A trail by moon rays lit

[Skeletor]

Stepping through the archway brought a variety of new sights and sensations to Skeletor. The garish white omnipresent light of the Nexus was replaced by a welcoming blueish haze of dreary fog. The Smooth ever-polished floor of the nexus was replaced by dark and storm-weathered grass, and lush brown dirt paths. Shallow pools of brackish water littered the area. The faintest of moons was visible through the all obscuring fog, but otherwise visibility was neigh impossible beyond much farther than a few meters. Finding someone in a place like this would be just about impossible. “Hmm, much better.” Skeletor muttered, “Not a single pesky warrior to be seen.” Now he would get the chance that he needed to actually make sense of the strangeness he had just experienced. He needed to find somewhere to think, but it would probably be a good idea to put some distance between this portal and himself, lest he encounter some new hostile stranger.  
 
Raindrops began to fall, splattering off of the top of Skeletor’s exposed skull. It had been torn to tatters in his battle with Thor, and he had never bothered to replace it. Skeletor stared upwards into the rain.  He noticed the droplets as they struck his chest, his shoulders, his arms. But felt nothing as they splattered against his face.
The price of his curse, of his power.
At most times Skeletor would say that he had made the correct choice, that the price was more than made up for in the power he had been granted in return. But as raindrops struck his face undetectably, splashing into his eye sockets and nasal cavity to trickle out the base of his skull, he could not answer that question with the same level of confidence.
 
But what had happened in the past could not be changed. Keldor was dead: now only Skeletor remained to carry on his great works of conquest. The Warlock bowed his head for a moment, and the orb of power appeared in his outstretched palm. It was a wondrous tool, and that grinning fool had given it to him for free! Skeletor could not help but chuckle as he pictured what he desired, placing it firmly in his mind. After a short time, standing silent and still in the slight rainfall, Skeletor summoned his hooded cloak.  The Warlock glanced at the accumulated bruises and tears he had received from what was perhaps one of the most eventful hours of his life, nothing seemed too dangerous, and indeed, he seemed to be on the mend slightly quicker here than after many of his encounters with He-man. Nothing he had faced here had yet to compare to that muscle-bound meathead, but Skeletor couldn’t shake the thought that it was only a matter of time before he would show up. He always did, just when Skeletor was on the verge of the conquest that was rightfully his.
 
With his equipment back in order, and his injuries looked over, Skeletor turned his attention to the path ahead. This was not where his captors had been bound, so it stood to reason it might be a place that Skeletor would find more to his liking. This was a world that he understood, the world of shadows and darkness. With his ever-lasting grin, Skeletor set off into the fog, causing wisps of vapor to swirl and dance as his cloak billowed through them. Like a phantom, he faded into the gloom.

[Skeletor]

Skeletor strode through the dimly lit world, reveling for a time in his freedom. He had escaped his captors and was free to plot his revenge upon Thor and that insolent girl, time was a gift that he intended to put to good use. The world around him was a mixture of darkness and gloom, and he would think it quite nice were it not for all these infernal puddles! He thought, yanking the stained hem of his cloak out of yet another boggy marsh. “This is not to be tolerated!” Skeletor announced to no one in particular, and since he had still found no sign of the original road he had been following he had no better choice than to continue wandering aimlessly.
 
They had tricked him into coming here, he decided, as he continued to wade through sometimes knee-deep bog water. There was no way that those elves lived in a place like this, they paid far too much attention to their looks, and that would not be possible in a place like this. No, there had to be somewhere better, somewhere one could actually keep armor as sterling white as those soldiers who had interrupted his victory earlier. He simply had to find it.
 
Skeletor stalked onwards with renewed purpose, only to have his cloak catch on a particularly gnarled bramble. He gave a cry of frustration and blasted the offending branch into smithereens. The corner of his cloak came free, and Skeletor continued, ignoring the smoldering hem; it would be doused by bog water soon enough. Skeletor made to continue on but paused as a sound reached his non-existent ears. He stopped splashing through the muck-ridden water, and listened. There it was again, faint, but unmistakably a voice.

“I say, is anyone there?” the voice called out again. A youthful voice, clearly not one with enough experience in the ways of the world. Only such a fool would shout wildly into the wilderness at night. Skeletor made his way towards the voice, doing his best to remain cloaked in the fog. Up ahead he could just make out the speaker, a man holding aloft a lantern and cradling a book in one arm. The fellow looked scrawny, underfed, even with the massive brown robe that swamped his figure. The man was clearly agitated, jerking his lantern to and fro in an attempt to spot whatever it was he believed to be out there. Skeletor could not help but wonder what the fool was doing out here alone. His mistake.
 
“Oh, someone is there, alright!” Skeletor announced, striding out of the fog and into the lantern’s light. Skeletor took satisfaction in the look of absolute horror the man in front of him gave at his approach.
 
 “By St. Cuthbert’s own sigil! A lich hath come to steal mine soul from me!”
 
The strange speech caused Skeletor to falter slightly, pausing before he continued “What did you call me?” he demanded. Already he was expecting to soundly decimate this stringy oaf, but it would be helpful to try and pump him for information first.
 
“Harken, foul semblance of man, twisted into eldritch evil by thine own fell machinations! Thou art a blight upon the fair folk of this land, and were I a righteous crusader I would soundly thrash you forthwith!” the man basically shouted. Skeletor eyed his surroundings warily, the man was making entirely too much noise. There was no one else around was there?
 
“Quiet, you moronic monk!” The man stopped shouting and the look he gave Skeletor confirmed his guess, “Now, tell me where is the nearest settlement is in this swamp-infested bog world you live in.”
 
The monk gave Skeletor another odd glance, “Thou art a foolish undead, not to recognize your fellow monster’s path!” The monk pointed towards the patches of bog around them. “Thou thinkest this trail could be natural of origin? St. Cuthbert preserve us, that is not the case!” Skeletor’s eyes were beginning to twinkle, but the man ignored them as he continued his rant. “By all that is just in this dreary world of ours, you stand upon the path-fall of that greatest of calamities, the dreaded Tarrasque!”
 
The way the man said the word, it was clear that Skeletor was supposed to know to what he was referring. This monk’s ranting was bothering Skeletor greatly, and he considered simply obliterating the fool and moving on, but he still didn’t have a destination.
 
“Tell me where the nearest town would be, monkling.” He said evenly. The monk blinked at him and raised one eyebrow.
 
“And for what reason should I assist such a foul unnatural being in gaining access to fair Darkshire?” he asked, a somewhat haughty tone slipping into his declaration. “Thou wouldst attempt the destruction of that bastion, most assuredly. As is befitting thy undead nature?” the last bit of his speech sounded far less confident, and it was clear that he was unsure how to react to Skeletor’s repeated questioning.
 
“Listen carefully. I am no wraith or mindless shambler. And that’s not what you should be worried about.” Skeletor stepped closer leaning his Havoc staff into view. The monk visibly blanched.
 
“Erm… Thy point is most convincing.” The man said as he swallowed. “I wilt pause mine own studies, and guide thee to yon village.” And with that the monk began to travel off in the opposite direction from which Skeletor had been going. The Warlock followed behind.

[Skeletor]

The two figures stalked through the mist with a determined stride. Skeletor marched onwards, havoc staff striking the soft ground as he walked. The man of the cloth followed behind, hands folded into oversized sleeves. Even so the monk was chilled, and he shivered as he walked behind Skeletor. “Take this not as an idle threat, nor as some chiding of thine powers, but harken truthfully to that which I impart to thee, spectre: The valiant men of Darkshire, whose oft assaulted walls stand still in testament, will find thy boldest stratagem less than to be feared. The dying mam fears little from the thorn bush!”
 
Skeletor paused and turned, regarding the monk with balefire eyes. “Do you think I am a plant?” he asked evenly, as magical energies began to accumulate in the head of his Havoc staff. The man shrank away from him, and a brief glance behind him betrayed his consideration to flee then and there. He seemed to think better of it, however, and instead wilted back into submission. “Now,” the Warlock said as he continued to stalk forward, “How far away are we from this city you are speaking of? What was it you called the hovel? Dimmire?”
 
The Monk winced at the name, but answered promptly, “Er…Darkshire is the title granted to that ever-dampened bastion of hope.” The monk’s mannerisms were wearing thin on Skeletor’s patience, but as much as he would love to simply obliterate the pitiful acolyte, a liaison would be more or less essential to keeping himself from being immediately hunted. It was clear from the fool’s reaction, however addled the monk might be, that Skeletor’s face would be seen as another of the undead horrors that lurked throughout the darkness of the Moors. The townspeople would be likely to suspect him on sight, and that was assuming they did not outright attack him immediately. Yet he needed to know just how the world around him worked, and this town was his best aim for that goal. It was a perplexing situation, but perhaps he had the solution directly in front of him? After all, there was nothing one could count on more than fear-clouded judgement.
 
“Tell me, monkling, why do your people fear the undead so much?” the warlord asked, trying his best to mask any sort of malevolence from his voice. A plan was forming, but it would require information. “Do they plot against your village? Or do they attack it directly?”
 
The monk gave Skeletor a questioning glance, but answered this question as well, “The dreadlord Dracula controls much of this once abundant land, and it is from his dark castle that the fear-wrapped spawn of sorrow come. They haunt our alleys, plague our people, many an innocent village has been utterly vanquished by their hordes. They attack with frothful rage, and in great multitudes, making our hopes to defeat them all but dashed.”
 
“So they do not possess visible leaders?” Skeletor muttered, more to himself than to his companion. Up ahead, the torchlight of the town made itself distinct through the gloom. It was still some distance away but he certainly wouldn’t lose track of it. The monk had just lost his final purpose. Without hesitation or warning, Skeletor whirled, his staff taking the feet of the surprised acolyte out from under him. He landed heavily with a surprised yelp, and Skeletor released a magical blast directly into his chest at point blank. His plan would rely on the element of mystery he possessed. There could be no witnesses. The Warlock turned back to Darkshire, Skeletal grin unwavering. Now was the time for his return.

[Skeletor]

The break of day did little to improve the situation for the watchers of Darkshire’s walls, as the perpetual fog caught and reflected the light. Feldor and Crombe stood at their posts, staying alert to the best of their fatigued abilities.  The two watchmen waited atop the western gate staring out into the mist-veiled surroundings. For a time, they had watched in silence, and Feldor ground his teeth as his companion continued not to acknowledge he was even sharing the post. Finally, his frustration reached the point where he could no longer contain it, and Feldor pounded one leather-gloved fist onto the top of the battlement, turning to confront his companion. “Now look here!” He said, adjusting his over-sized helmet yet again, “Yer not being fair! That wasn’t my fault!”
 
 His companion Crombe, turned around to lean against another battlement, his back facing the world outside the walls of Darkshire, “The word is ‘Your’, simpleton.”  Then Crombe pulled out a pipe and began to light it.
 
A quick retort with so few words served only to infuriate Feldor further.  “That’s not the point, ya idjit! And I won’t be having you changing the issue like this! I told you not to go for it from the start I did! ‘She’s too quiet.’ I says, ‘I don’t trust her smiles’ I says, and yer the one who won’t listen! I told you It were a bad idea, but ye didn’t believe me. So what do I do? I tries to help you as best as I can, I figure out what she likes, and I tries to get you ready for her. Than everything went to Diablo’s larder, and I am sorry fer that, you got my sympathies beyond a doubt, I just don’t see what else I could have possibly done to help you! It ain’t my fault you was courting a spy!” he finished. That last bit wouldn’t exactly do much to ease the tensions, but Feldor no longer cared. The fool had gotten involved with an enemy spy, that was his own fault. He heaved slightly regaining his breath, eyes fixed on the other watchmen.
 
Crombe had been puffing harshly on the pipe throughout Feldor’s ranting, now he whipped the pipe out of his mouth and jabbed the end at Feldor angrily. “That’s about everything I want to hear from you for the next week, you simple-minded dullard. First you mocked my feelings for Sheiera, before you knew a single thing beyond her name. Then when I finally convinced you, off you went and told her like a bloody idiot!”
 
“Its Yer fault for not going for it! I wasn’t going to keep listening to yer wallowing!” Feldor retorted, leaning too far forward in his emphasis, and causing his helmet to slide forward again. He straightened it and glared at his companion.
 
“Your! The word is Your! And I never asked you to do any of that!” Crombe shot back angrily. “I wasn’t sure it was the right course of action yet, obviously I was right to be cautious.”
 
“Hang on, now! You can’t blame that whole fiasco on me! I’m not the one who got the hots for a drow! That one is your fault pal!”  Feldor declared with emphasis, one finger extended sharply towards Crombe. The willowy man stared at it, a look of intense rage contorting his otherwise well-groomed face.
 
Suddenly the look changed from rage to fear as a solid thud landed uncomfortably close to Feldor from behind. Crombe shrank back, spear held at the ready, but its quivering tip betrayed any attempt he could make to be threatening. Feldor could hear the breathing of whatever it was, on the wall a short distance behind him. The breathing was measured, confident, like something that had nothing to be afraid of. Feldor could not bring himself to share the sentiment.
 
This was how it always ended, why his father had told him to learn a trade, ‘watching is fine son, until you actually see something. There are horrors out there that’re better left undiscovered.’ But Feldor hadn’t listened, being a watchman wasn’t very hard, and his status as a living human meant he was already crème of the crop. Not that it mattered now, he supposed, as he watched Crombe inch backwards as inconspicuously as possible The Darkshire watchmen closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Keeping his eyes shut, he slowly turned around fully expecting his end to happen at any moment.
 
Nothing happened.
 
Slowly, Feldor peeked open one eye, whatever was about to kill him, it didn’t seem to want to do so quite yet. Before him stood an immense, violet-furred panther, easily as tall as himself. It stared him down with a nonchalance that Feldor found disturbing, but not so disturbing as the cloaked figure that straddled the giant feline. Feldor stared up at the expressionless skull, eyes wandering inevitably to the Ram-headed staff, the figure held casually in one hand. The skull-faced figure glanced down at Feldor, but said nothing.
 
“Yer a Skelerman!” Feldor blurted before he could stop himself. Immediately he expected to find himself smote by whomever or whatever had so quickly overcome the walls defenses. He shielded his head with his hands, only to feel his feet lifting off the ground. He gasped in surprise as he floated into the air, sliding sideways, until the top of the wall was no longer beneath him. The Cloaked Skeleton’s face remained impassive, a grin permanently plastered. Feldor wanted to cry out, to beg, but he found himself without a voice.
 
“Two things, you sniveling grunt! First, you will run and fetch whoever is in charge of this farce of a town, and second, the word is ‘Your’.”  As the Skeleton finished speaking, Feldor began sinking. Slowly at first, then faster. He fell the last fifteen feet to the cobblestone below. He scrambled to his feet, and fled as the Skeleton’s maniacal laughter echoed across the early morning air. Feldor ran in search of the captain of the guard, surely Atelos could handle this invader, right?

[Skeletor]

Skeletor stared down at the buildings of Darkshire from atop the wall. A short distance up the street, the militia were assembling what amounted to a shield wall. Almost twenty of Darkshire’s finest were arranging their defensive perimeter, their cohesion surprising given the time of day and their lack of warning. Skeletor’s face grinned as always as he watched the soldiers clamoring into position. It was as easy as it had ever been. No matter if he had been stripped of his powers and dumped into yet another alien reality, he was still the one in control, and he was still the one who would conquer.
 
With a nudge he guided Panthor into a powerful leap, bounding down to the cobblestones below with a grace no bipedal being could possess. Panthor landed with a muted thud, tail swishing to balance with Skeletor atop his back. The Warlord stared down the soldiers with his empty sockets. “Greetings, warriors! I hear that you have prepared a welcoming party for your new ruler!” he cackled at the assembly. “I, Skeletor, Overlord of Evil and Ruler of Eternia, hereby lay claim to Darkshire! Let any who would dispute my rule, face me now in one on one combat!” The Skull-faced conquer proclaimed.
 
There was some unease in the Darkshire forces, and the shield-wall’s rigidity wavered as men and women glanced towards their compatriots, none feeling especially inclined to duel the unknown prime. There was a moment of silence, then one of the militia pointed towards something that Skeletor could not see, and a cheer went up along the line. Skeletor dismounted Panthor, as a red plumed helm crested the line of militia. The defenders of Darkshire respectfully parted as a statuesque paradigm warrior strode through. A large curved shield was rested easily in one arm, and a bronze-tipped spear, its weight evident in the heft of its sway.

“You want a Challenger? I can provide that, have no worry on that account.” The hulking figure of a man bellowed as he approached. Skeletor would have grinned more, were he able. To some observer’s the Spartan’s appearance could seem odd, but to Skeletor it looked exactly as he expected. The Warrior closed the gap between Skeletor and the shield-wall, dropping into a combat stance with ease. “You would threaten the people I have pledged to protect, now prepare to face the outcome of your choice.”

Skeletor cackled and swirled his havoc staff in the air, and a circle of flames swashed out, encircling the two in a ring of fire. “Then let us fight, without anyone to interfere!” Skeletor shouted, throwing his head back amidst cackling laughter. His mirth caught in non-existent throat however as he caught sight of his opponent, who had already closed the distance between them, large shield up and spear braced as he charged. In surprise Skeletor released a volley of magical blasts as he backpedaled, but the majority of the missiles simply impacted ineffectively against the large shield, and the ones that struck him barely seemed to faze the warrior as he approached. Skeletor dodged to the side as the Spartan pulled up short and delivered a volley of quick thrusts that the Warlock barely evaded. Leaping backwards, Skeletor began charging his Havoc staff, the eldritch energies swirling around the ram-skull head. He continued to backpedal, instantly regretting the circle of flames he had created. His opponent had claimed the center of the ring, and continued to press Skeletor without relenting. The Warlock gave a cry and released a concentrated blast of power at the Spartan. The hulking warrior grunted and leaned into his massive shield, his feet skidding on the cobblestones as he weathered the blast.

“How do you like that? You Tin-headed Meatbag!” Skeletor taunted, though his boasting dwindled as the Spartan straightened up, his shield smoking but otherwise looking practically unharmed. With a cry the man attacked again, the attack coming almost too quickly for Skeletor to see. With a desperate sweep, he managed to bring his havoc staff across and deflect the point of the spear away. His opponent did not stop the charge however, slamming the massive shield directly into Skeletor and knocking him to the ground. "Gah!" The warlock cried as his havoc staff skidded across the cobblestones and away from his grasp. Skeletor started to get up but found his action halted by the tip of an iron spear. He stared up at the warrior, the Spartan’s face was cold and impassive. Skeletor lifted a hand to fire magic, but a sharp stomp of a boot trapped his forearm painfully, pinning the arm back to the ground. “Wait! We can talk about this!” the panicking warlock shouted, but Atelos did not acknowledge his plea.

“Your gauntlet has been met, Lich. When you return to the Fountain, know that Darkshire is not a home for you, nor any of your kin.” The Spartan raised the spear and prepared to strike, “Begone from my city, monster.” The Spartan’s stab was interrupted however, as the massive purple form of Panthor barreled into the Defender of Darkshire, sending him sprawling. Atelos got to his feet quickly, using his spear for support. "A one on one duel, eh?" he spat. 

Skeletor immediately mounted the cat, summoned his havoc staff, and turned towards the walls. This fight was a loosing front; It was time to call a retreat. “You win this time, Ro-Man!” he shouted and spurred Panthor away. The great cat easily cleared the flames and bounded away. He would plan his assault more carefully next time. He needed minions, distractions to give him opportunities to trap his opponents. Panthor’s powerful muscles leapt atop the wall, and Skeletor glanced back as he prepared to escape. His eye sockets widened slightly in surprise as a spear, expertly thrown from Atelos’s grasp sailed towards them both. The spear struck true, piercing directly through Skeletor’s left thigh and into Panthor’s flank. The cat spasmed in pain, and the leap that should have taken them out of danger instead simply pitched them over the battlements.  They fell, Panthor managing to land on his feet, but Skeletor falling awkwardly to the ground nearby, the spear’s shaft snapping as he struck. Skeletor grunted in pain, "Watch what you're doing you flea-bitten coward!" he shouted as he crawled back into Panthor’s saddle.

They had been attacked while fleeing. The thought that a defender would push the conflict, and clearly intended to kill shook Skeletor slightly. The people of this realm were less foolish than the Masters of the Universe; he would have to be more careful about how he conquered this strange world. They were not even safe yet, Skeletor realized to his horror. Who was to say that Ro-Man would not continue to chase them? There would be no way of knowing when he was able to stop running! It was madness! With a much meeker, more cautious pace, the great cat and the warlock departed into the obscuring fog.

[Skeletor]

Skeletor rode Panthor through the mist, unsure of how to proceed. He had been utterly bested by Ro-Man. He had no Snake Mountain, no stronghold from which to plan his revenge. No minions which he could blame for his attack’s failure… He was forced to accept the fact that in this new prison of the Elders, there were others whose power rivalled his own. Skeletor ground his mandibles in thought as Panthor reached what seemed to be a hill-top of some sort. This wasn’t entirely unheard of, Skeletor thought. In the ancient days of Eternia, his master Hordak had failed to completely dominate Eternia. He would simply need to bide his time, perhaps he could find some minions to lead. Then, when he had his army settled, he could easily return to his rightful place.
 
Feeling slightly better about his prospects, the Overlord of Evil rode on through the morning. He had no aim, no real goal. He was simply waiting for the next opportunity to present itself. As he rode through the day, the fog seemed to dissipate very slightly, though it still clung to his panther’s feet, obscuring the ground on which he tred. Panthor pulled to a halt, hackles raised, and fangs bared.  Skeletor brought his havoc staff to bare, watching carefully trying to determine what threat was approaching.
 
From out of the nearby fog, a gangly canine form prowled towards him, eyes gleaming with a surprising amount of intelligence. Skeletor’s continually impassive face regarded the werewolf carefully. “Did you get lost, Wolfling? You won't find help here.” he asked.
 
The lycanthrope gave a throaty chuckle. “If you say so, Lich. Should you happen to seek retribution to be dealt to the fiends that inhabit Darkshire, my master Illidan Stormrage would invite you to join him at his court in Poenari castle. We are to march on the town within the fortnight!”  The Werewolf loped away into the fog, leaving Skeletor to ponder his options.
 
He had just tried to attack Darkshire, and was well aware of the strength of its defenses. However, this Stormrage character seemed to have at least some forces on his side. In fact, with minions to lead the attack he would even be able to claim his rightful victory over Ro-Man once and for all! He would simply have to watch Stormrage for any signs of weakness, any crack in the armor would be enough for Skeletor to wrest control of the army for his own purposes… just the thought of such an army under his command was appealing.
 
With a haunting cackle bursting from his lipless mouth, Skeletor rode towards Poenari castle. It was time for him to return to power.