a nation attacked

A sooty goblet almost took Sherberts Head off when it ricocheted from a wall. The small skeleton would have had many different expressions running across its face, if it still had one. “Oh sorry, Sherbert. Did I hit you? I hope not. Do you need repairs?” a soft and caring voice said as it came nearer. Sherbert looked up to his master and as he was helped up, answered: “Nothing to worry, Master. I’m complete and unharmed. Anything bothering you, Master?” The skeletal servant looked up and into the dark nothingness of his masters hood. There was a moment of silence. His master sighed and said: “I am no fan of bothering you with this, Sherbert. But it appears my Kingdom has attracted a Pest.” “Rats, Master? Or like the nordic word for the black Plague? Malaria? The Flu? Bards?” the one addressed questioned but his Master shook his head in negation. He also chuckled which always sounded weird.

“No, my boney incomprehending Fellow. I speak of Adventurers. They have raided one of our Orc Villages. No one was spared. Poor Knaxses, he is out on a Hunting Party. He will be devastated when he returns. I need to send something to him to make him cheer up in due time.” Sherberts Master explained.

There was a short silence and the robed Figure continued: “I know.” then its Voice switched from warm and friendly to a sound like graveyard gates grinding teeth to dust: “The Heads of the Adventurers”. This was followed by evil laughter like the skeleton hadn’t heard in years. It lasted what felt like forever and Sherbert couldn’t help himself but had to clap like a lunatic as his master finished. The robed figure appeared perplex as it looked at Sherbert: “What. What are you doing?”

Sherbert would have cried big round tears of admiration if he still had the tear ducts for it and explained: “Master. That was the most perfect rendition of Evil Laugh Number 20 from Deathking Bonerend Cheesegrate. Written 1312. First presented in 1313 to an unknown Group before its early demise. It was. Magical. Master, Thank you. Now I can die again in Peace. Thank you, Master.” Sherbert bowed before his Master. It looked funny when he folded almost in the middle and the top of his head touched the ground. The hooded figure appeared surprised and stammered: “Aehm. Of course. You are welcome, Sherbert. Any time. Please get up. Thank you.”

There was awkward silence until the Figure spoke again maybe a minute later: “Alright. We need to make this quick before they reach the Slaughterpits. The Zombies are not ready yet and I just had a new Strain of Mosses installed. Could we get some Wraiths from the North? 1521 was a good vintage.” Sherbert nodded: “Whatever you desire, it will be done. But if I may give you Advice, Master?” The hooded figure nodded and the skeleton continued: “The harvest two years ago was splendid. Harry Bones the Graveyard Keeper told me earlier today how he almost had a heart attack last week while turning them in their Graves.” This surprised Sherberts Master and he asked unbelieving: “Harry Bones said that? My word, those must be quite good Wraiths. Alright, color me convinced. We take those.” “Very well, my Master. I will send for him immediately. Another unworthy Input of me, Master? I replaced your Phylactery in your Vault and patched the Foot of the Couch it propped up. May I advise you to not use it to repair broken Furniture again?”

The hooded figure looked caught: “I’m sorry Sherbert. Thank you very much. It just conveniently had the correct height. Couldn’t finish my nap with all that wobbling around.” While the skeleton bowed to take its leave it also noted: “Very well, Master. May your foresight be as clear as your ability to precisely estimate item diameters.” and as soon as it had spoken proceeded to leave the room through one of the many candlelit dungeon corridors. “Was that sarcasm?” the hooded figure asked itself then turning in the direction in which its servant had left: “Sherbert used bloody sarcasm on me.”

“I used bloody sarcasm on the Master” a skeleton shambling down the corridor as fast as its bony legs could manage. Skidding around corners on chalky feet it scolded itself. “I should not have done that.” As soon as it had passed the Dungeons Gate it noted again: “I should’ve not have done that.” He made for the Graveyard when a deafening sound erupted from the depths of the dungeon, calling Sherberts Name in anger. “Should not have done that. Nope”


This story is continued in “early struggles”

This was a response to a Writing Prompt: [WP] As a Lich you’ve spent your eternity in the shadows ensuring the small nation you own is a safe haven for the races that wish a peaceful life, however you get news that a local orc settlement was destroyed by a group of adventurers proclaiming that they will ‘save the nation.'