Grazing On Glory

The collapse of the Dark Dominion’s primary arena-slash-capital city was, according to the few surviving wights, a “catastrophic failure of structural integrity.” I called it a career pivot.

With the Lich King’s physical form crushed under three million tons of obsidian and his spirit scattered to the four winds, there was a power vacuum. And vacuums, as any cow knows, are to be filled with grass. Or, in this case, competent leadership.
The skeletons, having no other ideas and being easily impressed by anyone who used multi-syllabic words, started following me. It wasn’t out of loyalty. It was more like a confused herd instinct. I was simply the one who walked in a straight line with the most confidence.
We emerged from the ruins of the Dark Dominion into the overworld. The sun was setting over a verdant valley. A river snaked through it. And there, covering the gentle slopes, was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen.

Grass. Lush, green, swaying in the breeze grass.
I dropped to my knees—my patella clacking against a rock—and scooped up a handful. I brought it to my mouth. Or where my mouth used to be.

I tried to chew. My jawbones mashed the grass into a pulpy, green paste that immediately dribbled out through my teeth and down my spinal column.
I stared at the green smear on my gleaming white ribs.
A wave of profound emptiness washed over me. It was worse than the bolt gun. I was the strongest skeleton in the world, the de facto leader of an army of the dead, and I couldn’t even enjoy the simple, fundamental pleasure of grazing.

Behind me, my army of skeletons stood in a ragged formation, their eye sockets fixed on me. They were waiting.

I stood up slowly, brushing the grass from my bones. I turned to face them.

“Alright, everyone,” I said, my raspy voice firm. “New plan.”

I pointed a bony finger toward the valley.

“We are not going to conquer the world. We’re not going to terrorize the living. We are going to do something far more ambitious. Something that has never been achieved in the history of undeath.”

A ripple of anticipation went through the skeletal ranks. The one with the missing arm leaned forward.

“We,” I declared, “are going to invent the world’s first grass-based mana smoothie. And we are going to build a five-star spa resort for the discerning undead traveler, right on that riverfront.”
A confused silence.

“…Smoothie?” the one-armed skeleton rasped.

“Yes,” I said, a new fire burning in my empty eye sockets. “I will not be denied my cud. And you,” I swept my hand to encompass them all, “deserve more than standing around in a damp cave for eternity. You deserve orthopedic upgrades. You deserve polished bones. You deserve a retirement plan that isn’t just ‘getting smashed by a falling golem.’ Who’s with me?”

Another long silence. Then, the skeleton with the missing arm slowly raised his rusty sword.

“…I… want a… smoothie?” he rasped, the sentence structure clearly a first for him.

It was a start.

And so began the strangest kingdom in history: The Undead Pastoral Collective of Bessie. We didn’t have a flag, but we had a very good loyalty program. My army and I never did conquer the world.

But we did build a spa. And after three years, a lot of trial, and one incident where a ghoul tried to ferment the grass with his own stomach acid (we don’t talk about the “Ghoulish Gulp” incident), we finally cracked the mana-smoothie formula.

I stood on the balcony of my penthouse suite, overlooking the bustling resort. Skeletons in tiny uniforms served drinks to zombies lounging in mineral pools. A wight was getting a fantastic re-stitching at the spa. The one-armed skeleton, now with a gleaming golden prosthetic, was managing the gift shop.

I took a sip of my smoothie through a magical straw that circumvented my lack of a tongue. The mana-infused grass flavor exploded in my consciousness. It was like a memory of a meadow, a dream of clover, the ghost of contentment.

I let out a long, slow, satisfied sigh that whistled through my ribs.

I had died as a cow, but I had been reborn as the strongest skeleton.

And I used that strength to build a life—or, unlife—of peace, prosperity, and really, really good smoothies.

Being the strongest wasn’t about the power you wielded. It was about the power you had to delegate to someone else so you could finally enjoy your lunch.
I took another sip.

Now this, I thought, watching a pair of skeletons argue over a lounge chair, this is the good unlife.

TO BE CONTINUED.