A year went by like the blink of an eye, and Skellington kept wandering the forest, tirelessly collecting things and learning about the world. Winter came and went, a period of cold despair for life, a mere curiosity for Skellington. His bones creaked more, his movements were slower than before, and the forest was quieter than normal. Despite studying the forest for almost two years now, the humans, the animals, the bugs, the plants, and the seasons themselves, he knew very little more of what he himself was. All skeletal remains he found were still as stone: human, deer, even a decaying forest troll as large as a boulder, all utterly devoid of life.
As spring came around the corner, Skellington found himself drawn towards the open sea, a cool, endless sea, much larger than the lake from which he was born. Perhaps the sea might offer him answers to what he was. He went to his hideout, a small cave behind two fallen trees, spring flowers sprouting right by the entrance. It wasn’t much to speak of; there was barely enough space for a person to crouch, but it was his home. He placed his bag beside his newly sharpened axe, right by the pile of bits and bobs he had collected from the forest. His sword? For some reason, he felt attached to it, like he could not leave it for even a moment. It was a part of him, a stark reminder of his past. There it was, day and night, summer and winter, rain and fog, resting by his hip. He had only drawn it once, and that was solely to sharpen it.
Leaving his cave at the break of dawn, he walked to the very edge of the forest, where the gravel and sand met the white foam of the oceanic waves. There it was, spanning across the horizon as far as the eye could see, waves like moving mountain ridges. The birds were singing the same songs as when he first opened his eyes. The waves were lapping against the gravel, singing the songs of the sea. The golden yellow light of the morning reminded him of that day. He took a step towards the sea, the gravel crunching under his boots. One step turned into two, and soon he was waist-deep in the water. The waves were rocking his body back and forth, much unlike the tranquillity of the lake. He descended deeper and deeper, fully submerging himself in the water. The rocks underneath were jagged and slippery, each step forward measured and slow. The sun illuminated the water a bluish green; golden rays piercing through like arrows of light. The water swallowed him whole, like the embrace of a mother, but much, much colder. As he looked around, alas, he felt no different at all.
He walked for over an hour, admiring the sea and its curiosities. He stopped to look at the fluttering seaweed, picked up the iridescent shell of a clam, and examined a small sea snail crawling on a rock. He then stopped abruptly, having walked right up to a shelf break, the seabed dropping like a cliff. It was bottomless, a hazy blue going who knew how deep. He dared not take another step. Frozen in place, he looked around, from the shelf to the true depths of the ocean. He could not swim like the fish; he would merely sink to the depths and never be able to get back up. A silvery sheen reflected the golden rays to his right, red fins flashing as a fish larger than he himself dove towards the depths. His black robes fluttered like ghostly weeds as he realized that not even the ocean was his home.
The World Stones 