Summary: Ink is not a good mystical guide.
Legends foretold of a weapon. A blade crafted from the purest sunstones capable of bending light to the user's whim and banishing darkness to the deepest corners of oblivion. Few people were qualified to touch - let alone gaze upon - the legendary sword, as it was once said to have been wielded by Dream, the God of Light himself. Only a being as pure and righteous as he could hold it. The blade which many called The Sword of Light. One would expect such a revered artifact to be highly guarded, sealed away in a castle's treasury, or cast in stone until a worthy hero arises. Alas, that wasn't quite the case. The very same legends etched into cavern walls and recited by books of yellowed paper told of a different fate. A grand journey.
Beyond the reaches of civilization in wilds untamed, past lush mountains and treacherous terrain, there laid a hollow- a cavernous mouth stretching across the earth, ready to devour those who wander inside. Those searching for a great prize: The Sword of Light. The road to it, however, was not easy. Twisting tunnels and complex puzzles lined the pathway, rumored to have been set by the God of Japes to test a hero's strengths. Accompanying the tricks and traps were beasts. Monsters with faces and shapes unlike any had seen. Their sheer strength unfathomable, prowess in combat like that of a well-seasoned warrior. A common thief's worst nightmare. Yet that alone did not make reaching the innermost sanctuary unreachable. To advance further than the first ten levels, one needed a chosen guide (guardian spirit) to lead them through lest they lose their way, becoming another stray soul amongst the madness.
And, as luck would have it, fate smiled down upon the figure trudging through the dungeon floors. He, much like the many heroes before him, was a monster. A skeleton monster- sturdy, features slightly rounded, and tall (-er than the average height of 4'5"). The standard white colored his bones in contrast to the uncommon black/grey or rare hue some had, and the eerie dots serving as his pupils shone the same shade. Though, his right eyelight was known to shift to red depending on his mood. Another key feature that set him apart from those similar to himself was the long, jagged crimson scar that rested just below his right eye socket.
A relatively close call from a past mistake; Any closer and that eye would have been rendered useless.
Physical appearance aside, the mysterious hero's attire spoke more than a thousand words about his character and skill. Heavy, white/black-dyed leather made up a majority of his armor while snowy tufts peaked out from the collar and sleeves. The fur-lining grew thickest around the neck/shoulders, puffing out to create a fuzzy hood. Neither his chest piece, greaves, nor boots were horribly complex or intricate in any way. They had the bare minimum of style, and the only mildly elaborate thing about them happened to be a series of leather straps; Two of which ran across each side of his chest in a bandolier-esque fashion and met in the back, where his great sword's sheath laid. All neatly clasped together by a golden buckle adorned with a silver dragon skull. In addition, each armor piece bore variously sized and lengthed cuts/patches. However, despite its evident use, the leather was well kept- oiled every month with the best oil money could buy to prevent the articles from drying out and weakening.
Unfortunately, the beasts dwelling in the tunnels' depths delivered quite the beating to both him and his precious apparel. He knew without looking that a simple trip to the nearest armorer would prove meaningless. The damaged bits (his torn, bitten bracers and shoulder guards) needed to be entirely replaced, but they retained enough life to hold up until the journey reached its end.
His confidence to keep up with said armaments was waning. Greatly.
Heaving ragged breaths, he pushed onward in his sweat-laden armor and let his aching feet carry him down a dirt tunnel. Glowing fungi and flora lit the way. Some took the form of long spindling vines and small lily-like flowers, and others resembled giant mushrooms with thin stalks and puffy, frilled tops. Each unique plant emitted a gentle blue/light purple glow, revealing the monsterless space ahead, a sight which caused the exhausted skeleton to breathe a sigh of relief.
The trek continued smoothly, even when the tunnel walls, ceiling, and floor expanded into a large cavernous room. A musty, damp odor assaulted the air upon the first step inside. Strikingly different compared to the deep earthy (and, at times, dusty) scent prevalent throughout the other dungeon areas. Wet plips echoed off wall after wall as water droplets trickled from the stalactites above and splashed into shallow puddles. Overgrown plant life flourished along every surface they stretched across, consuming a majority of the space and providing ample hiding places for anything unsavory; ferocious, clawed creatures or deadly traps.
The room felt oddly still, regardless- no faint hum of magic in the air, no nigh inaudible thump of heartbeats around to hear. Suspicious, to say the least.
He paused, scanning the area for more tricks, traps, or monsters when an obnoxiously loud sneeze sounded to his left.
Right, the warrior thought, that idiot is still there. Doing nothing helpful.
Hmm, guess I shouldn't be too upset. He did stop talking and "inadvertently" attracting beasts our way.
"Eugh. I am starting to remember why I hate coming here." The other spoke in a piercing voice, not quite shouting but more than loud enough to attract unwanted attention, then added, "So dusty. Good thing it's not monster dust! That would be gross- Wait, is it monster dust? I can't remember."
And there goes the quiet streak.
Keeping his ever-growing frustration from showing provided a challenge he had not faced in years- a challenge of patience and understanding; one he happened to be failing. Eye socket twitching, the fatigued hero settled for shooting his oblivious companion a discreet glare.
The short, slightly transparent skeleton bearing dark splotches on his right cheek hovered beside him, a wide - almost amused - grin stretched along his jaws. The eyelights dwelling within his eyes sockets changed shape and color with every blink. Around him fluttered a silken, yakata-styled robe that stopped shortly before his bare feet. The robe itself was far more complex than the warrior's own attire, being colored a plain tan and accented by a myriad of shades- blue, pink, yellow, green, orange, and purple. Plus, black from splatters obtained via the skeleton's personal hobbies. Hobbies that did not involve combat since not a cut nor scrape blemished his ethereal form.
As his appearance suggested, he was no ordinary skeleton monster but, in fact, a guide or guardian spirit. And far from a minor one as well. Morals called him Ink, the Arch Guardian Spirit of Art.
"Ooh, Crossy, look! We're almost there!" Ink cried. The guardian spirit's arm extended outward with a single phalange aimed in the air, pointing at a neglected entrance located higher on a cavern wall.
Crossy, or more accurately Cross, narrowed his eye sockets and looked up. Brown earth seamlessly merged with the crumbling, light grey bricks lining the opening. Hints of faded rune writings and paper talismans surrounded it. His translation skills may not be perfect, but some of the stone etchings were legible enough for him to puzzle together their meaning. They served to disorient travelers and hide the path from what he could tell. An extra (wholly unnecessary, in his opinion) level of protection to further prove a hero's might. Lucky for him, the magic they once held withered years ago.
Furthermore, the evidence of high security was promising, and, at the very least, implied this entrance could lead to the legendary sword. Unlike the last thirteen entryways that Ink insisted were the correct one.
Containing a sigh, he thought, Fourteenth time's the charm.
Cross pushed forward. And, possibly, struggled to ignore the being who suddenly decided that humming an upbeat tune would be appropriate.
He examined the broken ancient ruins primarily to locate a path to his destination with music (quite literally) in his nonexistent ears. All the while, keeping an eye out for surprise pitfalls or beasts; Any danger Ink would undoubtedly fail to warn him about. For example, those five spike traps the other almost let him fall in when they were barely two minutes past the dungeon's main entrance. The warrior swore the repeated scares nearly took ten years off his life. Maybe a fraction of HP, too.
White eyelights - one bearing the tiniest hint of pinkish-red - gazed over stone chunks and scattered bricks as the wall neared. Logic said they once constructed the stairs leading to the entrance conveniently ten feet up the bumpy surface. Time and negligence reduced what little remained to no more than a craggy surface, seemingly breaking apart while the world showed tranquility around it- A far cry from its former beauty. Especially considering the fixture hardly resembled a set of stairs. Too many uneven ledges and narrowed steps. No one with one-eighth of a brain cell would attempt to tread them in the intended manner. Climbing upward was the best choice.
The skeletal hero nearly halted in his tracks. He desperately searched over and over and over for another option. Alas, his fate sealed the moment he reached the wall's base. The sole way forth could only be attained through grit, determination, and pure upper body strength.
Ink floated closer beside him, mirth wrote across his features. Bright smile, amused crinkles by his eye sockets, cheery colors/shapes for eyelights, and et cetera- An overall irritating amount of happiness. He, thankfully, ending his nonsensical tune and glance toward the opening.
"Pfft- Are you really going to climb that? Looks hard." Cross silently agreed with the spirit's last statement. It looked challenging. Both for him and his aching bones.
Typically such a laborious task fell to magic. However, the warrior's mana reserves contained hardly a drop thanks to his "brilliant" companion. Escaping all the demonic hordes, being led on wild goose chases, and fighting all the nasty beasts Ink brought his way took a lot out of him.
Gulping, Cross reached out and gripped a sturdy-looking rock before doing the same with his other hand and then perching his feet on a good foothold. He repeated the actions multiple times until he scaled one-fourth of the wall. His bones screamed despite the meager achievement, begging him to stop, to abandon his quest and return home to a soft, comfortable bed. Unfortunately for the strained appendages, their owner carried a determined soul- a soul that did not give up without a fight and knew not the meaning of quit. So they reluctantly allowed themselves to be spurred onward.
Laughter rumbled next to him a little past that milestone. The guardian spirit responsible hovered several inches higher than him, wearing that annoying bemused expression he'd worn frequently since they first met. He grinned down at Cross, chuckling, "Heh-he! I am glad I can fly at times like this."
The panting skeleton watched as Ink effortlessly flew to the top, landing flawlessly on the ledge of the opening.
Show off.