Three days had passed since he first woke up, and with each passing hour, Skellington had learned more about the forest. He learned that animals, from the large magna deer to the rabbits and the mice, all defecated. He learned that other creatures, various insects, flies and larvae, use the waste as food. He came across predation for the very first time, watching from a distance as a large night prowler, a carnivorous bird the size of a bear, snatched up a deer. It sank its dagger-sized claws into its hide and bit its throat with its massive beak. It was over in seconds; death. The night prowler’s purple feathers turned red with blood as it ripped flesh off the deer. Skellington could simply watch from behind a boulder with keen fascination. A day later he saw a snake eating a small mouse, and a worm getting killed by a mob of angry ants. He understood killing, but consuming the corpse was still somewhat foreign to him. Sure, various demons in Etheria consumed other creatures, but he himself had no need for it. He even found a rotting rabbit in the morning and tried eating it, but just as before, the flesh simply slid right past his hollow jaw. He pondered long and hard why he did not consume and defecate, why he did not rest or tire, why even water just ran down his bones when he tried to drink.
As he learned more about the forest, he realized more and more that he was different. He was not like the insects, not like the ants after all, not like the bees, the flies, and not even like the deer or snakes. What was he? Why was he different? Those questions remained unanswered for each day that passed. The fact remained: he was simply different.
And now, with the third day coming to a close, he was suddenly face to face with a creature, green-skinned, humanoid, yet small as a child, waving a crude stone spear at him. The creature had long ears, a scar on its cheek, and wore the look of terror on its face. There was another like it in the distance, aiming a bow at Skellington. He had not yet drawn his blade, studying the creatures threatening him, simply calculating fearlessly.
“Little… green… creature… what… are you?” he rasped, grabbing the tip of its spear with his gauntleted hand. The look of terror that the creature had was something Skellington recognized from years ago, the same expression the villagers had when they came. An arrow whizzed towards him, clattering as it hit his ribs. Skellington’s head jerked up to the archer, before snapping the spear like a twig. The creature in front of him ran for its life into the bushes, followed by its friend. Skellington peered at them as they scuttled off. He looked at his rib, a tiny chip missing from where the arrowhead hit him. He placed a finger on his rib, confused more than shocked. He had seen animals squeal in pain from being hurt, but he? He felt nothing. “Why?” he rasped, the evening forest offering only the sound of cicadas. Once again, he was met with more proof that he was different, an alien wandering the forest, something not quite alive, yet terrifyingly aware.
The World Stones 