Centuries after serving as a pawn of the Allfather Demon, Skellington, a boneborn warrior who survived the Chaos Times tells the story of how he gained a true soul, and how he learned what it meant to be alive as something tragically ‘different’, and ultimately, how he answered the questions of what, and who he is.
Chapters/Sections
Rabbit Stew
The air outside had begun getting colder by the day, the forest having transformed into a picturesque painting of vivid yellows and oranges. Mushrooms dotted the ground in every corner, under trees and beside rocks, adding to the landscape with their own vibrant colours. Leaves drifted gently through the air, the trees filtering the golden evening light. Today was a calm day, a contrast to the difficulties of last winter. We will be ready this time, Skellington thought as he reached down to pick up a big bolete. He grabbed the thick and sturdy stem, twisting it until the dirt gave way. He examined the mushroom for a bit, picking off a moist leaf before putting the bolete in his straw basket. He had already found around a dozen boletes, all various shades of brown and orange.
He walked the path he always did, a natural path formed by him and the magna deer through the decades. His bones creaked and groaned as he walked, having worn down over the last few centuries. What hadn’t worn down one bit was the eerie blue glow in his eyes, still flickering like topaz torches. His old blade was still strapped to his side, hidden well under his dark, tattered robes. Along the path, Skellington found another half dozen mushrooms, the pile of browns and oranges audibly straining his makeshift basket.
Finally, he got to the clearing. At its center was a small lake, with a single, lonely lily pad floating on the surface. Skellington walked past, to a spot he placed a snare at just the other day. As he neared, something jumped up, rustling the leaves. Sure enough, a small rabbit had ensnared itself by the ankle. Its beady eyes locked onto Skellington, wide in fear. It was an expression he remembered all too well from when he was a warrior; the face of someone staring down their own death.
Skellington walked up to the rabbit, set aside his basket and gently grabbed its neck. It squirmed in his bony fingers, thrashing around in a desperate attempt to escape.
“I am sorry, little one,” Skellington said in a raspy, monotone voice.
He hesitated only a moment before twisting its neck. With a sickening crunch, the rabbit went limp. Skellington stared at the rabbit with a blank expression. Despite his nature, somewhere in the depths of his soul, he felt something heavy. Ever since that day, four centuries ago… Skellington thought as he freed the rabbit’s ankle. He held the rabbit by the ears in one hand, picking up the basket in the other. He followed the path back westward, to the cabin he built over a century ago. He walked back in silence, bones clacking each time he stepped over a rock. As he neared the cabin, more a makeshift den than a house, a young voice pierced the peaceful evening.
“You’re back, Mister Skellington!” a young girl shouted, bursting out of the cabin. “A bunny!” she squealed.
Greta was the eldest of the three orphans, still only six summers old. She was the liveliest of the bunch, always teasing the two brothers, Noah and Nilo. A warm rabbit pelt coat hung over her small shoulders, her worn-down red dress underneath. She smiled at Skellington, the gap in her front teeth visible—the first tooth she’d lost. It didn’t take long before the two brothers burst out of the cabin as well, having heard Greta’s squeal. Both had curly brown hair and faces dotted with freckles and dirt. Nilo, the younger of the two, had a mole under his lip.
“A bunny!” they said in unison, jumping up and down in glee.
It was true, they hadn’t eaten much more than berries and mushrooms for the past few weeks, so a plump rabbit was a perfect surprise. Greta was especially delighted, as tomorrow was her seventh birthday. Skellington stared at the children, still not understanding why food was such a cause for celebration. Why do animals… consume? Why… do I not?… Skellington thought as he tilted his head in silence.
“I am back. Let us make supper,” Skellington said in his usual, raspy monotone voice.
Greta tried to take the rabbit from his hands, her face straining as she tried to pry open his fingers. Noah and Nilo were both already picking boletes from Skellington’s basket.
“Let me have it! I want it!” Greta said adamantly, her green eyes pleading.
But Skellington didn’t loosen his grip, and instead began walking towards the cabin, rabbit in hand.
“It must be… processed first,” he said as he opened the door.
The children followed him inside and watched as he placed the rabbit on the table, unfastened his sword, and set it to rest by the door before grabbing his rusty knife, a valuable tool he had found on the ground years ago. He began working on the rabbit, skinning it and gutting it with as much skill as one might expect from someone taught only through observation from a hundred feet away. While Greta watched with intense fascination, Noah and Nilo puckered their faces in disgust as he pulled the guts out with a squelch.
“EW!” they recoiled before running to hide behind the wooden stumps they used as chairs.
Noah and Nilo grabbed some wooden figurines that Skellington had carved for them: a deer, a bear, a man, and a woman. The figurines reminded them of their parents, but also of the fire and carnage of that night. A year had passed since their village was attacked, since their parents were killed. All this time, they had lived with Skellington, isolated from the rest of humanity. The winter was rough, food was scarce, and the temperatures were freezing. They didn’t thrive, far from it. But somehow, they adapted and they survived. Little by little the children taught Skellington about their customs, about what it means to be human. The figurines? Skellington had to make them after Nilo cried for two days straight, disappointed he didn’t get a birthday present.
Once the rabbit was cleaned, Skellington put the carcass in a rusty metal pot, filled it with water from an old milk pot, and added some herbs he had picked earlier. The pot was orange with rust, likely older than the kids combined. It was left behind by some hunters years ago, along a handful of other camping supplies. Who knew what had happened to them; perhaps they were killed by goblins, eaten by a drake, or maybe they simply got lost. Regardless, it was a miracle they did, as without a pot, without the axe and without the bedrolls, winter likely would’ve been the end for the orphans.
Skellington put more sticks into the stone fireplace he had made last winter, a makeshift construction of various rocks he cluelessly stacked on top of each other. Was it structurally sound? Probably not. Had it collapsed a few times? Absolutely. But it kept the orphans alive through the winter, and that’s what really mattered. He grabbed the greyish-black stone he had found a decade ago, something he saw goblins use to make fire, striking it with his rusty knife to create sparks.
Greta looked at him in fascination, her gaze drifting across his skeletal frame as he struck the rock again and again. Skellington turned his head to look at Greta, pausing for a moment. This was a dance they had done dozens of times, and Greta knew exactly what she needed to do. She leaned down to blow onto the embers. She took a deep breath and blew like forge bellows. The embers glowed before sparking aflame. The flame spread quickly onto the nearby sticks, and soon enough they had themselves a fire. Greta helped by stacking firewood on top of the flames, just as Skellington had taught her, just as he had seen hunters do it from afar. As always, Noah and Nilo were too preoccupied with their toys to tend to the fire. Greta cast them a prideful glare before sticking her tongue out. Noah was the only one who noticed, and rolled his eyes in response.
Once the fire was stable enough, Skellington took the rusty pot and balanced it on top of two large stones on each side of the fire. He and Greta worked together to add some blueberries and mushrooms to the stew, as well as some more herbs and even some salt. It didn’t take long before it began boiling. The rugged, mouth-watering aroma of rabbit stew drifted through the air, slipping into every corner of the cabin. Of course, to Skellington, the only thing different was the slight steam and smoke wafting through the air.
Once the stew was ready, Skellington simply grabbed the burning hot pot from the fire, immune to any sensation of pain. He placed the pot on the ground at the very center of the cabin. He grabbed the three carved wooden bowls and spoons, placing them on the mossy ground around the pot. At first, the children had found it strange that his house had no floor, but now they had grown used to it. Skellington then grabbed two heavy wooden stumps, dragging them next to the warmth of the fireplace. He grabbed the pot again and poured equal portions for each of the children.
“Supper… is ready,” he stated with a rasp.
Near-famished, the children quickly ran to the stumps, sitting themselves down near the fire. The children started stuffing the stew into their mouths before Skellington even managed to sit himself down. They ate like hungry dogs, coughing in between bites, slurping up all the broth. It didn’t take long before the first portions were eaten.
Skellington observed the children with keen interest, noticing how their hair had grown quite a bit since last year. Greta’s blond hair was now long and tangled, and the brothers both had shoulder-length hair by now. Fascinating, Skellington thought, putting a hand to his own bony skull. Greta turned to Skellington, putting on her usual puppy eyes.
“Mister Skellington, it’s my birthday tomorrow. Could I please have some more?” she asked while holding the empty bowl toward him.
He looked at her for a moment, studying her. Why do humans… celebrate the passage of time?… He thought. He looked at the pot; there was plenty left for seconds. He poured some more stew for each of the children before sitting back down. Over the next hour or so, they ended up finishing the stew, each spoonful growing slower and slower as the heat returned to their stomachs. Nilo was already dozing off, swaying his head from side to side like a seesaw, going lower and lower each time. Noah looked at Greta before they both stared at Skellington.
“Mister Skellington, can you tell us the story again?” Noah asked slowly.
“It’s my birthday tomorrow! Tell the story again! I want it! I wanna hear the story again!” Greta piped up, grabbing Sniffy, her stuffed teddy bear, another of Skellington’s finds from the forest.
She held Sniffy to her chest, its one missing eye meeting the hollow glow of Skellington’s blue eyes. Skellington looked at the two of them, then at Nilo, who was already dozing off.
“Have I not… told you… already?” Skellington rasped before looking at Greta and Noah again.
“Wanna hear again!” Greta bounced, clutching Sniffy closer.
“Please?” Noah pleaded. “We want to hear it again!” he added while crawling into his bedroll.
Greta nudged Nilo as she tried to grab her bedroll from beside him, jolting him awake. His eyes were half-lidded, a bit of soup still on his chin.
“Huh?” Nilo let out, already half-asleep.
Skellington gave the children a silent nod before setting the empty pot, bowls and utensils back onto the pile of random objects, a stack of various things he had found over the centuries, things he had brought back to his cabin out of curiosity. The pile was mostly random knick-knacks dropped by explorers, woodsmen, or left behind by the odd hunter. Some things, like the piece of flint, a leather pouch, a bone needle, and even a pair of leather boots, were from goblins, pesky little creatures that had luckily learned to avoid him over the years. The children, now all in their bedrolls, turned to look up at Skellington. The fireplace cast dancing shadows along the wooden walls.
“Very well… I will tell you again… the story… all that I remember…” Skellington began.
The World Stones 