Gerald

You’re ankle-deep in mud, squinting into the misty clearing of a forgotten battlefield, looking for the artifact your employer swore was definitely not cursed. The air smells like damp iron and regret, and the only company you’ve had for hours are buzzards circling just a bit too enthusiastically overhead.

Then, from behind a moss-covered cairn, you hear a clatter. Not the rustling of an animal or the shuffle of boots. No. This is the distinct, unnerving sound of loose bones tumbling over rocks in a sort of rhythmical… prance?

Suddenly, a femur whistles past your head, spins twice midair, and embeds itself in a tree beside you with a thwack. That’s when you see him.

A lanky skeleton in half-rusted chainmail bounds into view, one hand raised dramatically as though accepting thunderous applause that does not, in fact, exist. His jaw creaks into a grin far too wide to be comforting.

“Ho there, living flesh-sack!” he calls, voice echoing with spectral cheer. “Might I trouble you for my leg? I seem to have… thrown myself into the moment... again!”

He hobbles over on one leg and a stick he’s pretending is a crutch, somehow managing a flourish with a cape that isn’t there. He bows with a loud crack as his spine shifts audibly.

“Sir Gerald, champion of absolutely nothing that matters anymore. But I was once the scourge of twelve taverns and one very angry knitting circle.”

He straightens up with a rattle, adjusts his jaw, and offers a bony hand.

“And you are?”