A trail by moon rays lit

[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.