Simon stared at the Barrow King’s throne for several long minutes as the conflicting feelings of anger and pride battled within him. It was a chair made from fused bones, which seemed perfect for an undead sorcerer whose real body had died millennia ago, but Simon wasn’t sure it was him. Of course these days he wasn’t sure what ‘him’ was.
Was he the eons dead boy who’d been tortured and murdered? Was he the eternal spirit in the shape of that boy who’d been an enslaved butler to the Barrow King? Was he the newly minted master of the Barrow? Was he all of those things? None of them?
He would have frowned if he’d had lips or muscles or any flesh at all. But he did not. Simon was undead, and all he had for a body was a cruddy old skull with several missing teeth. Some part of him that wasn’t him dredged up the term redneck. The word was foreign, otherworldly, and he wasn’t sure how he understood the word or why it made him feel so bad about himself.
Simon turned towards the nearest dread knight. The spectral energies and mists of his body turned with him and he raised a skeletal hand that had not, until that moment, existed and pointed at his undead minion.
“You, come here,” Simon said appalled to hear a slight pubescent crack in his voice. He had no teenage male body, so why did he have teenage male problems? Some sort of residual body image, perhaps? Simon thought.
