And, sure as the nine hells, from the shadow walked out a feebly clanking, quivering, shaking armor, steel and tarnished bronze and stained copper with gold trim choked by centuries of cobwebs and dust. He wore no helm, but a gide golden crown studded with many green gemstones.
His sword gleamed maliciously as he brought the blade up against us, but that was nothing compared to the light that shone inside its empty eye sockets.
The skeletal figure hissed something. Maybe a threat, or a last warning, or maybe I just imagined it.
"...High King Askrial." Karendi whispered, pale as a blanket. I eyed him: He didn't look in good shape. I'm no magic expert, but I know that even sorcerors have limits, and he must have nearly reached them after all the zombies, skeletons and gargoyles that guarded the previous two floors of the tomb.
Elea looked even more distressed: we were in a corridor, so her mobility was seriously compromised, and anyway her knife, however magic, wasn't going to do much against an armored skeleton that didn't even have vitals to stab. And she was looking behind herself, at the escape route, more than she was ogling the jewel-studded crown. Bad sign.
I sighed heavily, sword drawn, and stepped forward, not too keen on taking on a warrior skeleton alone, but still pretty confident in my swordsmanship.
If only I knew.