A skeleton was wrenched from the cold wall of death in the dirt deep beneath the surface of an unknown world. But, he was not just a skeleton. In him was a human mind, the mind of a man who had a mission, a dream, a goal, an identity; but at the same time, he lacked one crucial component, an ineffable trait which separated him from the humanity he surely left behind. He lacked a name.

The nameless skeleton wandered through the dim lit corridors, following many steps behind the gruff and unspoken brute he freed on a goodwilled whim just a moment ago. The strange place was not welcoming to strangers. There were no bearings for him to gain. He was lost in a maze without an exit, it seemed, and thus he had no choice but to follow the first one who bothered to move.

While on his walk with the dead, he felt his fingertips scratch against the surface of his skull. It was a strange feeling, not at all like what he was used to. But then, he’d forgotten his own name, and likewise, the sensations of feeling skin and warmth were similarly distant. Nostalgic feelings of a lifetime ago that he wasn’t sure were wholly real.

He traced his hand along the cold earthen walls to feel them, and felt that they were full. Like his hand was braced against a membrane full of water. Though it was solid, he felt some amount of life within it. Not life, but something different. Life like his: life from Death.

I hope nothing else comes out swinging. Or, no one. I guess we’re all like...this.

He inspected his hands again. They were all bone, disconnected, and flexile. Slight pins and shards of bone connected them all together, like puzzle pieces, in the absence of tendons or sinews that normally held all the tiny parts and fragments of the whole hand.

His fingers, likewise, were hinged together on an interlocking of many small parts. He was more of a mechanism made of bone than a human skeleton. As far as he knew, though, it was a natural consequence of the magical birth that made him. Had he the chance to inspect the other skeletons he may have found them similar. If they let him.

He rubbed his chin next and ran the tip of his finger along the bony protrusions out of his jaw. He tapped along and counted his teeth. There were no gaps up until the edge of the natural jaw line where it smoothened out into regular bone. As far as he could gather without a mirror, he was truly a fleshless skeleton. The realization made him rest his palm against his head, again.

I miss my hair.

He scratched at his chin.

Now I’ll never get to see how I’d look with a full shut-in style beard….

I don’t even know what kind of ambition I should be aiming for. What Skeletons want out of life - or whatever my existence is now.

Without knowing, all he could do was follow. Eventually, the skeleton ahead reached a turning point, a crossing in the underground roads that split both of their decisions down three more unknown ways. The brutish skeleton paused for a moment, then bravely chose the left path.

The nameless, thinking skeleton peered down each hall to make a more concerted decision. The left way was the darkest. The former witless guide disappeared immediately into a dense shadow. The way straight ahead was similarly darkened with softer looking untrodden ground. Not a frequently traveled place. The right path was lit and the walls were full of holes.

The sophist skeleton went toward the light, as his human mind naturally favored it. He walked through the tufts and mounds of spilled dirt which birthed so many more of his kind. He stepped over the dirt carefully, as if he was afraid of disturbing the personal property.

He reached the end of the hall once more without encountering a single skeletal soul, but could tell a great procession had come through before. Every mound was disheveled in the same direction. Bony footprints with pointed toes all pointed the way he came. Down the darker path.

Why don’t I have homing instincts? It seems like everything down here knows its way around but me. Granted, I can get lost in a department store so I don’t think I’m a good fit for living in a catacomb.

The skeleton wandered back the way he came and followed into the deep darkness, which wasn’t quite as dark as he expected. Everything around him within his immediate reach was visible to him in a deep, gray veneer. He had highly detailed darkvision, but lacked range. He strode forward with cautious determination and caught up to the next closest skeleton in the line - the one he helped before.

He took a step back and respected the larger skeleton’s personal space. There were a few notable differences that he was able to see from up close. The other skeleton had much broader features. It was taller, and sharper. More spikes and angular areas of its body. The shoulder blades looked more bladey. The special cord was more spiney. The whole entity just looked more violent.

It was unnatural. Moreso than a walking skeleton should be. It gave the introspective skeleton a moment of self consciousness as he continued to inspect his own body with nervous palms and finger strokes. Not that there was anything to caress or grope. Those feelings weren’t present at all.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

At length, they reached the end of the dark, and the end of the catacombs entirely, it seemed. The hallway widened and led out into a much larger tomb-like area. Coffins and sarcophagi were lined and rowed from one end of the room to the other. Instead of dirt walls, the walls were stacked with bricks that were all chipped and uneven, and filled in with ancient petrified clay.

The light sconces returned, but in a changed form. No longer shattered skulls holding resin, instead what hung were proper torches that seemed to burn with everlasting embers that lit the tomb with a low orange. More skeletons meandered about. Some stood in corners with their faces turned away. Others shuffled ahead with lacking effort. The brutal skeleton pushed them out of his way.

Dick.

The passing, good-hearted skeleton tried to tend to the others, but they had an odd look to them. Odd, even for skeletons. There was a lack of motion in them. They struggled to move their reanimated bones. When they tried it seemed as though they were quick to fall apart. Chunks of their hands were left behind and their bones rattled as they struggled to their feet.

“Take it easy,” he said quietly. He helped one up by holding it under its arms. The arms popped off very easily and the rest of it sank down with a dry heave of a sigh. The kind skeleton lowered himself and laid the arms down beside it, hoping they would reattach, or something.

He was clearly out of his depth after discovering the variety of levels of mindlessness in undeath which he didn’t share. There were those single-minded and devoted to an unknown pursuit, those who struggled to cope with their own existence, and he was somewhere between and above them, elevated but still confusingly trapped in the middle; ignorant, yet enlightened.

I hope someone shows up to explain all this soon….

Then again, if there is anyone down here, it’s probably another skeleton.

The notion perturbed the enlightened skeleton. Receiving instruction or lecture from one of his own kind, from another skeleton that could talk, would simultaneously depose his heightened status. If a skeleton other than him could talk, then what was so special about him? He’d just be a lost, chattering monster among monsters, worth just slightly more than those who still hadn’t learned past crawling.

The halls continued to widen in the brighter reaches of the catacomb. The coffins were arranged in various states of accessibility. Many were cracked open. Some still had skeletons within that were immobile, possibly by choice. They had chosen to stay put and avoid whatever was out there for them. A fate that the passer-by had to consider on his ardent march forward.

The scenery changed again as he reached a wide open room with thick columns all around, a dry cistern of some kind that expanded out in every direction. Every other column had a sconce, and under each sconce was a gathering of skeletons. It was an assembly space with cavernous walls and echoing air. And all that carried through the air were the sounds of rattling bones.

Dozens of walking skeletons made it that far. Many of them were as ambulatory and articulate as he was, and a few others were the shivering mindless that could barely hold their own heads up. No words were spoken that he could tell. He remained to be the only one that could talk.

What’ll they think of me if I just start chatting? “Hi my name is -” Okay, don’t start with something I don’t know. If I try to introduce myself and fail, even if they are intelligent they’ll just think I’m one of the dumb ones. So what should I do? I guess I’ll just follow whatever looks popular.

The mindful skeleton perused the floor and inspected the various undead to see what patterns he could recognize and pull from. Most of the mindless gathered together and were avoided by the more dextrous and agile. Those who could walk in straight lines formed groups that conglomerated into great crowds. Then, there were the distinct looking skeletons that stood out from the rest. Whether by choice or by formation, there was a class of skeletons with bodies unlike all the rest.

The brutal jagged-boned wall-brother was among them, as well as one skeleton that looked - in short terms - fat with greatly thickened areas around the legs and shoulders. Other skeletons who lacked certain distinction made themselves distinct with dressings. One leaned against a column and had a tattered cloth wrapped around his jaw like a scarf. Another had four sets of arms, with two being force-fed into his shoulder joints that hung limp at his sides, likely confiscated from a broken-willed crawler.

There was a caste of sorts. A graduation of will powers. There were the senseless and those with some sense among them, for whatever reason. It gave the skeleton some small hope that maybe one of them, possibly, was in the same situation as him. That they, too, could remember a human life, but lacked a proper human name.

He had one word that he could rely on. One key phrase that, if recognized, would bond him to another and enable him to find a kindred spirit from across the worlds. With hope in his physically-absent heart, he approached one of the strangers and whispered:

“Earth?”

The hooded skeleton turned his way and froze up. The courteous skeleton waited for a response. The stranger turned away, a curt denial. But at least he didn’t attack.

So speaking isn’t impossible. They just don’t care.

He tried to tour the room and shared clandestine whispers with any skeleton that looked like it had an idea of what it was doing there. He simply said “Earth”, often with a rising tone of inquisition, and waited. None replied in kind or with excitement. The four-armed skeleton cackled at him, then turned to cackle at something else. He finally reached the end of the line and was faced with the skeleton he pulled from the wall.

“Earth?”

The sharp skeleton sneered at him - gave him an upturned look as if he had a nose to glare down with his distant, red-stars for eyes. It was the, in the dark, that the skeleton noticed that clearly important difference.

Then, the room was overtaken by the rattling of bones - not against other bones, but against something else. The jangling of boney material echoing inside a metal vessel. A bell of brass and bone rang out, calling the attention of the room to a single point where two glinting, orange eyes shone out in the dark. A hooded, robed specter of a skeleton emerged from a dark corner on an elevated platform. A herald of some higher order.

It seemed like everyone was in place for the next step of their ruinous creation.