Left! Right! Dodge! Thrust!

I swing my rusted sword around, not really sure about what it is that I am doing, other than having fun. See, the truth is, I never actually learned how to fight with a sword. Or an axe, or anything really. It’s just one of those things I have to learn by actually doing it and well, there isn’t really a lot of doing to be done down here, you know? I can’t really fight the other trash-mobs to practice. The only ones who would even consider it are the goblins, but that’s a loaded proposition. See, in goblin society training is awkward, because goblins fight to the death no matter what the issue is. So you can imagine that sparring sessions get out of hand very quickly. Ah, dang. Now I told you more about the goblins, I need to not do that. I want to save them for when it happens.

Anyways. The other skeletons here, for example, wouldn’t give me the time of day, whatever that is. I have no idea.

See, they wouldn’t really be interested in sparring, seeing as they’re mindless automata. So that leaves the hero. The hero is the only one left in the dungeon with a sword. The only sentient, aware being that I can spar with in good conscience. I mean sure, it’s a fight to the death too and I always lose. But you need to take a few hits and get a few bumps and bruises to get better at stuff, right?

I swing my sword around more through the air, practicing my motions. Our fights have never been long. Especially when I try to get up close. Usually one of the others, the wizard girl, the priestess or some of my other friends who I haven’t gotten to show you yet, they blast me into oblivion before I even get to swing once. So the few times that I’ve been a skeleton swordsman, I do my best to get to the hero. To see up close how it is that he’s so good with a sword. I mean, you don’t get to be the hero by chance, right? It’s not just some random cosmic selection of some guy who then gets incredible powers that he never earned out of the blue, right? Some dweeb with no real life, who gets chosen by the universe to be loved and adored and to be strong all of the sudden. No. That would be really convoluted. No god would come up with such a stupid idea. No universe couldn’t be so absurd.

No. He earned it. The title. The skills. I am sure of it. I mean I have no evidence, but I think so. He’s such a great guy. I bet he worked really hard. Did his best every day. Never gave up. I aspire to be like him, the hero. The rusted flame glows brighter in the darkness, a small fluctuation in the magic. I know it sounds weird, since he’s my natural enemy, me being a trash-mob and all. But game recognizes game, you dig? I might not be the hero, but I’ll be a trash-mob worthy of fighting him. The blade slices through the air. I enjoy watching the orange trail it leaves behind. It’s very dramatic. Oh man, I really want to fight him now.

See, that’s why I always watch the hero, every time I see him. Even when I don’t get to be the one to fight him, I watch him. Out of the corner of my eyes. With my dying breaths, I watch him. No, I’m not being a creepy stalker, okay? I’m learning. Studying. He’s the only swordsman around here. Only swordsmen can be heroes. Why? Don’t know. Them’s the rules of the dungeon, guy. Have you ever seen a hero with a lance? No, you haven’t have you? Lancers are second best. The wing men. Casters? Third place. Fourth, if they’re a healer. Sorry priestess, you’re first in my heart. Thieves and sneaks and all of those cloak and dagger fellas? Last place. Swordsmen are the pinnacle of heroism. That’s just how it is. That’s just how the story goes. Swordswomen too, that’s fine. We don’t care who stabs who down here, really. It’s all good, friend.

I know that it’s absurd. I know it isn’t my place. I swing the sword again, over and over, honing my technique. I know it isn’t my place, but I want to fight the hero. I want to beat the hero. That’s my dream. Is that selfish? I guess. I’m just a trash-mob. I mean, not that any of us could take him or any of them down at all, really. It’s just a dream. I mean, even if anyone here could do it, it would be one of the sub-bosses, if not even the big guy himself. It’s not my place.

But I want it. I want to fight the hero. I want to beat him and win. And most importantly I want to look cool while doing it, which is why I practice with the sword. Swords are cool stuff, guy. Rare down here for trash-mobs these days. That’s why I will do this until they get here. While they are upstairs killing the fairy-mother, I will study the blade. While they breach the goblin outpost, I will study the blade. While they come through the labyrinth, I will study the blade.

And then when the hero is in front of me, I want to have a totally awesome final showdown. One on one. Man versus man-creature-thing. Good vs evil. I’m not evil, obviously, but I’m taking the role on for the sake of this metaphor, okay? I’m a champion this time though, I might actually have a shot. Not a shot at beating him, of course. But a shot to reach him. A way to initiate the duel. See, I have a little trick. A secret bit of human knowledge that I have gathered over my long life. A tidbit that I’ve kept hidden from you, friend. Something that I’ve been saving for this day. A surefire way to secure a one on one with the prideful hero. What is it you ask? Well, you’ll find out when he arrives, tell you what. Don’t want to tell you all of my secrets. But it’s not that exciting, honestly.

Nothing down here ever is.

I continue my practice. I don’t know many moves except for those I’ve watched from upfront. But those that I have seen, I try to recreate, I try to mimic as precisely as possible.

Wouldn’t it be funny if the hero notices I am using his own moves against him? Then he’d be all ‘Huh? Who are you and how do you know my super secret techniques?’ And I’d be there looking all evil and cool and just laugh in my skeleton voice with my evil glowing sword and eyes. Oh man, that would be the best. Wait… I look down at my naked bony skeleton body. This feels inappropriate. I will be fighting the hero himself, that’s ignoring all the ladies in the room. I can’t be walking around naked like this. Especially as the champion. I need to represent my people, my brothers and sisters in undeath. They might not be alive or sentient or any of that, but they deserve to be led into battle by the best dressed skeleton in the labyrinth. It’s the least, no, the only thing that I can do for them.

I look around the dark labyrinth and start walking in any random direction, it’s not like I know where I’m going, okay? As a trash-mob in the labyrinth, you just kind of spawn anywhere inside of it, so it’s a little difficult to figure out where you are. But at the same time, it doesn’t really matter which way you go, you know? My bones rattle as they strike the stone floor beneath me. See, skeletons are weird creatures, as you might have noticed. Skeletons here in our dungeon are all exclusively human skeletons. Men, women, everyone is welcome to die down here. We’re basically just piles of bones held together by the magic of the dungeon. Dungeon-magic, for short. As a champion, I have a glowing magic sword, but otherwise I’m pretty much buck naked here, guy. As naked as a skeleton can be. I am unsure if I was a man or a woman before this body died.

I look down, my hip-bones are wide. A girl, I suppose? Dunno. That’s fine. Maybe I can seduce the hero, haha.

No, just joking -

Unless…

No! I shake my head. He’s a cool dude and I guess I kind of see him as a role model. But yeah. Okay. Topic change. So, skeletons. Ahem. Yeah. We’re held together by the magic of the dungeon, having no meat or muscles or any of that. We’re surprisingly robust. We have no sense of pain or any general awareness, obviously. We’re just mindless things like all the other undead. Point ‘a’ to point ‘z’. One plus one is two. That’s all that happens in an undead mind, apart from my own. But yeah, robust, considering we are nothing but ancient bones. Those just so happen to be our weakness though. Skeletons can be shattered apart, the bones will hold together, but they can be broken apart with enough force. Break enough of them and poof, no more skeleton.

You might have noticed the shrieking earlier. Skeletons shriek. Why? How? I have no lungs of any kind, but I can make air leave my meatless mouth, no, that’s not a euphemism and it would be disgusting if it was. I guess it’s magic? Sure. Like I said, you don’t know how something works? Magic. Easy bet. Anyways yeah, so when a skeleton shrieks, the others shriek too. Why? Dunno. It’s pretty cool though, I think it might be an intimidation thing? I suppose it’s pretty spooky, when you have a horde of shrieking skeletons charging your way. I suppose the dungeon-master wouldn’t have given us the ability to do so, if it didn’t serve a purpose. Dark-lord bless his heart.

I keep practicing my swings as I walk. You need to be able to fight while moving too, you see. I mimic every gesture that I have ever seen the hero make. Every swing and every grimace, every grunt and punch and slice and slash and jump and clash. I suppose I’d look like quite the fool, if you were watching me. But nobody is watching me. Nobody can see me. Nobody can hear me. So I am free to be an idiot all on my own. When was the last time I saw the hero? Ah, I was a dark-fairy, I remember. That was a good death, a terrible life. But a good death. It all evens out in the end friend, remember that.

I wish he had fought me. I sigh.

Woah.

Sorry. I am always freaked out that I can do that. Being an undead is weird, okay? But I guess in that life, my dark-fairy phase, I wasn’t exactly worth fighting anymore and heck, even as a dark-fairy, he would have just swatted me. Still. A little attention sometimes would be nice, you know? I shake my head, I am being silly. Sorry. It’s the skeleton blood. Skeletons are silly people. I continue my prancing down the dark labyrinth, my mind following the vision of our last encounter. I copy his movements, doing my best to ignore the sad face of the priestess in my mind’s eye. Real puppy face that one, you know? Makes me feel bad to think about.

Holding my sword back in a dramatic pose behind myself, still in my left hand where it is firmly attached; I extend out my right palm into the air before me and make a dramatic sort of squeaky grunting noise. I am copying the hero's menu pose. Why? Dunno. Seems like the right thing to do. Something shifts. Something cold. A ripple runs up from my chest out towards my hand, the bones making up my body rising and falling, as if a wave of humming energy was passing through them.

Huh? I look around, confused and dazed. I feel odd. I feel things I shouldn’t be able to feel as an undead. I feel cold. Lonely. Old. Forgotten. I shake my head, wondering where these random, inky, melancholic, black thoughts have come from, all of the sudden, wondering what that odd sensation was just now.

There is nothing. Nobody. I am alone as always. I raise my eyes to the murky blackness surrounding me. The light-less world of the lowest floor of the dungeon is all that I see. For the first time, I feel the oppressive weight of the ceiling above my head. The thought of a dozen floors above, if not a hundred more, sealing me down here in this eternal prison weighs heavy on my heart.

I shake my head. I don’t have time to wax poetic. There’s work to do. I shriek to brighten the mood and march on proudly with my bony head held high, as hundreds of deathly screams return to me.

Their squeaky voices are proof that I am not alone.