in stone and the like—one of many poor foolish buggers.


    As for the second question: It was made for the soulpurposeof being a guard of the gates—orperhapsfodder would be a better word? You see,Undead,are quite a useful bunch; you can give them orders, they’ll follow them without question, nether ask for pay; all one need do isfinda dead body, know the ways of necromancy -orhirea Necromancer- and hey presto,you gotyourself a poodle.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    And thus, theskeletonstood, ever still, everpresentat theright side to the blackgatesofZiligish. Itwas not the only guard however.


    Stationed to the left of the gates wasa man.This man wasa 20-year-oldrookyguard of the city, known jokingly asPeckerto hiscollegesandZelkandto hisfamily, who knew nothing of the nickname.Zelkand,worearmour of obsidian,simple in designlike the restof the guard.And he sat lent back in a chair spending every minute picking at his nose, unlike the vigilant skeleton.


    It was a normal day as always beneath thesmoulderingblack clouds. Not many went in or out the city, and little ever happened. Theskeleton only looked forward at the same rugged road, asithad done always, not questioning orders or pondering them.


    But then something started sniffing at its leg. The cool lights of the skeleton’s eye sockets flicked downwards. Hm. It was a dog, a very normal dog, a Labrador. This was the single most disturbing thing the skeleton hadeverwitnessed in the entirety ofitsexistence. Why? Why was it so normal?


    The Labrador looked up at the stackof walking bones and pantedadorablyso.


    The skeleton had seen many dogs, all undead or monstrous in nature, a near daily routine.But this? This was wrong. This wasThe Lands of Darkness,a land ofmonstrosities, not fragile balls of fur. How in the 12 Abysses, has thisthing...survived.


    The Labrador tilted its headslightlyleft, making a curious moan.


    Should the skeleton kill it? Or justignoreit? The skeleton felt torn between the two. Oh. Oh, woe is the undead.


    Then theLabradorturned its side to the skeleton, raised a leg, and pissed on theundead’sfeet, followed by a perfect smoking brown dump, before running of intodarkplains afar.


    The flames in the skeleton’s eye sockets flicked back up to road. Anditsmorningcontinuedlike any other, but that was the last morning it would spend likeany other.