Three months in, Skellington found a fallen ironwood tree, and under it, a figure that looked an awful lot like himself. There it was, pinned under the massive tree, a corpse, the flesh having rotted away decades ago. It was covered in moss, and the eye sockets were entirely empty and hollow. Skellington poked at it, trying to wake it up.
“Hello… Warrior… Wake…” He tried poking its skull with his gauntleted finger. The skeletal remains stayed still as stone, the jaw hanging slack. An ant crawled into the empty eye socket, staring up at Skellington’s unblinking, glowing eyes. “Warrior, dead?” Skellington asked, tilting his head. It was then he saw the rusted axe just a few feet away, resting flat against a root. It was no battle axe, but the axe of a lumberjack.
“Strange axe, warrior?” he asked, but the form remained just as still as the tree on top of its back. He grabbed the axe, pulling it free from the moss gripping its handle. While inspecting the axe, Skellington saw how the head shimmered a faint blue in the afternoon light. He inspected it closer, curious why this metal was much bluer than the others he had seen. While leaning closer, it was then he heard the rhythmic clack, echoing from the edge of the forest. CLACK, CLACK, it echoed between the trees. Skellington grabbed the axe and took one last look at the skeleton under the tree, before starting his trek towards the source of the sound. He held the axe in his hands as he walked closer, the sound growing louder with each tree that he passed. He walked around a particularly thick tree before the source of the sound became visible. There it was, a person, a human, holding an axe, sweat flying as he hit the bark of a young ironwood tree. CLACK, he hit it again, chips of greyish brown bark flying from the vee-shaped edge he had cut into the tree. Skellington watched from the shadows, careful not to spook this creature. He crouched down and hugged the thick tree, observing as the young man kept hacking at the tree. A human, the same creature he remembered seeing all those years ago. His blue eyes locked onto the man with laser focus, studying every move he made in minute detail. There was another man present, this one wore a thick red beard and a belly nearly as thick, a crooked posture, and a wooden pipe between his lips. He scrunched his forehead, taking his pipe out for a moment.
“Nay!” he coughed. “Yer hitting it all wrong! From yer legs, yer legs, Jimmy!” the larger man barked, coughing a puff of grey smoke. The young man quickly shifted his posture and hit the tree with a louder clack than before.
“Yes, Da!” he piped up, his voice much higher than the larger man’s. Skellington knew from studying the deer that the fawns had squeakier voices. Mother human? Skellington pondered. The young man kept striking the tree for hours on end, the two men taking a pause to eat supper before he continued hacking. Right around dusk, the tree finally started groaning. It started buckling and bending, the sound of wood splintering echoing through the forest. “Timber!!!” the young man shouted. The massive grey pillar came crashing down, shaking the whole forest with a thunderous impact. Moss and dirt flew everywhere, the ground quaked like flesh shuddering from the bite of winter. Birds fluttered away in panic as the sound of the thunderous impact echoed across the trees.
As the dust and moss settled, Skellington looked at the axe in his hands for a good long moment. He glanced behind him towards where he saw the body crushed under the massive tree. Human? He realized. It was no boneborn, no warrior like himself, it was a human being—just a woodsman trying to cut down a particularly large tree. He looked back to the father and son, both staring at the newly felled ironwood tree. Human?… Was he human after all? Perhaps he was whatever became of one when they passed? The other heap of bones was surely no more alive than any old rock. Why?… Skellington stared at his gauntleted hand asthe questions swirled in his mind, if you can even call it that. In place of a fleshy brain, Skellington had a complex network of magilite pathways running throughout his bones, with the core of his self resting right inside his skull, the complex, pea-sized magilite crystal. It was this crystal, just like the crystals of the Ancient Dragons, that gave him life.
Completely oblivious to being observed, the two humans started packing their bags, looking nervously to the treetops as the sun dipped below the horizon. The younger man packed his bag and slung it onto a broken branch of the felled tree. He smirked pridefully as he rested the shiny bluish axe over his shoulder. His hands were red hot with blisters, yet he did not utter a single word of complaint. The older man had thick, scarred skin on his hands, a mark of pride for a retired woodsman, even more so to one of this forest. Hurried by the dangers of the looming nightfall, the two humans quickly left the area.
Once the two men had made it out of the area, Skellington came out from behind the thick tree. His teal eyes were glowing faintly in the darkness of dusk, like two flickering candleflames. He stared at the tree, lying down like a fallen warrior. He knew not why the people fought the tree, nor why it did not fight back. All he saw was a broken warrior of the forest. When his eyes wandered across its corpse, they landed on the broken branch and the rustic leather bag dangling from it. Curiosity piqued, Skellington walked towards it with a ghostly grace. He placed the axe against the tree before reaching for the strap of the bag. He lifted the bag off the broken branch, noticing the hefty weight of it. Human warrior supplies? He thought. He had seen the older man close the button on his pack, and repeating the same motions on this one seemed to open the seal. He pulled the flap open, peering into the bag. Inside was a load of the same bread he had seen them eat during their break, and a clay pot filled with butter. There was also a small shimmering whetstone, and a small leather purse, clinking with coins. Skellington emptied the purse onto the moss, tilting his head as he stared at the small metallic circles. He picked up a coin and rotated it slowly, examining each of its sides in thorough detail. There was an image of a face, and some text he had no capacity to read. It shimmered a silvery hue, lit up by the glow from his own eyes. It was an item so foreign to him, he had no concept for it whatsoever. Nonetheless, he decided the coins—a silvery one and three coppery ones—were special enough to pick back up. With no concept of ownership, Skellington decided to take the bag for himself, seeing it as a useful replacement for holding the various things he had found, a clear upgrade to his overfilled pouch. With the bag in hand and the axe picked back up, Skellington headed back into the forest.
Over the following months, Skellington observed the full process of more trees being felled, how the branches were cut off and bundled separately, how the logs were sawed into smaller pieces before being loaded onto reinforced ironwood carts, drawn by heavily muscular horses. The younger man got scolded more days than not, and did not receive supper for multiple days after losing his bag. Skellington even had a close call after the young man spotted his glowing eyes through the bushes. His hand trembled as he pointed towards the bushes. He screamed in terror, “GHOST!!!” while running away like a little girl. Skellington barely had time to lie flat against the moss as the older man looked towards him. He saw only bushes and trees, and thoroughly scolded the younger man for his “Brainless cowardice!”
The World Stones 