A trail by moon rays lit

[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?