"Happiness is an army of unstoppable killing machines."

-The Litch Queen, She Who Has Slain a Thousand Heroes, the Mistress of the Dead, Demon Master, Devil Breaker, The Queen of Chains, and She Who Knows a Hundred Spells.

This is ridiculous. Skeletons are only a third of a challenge rating but there are just so many of them. I suppose desecrate would allow whoever created them to control four times their caster level, but even the most skilled caster shouldn't be able to have more than what? 36? I'm not a necromancer, I wouldn't know. There are many many more than that. At least a hundred. How in the nine hells is this a balanced encounter?

I can act once every six seconds- one of the great cosmic laws of the universe. Some of the plane's greatest wizards have wasted their lives trying to figure out why, but no one really knows. Some say that it's the natural unit of time of the universe, and that our timekeeping system has fallen out of that, others that it's completely arbitrary. I don't pretend to understand, I just know I can act once every six seconds, so I do. But I'm just a bard so there's only so much that acting can do, and this many rounds into combat, we're all starting to run low on spells. I cast cure light wounds and a few of Renault's gashes flow shut, but his armor is ripped and battered and his rage is about to end.

They came from all around; faceless legions of dispassionate skeletons with their stupid pikes and stupid reach, striding up from hidden chambers disguised as part of the road. Sheer cliffs rise on either side of the narrow Onyx Valley Way, grey and diseased like the land. They box us in, the perfect spot for an ambush. Someone has to be giving the skeletons their instructions; skeletons are not smart, but the attack was perfectly coordinated and they move with perfect synchronization. pikes up and jabbing in an impenetrable wall. Long spears, technically. They give reach which of course allows them an extra five feet, well and good. Renault- our party tank- carried one around for a while for exactly that reason, before he found his beloved great sword and his spear got left on the horse. What these skeletons are doing though? It's so unfair there aren't words to describe it. I don't know why the overgod Jie'm allows it. Aramil the elven bowman is nearly out of arrows; they're well aimed and his to hit bonus is staggering, but it doesn't matter because those stupid skeletons don't give two shits about piercing damage. Those skeletons might only be a third of a challenge rating each, but Aramil needs multiple rounds to kill a single one, and he can't pick out whoever is controlling these gods cursed things. Hiding behind the serried ranks of undead, or else sheltering up on those cliffs. Max Schrieber has had some limited success with his magic missiles- magic missile doesn't care about reach- but he ran out of first level spells about a dozen rounds ago- level four wizards only gets three and the orderly horde absorbed the losses without flinching. Renault has killed a few more, but every time a hit fails to kill one of those ridiculously well armored skeletons, something casts a negative energy ray and heals it, I'm really starting to hate negative energy.

It's not an exciting sort of fight. I can barely do anything, sitting here in the middle of a protective ring of my party members, with my battered lute and the masterwork rapier Renault had given me when they first hired me on. I've not taken any damage yet, but my companions have. Not a fast paced, heavy hits, sort of damage, but a slow bleed. A few hit points here, a few there. Whoever is controlling the skeletons hasn't cast anything at us directly. The closest they've come is that obnoxious negative energy. I don't know if that's because they're using their entire spell allotment on the skeleton horde, or if they just don't think we need it, but negative energy ray is only a cantrip and they could have sent a few of those at us directly.

Renault kills a skeleton. I feel those metaphysical dice rattle, land on seventeen. Plus four from his base attack bonus he told me once, though of course only he knows the details of his abilities. I think he's getting another plus four from his strength, though I suppose that's probably higher since he's still raging. I don't know what his final attack is- obviously people only feel their own numbers- but it's a hit. I can dimly feel his damage dice come up with an eight. His heavy blade batters the skeleton's spear aside, rends its bones, and scatters them across its allies. They don't seem to mind too terribly much.

Of course, that was the last one Renault can reach, but those long pikes don't have the same restrictions. He grits his teeth, mumbles his obligatory bellow of rage. Five pikes lance out, bite a few inches into his rolling muscles. He takes a step forward, and they stab out again- curse attacks of opportunity to all the nine hells. Three more stab out as he gets within their range as well.

"I don't understand," he wheezes. His rage is finally giving out. "There was a prophecy." Then he just… stops. He sways for a moment, and it looks like an expectant stillness falls over the horde though I know they are just mindless undead, then he falls. His armor doesn't really make a sound, and his huge sword skitters away across the hard packed dirt of the road. He called it "ragefury," which always struck me as a little bit childish, but who am I to argue with a plus two keen greatsword?

Renault isn't dead. Not yet. But he will be soon, and none of us can reach him before he does.

"I'm sorry, Gwen," Aramil says grimly as he sends another leaf-bladed arrow whistling ineffectually into a perpetually grinning skeleton. No racist remarks about my half-human heritage, no proud tosses of his perfect blond hair. That's how I can tell just how much trouble I'm in. "I had thought, the prophecy, you understand?" Aramil says. His voice is melodic, and softer than mine. "I had thought you would be safe, but it seems this is the end. Ah. Wizard, you recall the look of that orc?"

"The one I set on fire?" Max grimaces and draws his short blade. "Stupid fucker thought he was a gods damn hero."

Aramil dies next, his lithe body pierced in a dozen places by those long pikes. His thin elven blood mixes with the grey earth and the skeletons' hobnailed boots trod on his fine hair and fine robes as they advance implacably. I swipe at them a few times with my rapier, but it's entirely ineffectual- I'm only level two, and only a bard. I can't quite reach them past the row of jabbing pikes anyway.

"Sorry Gwen," Max growls. "To think my proud dragon's blood will be spilled by skeletons." He says the last word like a curse. Max has always claimed that there was a dragon in his ancestry, though as far as I could ever tell he is more human than most and he's a wizard, not a sorcerer. He puts his back to mine.

"It's all right," I say numbly. "Though I'd really hoped my death would at least make a good song."

"A last stand against impossible odds?" Max replies. "If anyone ever hears what happened here, it'll make a great song. At least there's that." The skeletons gather closer. A ring of dull steel pikes. "Fuck this!" Max snarls. "When I die, at least it'll be inside my weapon's range!" He leaps forward, blade raised.

Nine pikes jab out.

Wizards never have high armor classes, and small hit die- he couldn't possibly have hoped to survive the attacks of opportunity, but then I think I know why he did it. Max dies, and leaves me alone. The skeletons advance, a sort of stiff soldierly shuffle. They keep their spears leveled. I still haven't been wounded, I guess they didn't see me as a threat. They keep advancing, their pikes fixed on my heart. And then they stop. Their ranks part with the sound of dozens of hobnailed boots stomping all at once.

A man comes forward. He's stooped, his arms too long. His skin is ashen and rotting and pulled tight over his bones, but it has that unmistakable look that some undead do of skin that has been rotting for many many years and yet has managed not to actually rot away. His teeth are pointed and jagged, his sunken eyes burn like hot coals, and I try very very hard not to sob. He wears a well tailored charcoal colored suit with a cream sash, but it chimes quietly when he moves as if it were worn over chainmail. He carries a briefcase in one hand, and a glittering crystal orb in the other. I can feel myself failing a save as he approaches. The man stops about fifteen feet from me.

"This orb produces a zone of truth," he rasps. I point my rapier at him. "I am one of the litch's disposable necromancers. Killing me is not in your best interest. Try to lie."

"The dirt is grey," I say- I had meant to say purple. I hope that's the failed save, not something more sinister. "All right."

"Most of my skeletons were destroyed in this combat, so destroying me will do very little," he says. "And those still under my control would not crumble, and would not be your ally. If our skeletons had failed, my comrades and I were prepared to attack directly. If that failed as well, the litch is watching by scrying orb, and there are half a dozen wraiths at the top of the cliffs guarding my comrades. You are level two. Do you understand?" I nod mutely and swallow. He goes on. "Now, my name is Bartleby, and I am a ghast. Please lay down your sword and instrument." I do, because what else is there to do? I kick them away for good measure, because it's not like I was a threat even with them. The ghast nods approval. "Surrender," he says. I nod. "Say it please," he says.

"I surrender," I say quickly, and feel a bolt of something hot and heavy in my chest. Not magic, and not an attack, but rather something like when my mother caught me stealing a pie from the windowsill all those years ago. She didn't yell, and she didn't hit me, she just looked at me with this sad, wounded, expression. A hero wouldn't surrender.

The ghast produces manacles from his briefcase, and approaches carefully. He snaps them shut around my wrists and ankles- I'm surprised to notice that they're perfectly fitted.

AN: So, kinda weird story idea... The plan was for characters to be aware of stats and rolls and rules without actually portraying it as a game. This lets me actually have a fandom to post this in since there isn't really a "fantasy tropes" fandom... also its something I haven't done and its fun, so there's that...

If I make any rules mistakes (or if you have any other feedback) I would be delighted to hear it. Obviously, a story focusing on a EVIL litch will have some pretty terrible themes in it. I dislike any kind of explanation at the beginning of a chapter- I think it takes away from the story and keeps it from standing on it's own merits- so there probably won't be trigger warnings. If you are easily triggered, you have been warned and I will not apologize to you.

I probably shouldn't be starting another fic with so many unfinished, but oh well. Hope you enjoy this crazy fic because that's the only kind of story I seem to write...