Proudly, I march onward through the depths of the labyrinth. My janky sword is down at my side, held tightly in my deathly grip. Not like I have a choice. See, uh, the thing is… skeletons are held together by magic, right? Well, there’s a slight issue with the whole process, namely that anything we were holding when we died, became a part of us when we were reanimated. So whoever I am now, died with a sword in their hand. The sword is now attached to my hand, as tightly and as snuggly as any other bone being held in place on my rattly body.

 

I mean, it has its advantages, you know? You can never be disarmed. Unless you are uh, well, literally disarmed. That can happen too. It’s a rough dungeon, man, tell you what. Anyways some of the others have, like, clubs and axes and spears and stuff. Only a few monsters have swords, so it’s a lucky spawn, all things considered. My perfect day.

 

Ah! I’m so happy.

 

The bad mood that I had just a moment before, I now seem to have managed to shrug off. Skeleton vibes are strong stuff. I have an innate desire to spook. To haunt and to rattle and to shriek. These are all fun things to do, so it’s hard to be upset. Plus my mental visions of an epic, overly dramatic battle with the hero inspire me to press onward. I don’t have a lot of stuff to do down here, okay? It’s important to have fun in life, especially in my life.

 

Have I gotten exhausted from it all before?

 

Sure.

 

Beaten down? Depressive? Sad? Lonely?

 

Sure.

 

That’s just normal life in the dungeon, guy. You can’t avoid it. Though, I think that if you are in the dungeon or not, that it doesn’t matter. That’s just how it is to be a part of the living, that’s the bad part. But you know what? You can’t focus on that stuff. It’s too easy. It’s too easy for me to think ‘oh, poor me, I die and am reborn every odd day or so. Oh boo-hoo.’ No. See. I get stabbed a lot. Burned a lot. Crushed, smashed, smushed, splatted, splooted, get, got and goned. All of those things and more. That’s my deal. My cosmic bread and butter, the role I have to fill. So does that suck? Yeah, sure, sometimes. Well, being stabbed sucks almost all of the time but, you know.

 

I try to focus on the better things, like this shriek that leaves my mouth as I narrate my thoughts and walk down the labyrinth, searching for any form of discarded armor or materials lying around. There is little to find so far. We don’t get a lot of foot traffic down here, you see. Am I rambling again? I guess. That’s okay.

 

Oh? I see something lying in the darkness ahead, a vague blob illuminated by the orange shine of my magical sword. Well, I can see in the dark as a skeleton anyways. Pretty decently at least. Anyways, what is that? I walk closer to the thing laying before me, the odd heap. It is a skeleton. Not one of our guys, not one of the hero party either, obviously. It’s just a normal, for sure really-really dead, skeleton. But what is more interesting, it is exactly what I am searching for. My eyes go wide at the site, metaphorically, of course.

 

I lean down and hold my glowing blade over the ancient body. It has been dead for a long time, the meat long since rotted or picked off clean by the dungeon spiders. Dust and the wear of many years cover the peaceful bones, but they only add an additional beauty to them. Like the shine of a crimson sunset over a flowery meadow. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some weirdo who’s into death and stuff like that, okay? It’s the skeleton brain, it makes me like dead things. And why do I feel so poetic today? Ugh.

 

My point is, the corpse- Wait. Can you call skeletons corpses? Uh, I feel like the word ‘corpse’ has fleshy connotations to it. Also- No. Wait. Meadow? Sunset? What? I have no idea what either of those things look like. Ah, whatever. Back to my point, because my mind is going haywire today, apparently. The body is at rest. Deceased. No more.

 

It looks like it used to be a caster. They wear the remnants of an old robe, faded purple with geometric depictions woven into it with a golden thread. It reminds me of the priestesses’ robe in a sense, but the decorations are different. Cruder. The work is less intricate, more… rough. Old. As if it was made by a person not able to work as detailed, or maybe just made by methods that weren’t as advanced. This is an old body. How old? Dunno. Old-old. It feels weird to look at. It is like I am seeing the body of an ancient. Some long forgotten person found generations later. Who are you, strange dead-person? Why are you here? Why are you in the middle of the labyrinth and why do you have such a sweet robe? I ask all of these questions, while I proverbially grave-rob the body.

 

I want the robe.

 

Now, I don’t know if that seems crass or not. But you need to understand that it’s fair game down here in the dungeon. Dead is dead and they aren’t using it anymore. Now if this was one of my compatriot skeletons? Risen and resurrected? I wouldn’t take their stuff. Looting other trash-mobs is against my moral code.

 

The bones rattle and fall apart as I plunder the corpse. The robe is covered in holes, many large chunks of it are missing. If I had to guess, then I’d say this happened back when they were alive, looks like somebody had a rough time.

 

This is gonna be a great life, I can tell, as I hold up my prize in contrast.

 

The material is rough, but it seems to have been well crafted. Apart from all the stab holes, there are no loose ends or frays anywhere. Nice! I slip it on. It is a little awkward to get the sleeve over my sword, but I manage.

 

Hmm… I dunno. Looking down, I hold my arms wide. It seems a little… loose. I scratch my head. Skeleton casters, who are also down here somewhere in the labyrinth, have robes of their own. But they fit better. I wonder if the dungeon-master tailored them? What a cool guy. No, this won’t do. I am disappointed. I can’t fight the hero while wearing a dress like this. What if he laughs at me? I would die.

 

I sigh and take the robe off again, this time a little more indiscriminately. The sleeve gets caught on my blade and is cut apart. Woops. I look down at the bones below, staring up at me in judgment. I feel bad, I took their robe, so now I should at least use it. It would be a waste otherwise but…

 

I rack my non-existent brain, searching for an answer. I am the skeleton champion, I have to look the part. I had to look intimidating, like the big-bad. The dungeon-master is counting on me, I don’t want to let him down. Plus I really want to have a cool fight with the hero so… wait. The hero. My mind goes to the image of his long, swishing cape, yes. YES.

 

I lay the tattered robe down on the filthy ground, next to the body and set to work, tearing and cutting it strategically with my blade. A few minutes later, I rise up and proudly hold out the results of my work. Dramatically I swish the long piece of cloth around behind me and tie the straps, which I made from the sleeves, around my shoulders, looping them through my collarbone so that they stay in place. Yeees!

 

Proudly I cast out my right arm to my side in a dramatic pose, the cape billowing out from the swing of the motion, the rusted aura of my sword leaking out from beneath the other side which partially conceals my front-left. Yeeees! I wish I could see myself, but I am willing to bet that I look pretty fabulous, tell you what. Thanks dead guy, I owe you one! I look down to the bones, they look back to me. Awkward.

 

The body has nothing else to offer. However, I do owe them one for this bounty. Bending down, I collect the bones together onto a neat pile and place the skull on top. There are no graves in the dungeon, this is the closest thing that I can offer. I don’t know who you were, friend, but I appreciate your taste in fashion. As I rise to my feet, the purple cape with the golden embossment flows behind me, the frayed depiction of a sun in the center. The material moves with such dynamic billowing, as if imbued with a magic wind to make it and myself absolutely ridiculously fabulous. Let me tell you, guy, you haven’t lived until the day comes when you absolutely pull off wearing a cape. It’s a rare day that many will never experience, but you need to follow your dreams, friend. Loot that corpse. Fight that hero. Wear that cape.

 

I am happy. I am incredibly happy. I swing my sword around from side to side, feeling the cloth move behind me. It makes me feel strong. Powerful. Just knowing that it is there makes me feel like the hero himself. I close my eyes, in a manner of speaking and go through my motions. Swinging and ducking and weaving, as if I was the great hero himself, fighting an onslaught together with my friends. I feel happy. Energized. Today is a good day!

 

I open my eyes and, in horror, see others staring back at me. They saw me. They saw everything. Oh gods! I stand upright awkwardly and look at my fellow skeletons, who all stand around me in a tight knit ring. All of their not-eyes locked in my direction, like the soulless swarm that they are. I know they can’t judge me, but I can’t help but feel like they are anyways. This is awkward, embarrassing.

 

We all stand there in silence for a while. They wait for my commands. I need to play it cool, stand proud, I can’t let them see my shame. I am the champion, you see. There’s a sort of chain of command here, down in the dungeon. The dungeon-master is all the way on top. Then come the sub-bosses, one for each species of monster in the dungeon. Finally, beneath the sub-bosses, are the champions, the elites. One of which I happen to be today. Sub-bosses tend to stay in their arenas. So outside of them, we call the shots. What this means is that my skeleton compatriots are here, waiting for my orders. However, I have no orders to give. The fight won't be for a while. I look at them, they are a rag-tag bunch. Their weapons are mixed in their variety. The odd one or two have a bag, one I am sure is full of coins by the sound of it. Poor guys.

 

Okay. Well, whatever. Play the part. Play the part. I slap my cheeks with my hands to bring some flush to my face. The sword strikes my hollow skull and I remember that I have no skin or cheeks at all, really. They saw that too. I shake it off. Play it cool! I am used to shame. I cast out my right arm again, making the movement from before to let my cape fly dramatically out to the side as I walk forward through the crowd as if nothing ever happened. Silently, they all turn in spooky unison to face me and then they follow in my footsteps. The sounds of thousands of rattling bones filling the air, echoing from wall to wall. The march of a deathborn army, led by a fake, an impostor. I am glad they are undead, that they can’t judge or think. The thought of leading a goblin group is unnerving to me

 

The knowledge that I am leading them all into their deaths always haunts me. I might be ready to embrace it, but they sure never are.