A trail by moon rays lit

[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.