These Hallowed Bones - [Monster Evolution, Dark Fantasy, Heroic Undead]

The finger bone drags my skull fragment through endless grey. Time loses meaning. Only the compulsion remains north, always north. The magic binding us grows weaker with each scrape across scorched earth.

Memories scatter like the rest of these borrowed bones. Which battle was this? Which soldier's final breath gave this shard its purpose? The answers drift away like ash on wind.

Forward. The finger bone catches on debris, twists, continues its mission. My empty socket fills with dirt, then empties, then fills again. The cycle means nothing. Only motion matters.

Grey fog thickens. Or perhaps that's just the magic fading further. Hard to tell when awareness shrinks to a single point of purpose.

Days or weeks or moments pass. Time holds no meaning when form itself barely exists. The finger bone drags onward, sometimes moving mere inches between sunrises. The journey that would have taken living legs hours to complete stretches into eternity for fragmented bone.

What little magic remains dims further with each fragment length gained. The drive north persists, but these borrowed pieces lack the strength to answer its call. The finger bone catches, twists, scrapes forward another fraction. The bone should have crumbled to dust days ago, yet duty drives it onward.

Grey mist thickens around these fragments. Not natural fog something darker. Hungrier. The kind of darkness that devours bone and purpose alike. The finger bone trembles, its last strength fading.

This darkness flows with purpose of its own not corruption's taint, but something more ancient. More patient. It has waited for these fragments since the Duke's departure, circling the battlefield like a carrion bird waiting for final collapse.

The darkness has a heartbeat. Slow. Deliberate. It pulses through scorched soil, each beat drawing closer to these desperate fragments. The finger bone senses the threat, tries to drag faster, but has nothing left to give.

The magic flickers, a dying light that will soon go dark.

When it fails, these pieces will lie forever in scorched earth, just more fragments among countless dead. The compulsion screams north, but borrowed bones can no longer answer.

The darkness flows closer, coherent now not just shadow but something moving within it. Dozens of red eyes blink open within the roiling black mass. Hundreds of teeth form and dissolve in perpetual hunger. This is what feeds on fallen gods and broken heroes. This is what consumes the remnants of lost purpose.

It has no name. No shape except what it borrows from nightmares. It exists only to devour what once held meaning.

The finger bone makes one final desperate attempt to drag northward. The magic flares briefly, bright against encroaching shadow, then gutters like a candle in storm winds.

The darkness surges forward. Its many mouths open wide, ready to consume these last fragments and the final spark of purpose they contain.

Then a shadow falls across these fragments. Different from the hungry dark. Focused. Deliberate. The finger bone halts its endless crawl.

Ancient boots step into view. Not leather, something older. Metal that should have rusted to nothing centuries ago still holds its form. The boots bear no ornamentation, yet their design speaks of function refined beyond mortal craft. The steel shows no scratch, no dent, though it must have walked countless battlefields.

Each step leaves no print in scorched earth, yet the ground remembers their passing.

The figure kneels.

Their armor bears no ornament, no marking of rank or allegiance. Just pure function given form. No living blacksmith crafted these plates, no mortal forge shaped this steel. The armor simply is, as mountains are, as oceans are an expression of unchanging purpose.

Even the helm remains unadorned, though it turns slightly as they study these broken lonely fragments. Where a face should appear behind the visor, only deeper shadow exists not darkness like the hungry void, but the absence of anything that could be understood by mortal perception.

Steel fingers touch against skull fragment.

Not gentle, gentleness died with the world. But precise, measuring. The magic binding these pieces responds, recognizing something that remembers equal purpose.

"You carry a king's memory," they say, voice neither living nor dead. It sounds like stone speaking, like mountains grinding together ancient beyond reckoning, yet clear as judgment. "And a soldier's duty."

The finger bone trembles, still trying to drag northward. Even now, duty allows no rest.

Their helm tilts, considering this unrelenting drive of fragments and magic barely holding awareness together.

The darkness that pursued these fragments hesitates, its countless eyes blinking in confusion. The many mouthed horror knows this armored figure. Fears it, perhaps. Or simply recognizes something beyond its hunger.

The armored figure's presence stirs something in these borrowed bones, recognition without memory, purpose calling to purpose. These fragments remember this being, or ones like it, standing witness at ancient battles, observing as kings fell and empires crumbled.

Their gauntleted hand lifts my skull fragment, studying the ancient runes etched deep within yellowed bone markings invisible to mortal eyes but clear to those who understand the language of oaths. The remaining wisps of magic pulse weakly in response.

"I watched them all fall," they say. "Kings and peasants alike. Twelve legions broken against darkness. Seven crowns lost to blood soaked soil. Banners torn by demon hands. Some prayed. Some cursed. Some just died. I could not intercede. That was not my purpose."

The hungry darkness presses closer, drawn by the last flickers of magic, yet unwilling to challenge the armored figure directly. Small maws open and close in frustrated desire. The figure's hand closes around these fragments, shielding them from the void.

"But perhaps," Their voice carries endless grief, the accumulated weight of witnessing uncounted atrocities without intervention. "Perhaps sometimes watching is not enough."

They gather these fragments with careful precision. Not the gentleness of flesh, but the exactness of one who has measured the final moments of civilizations.

"The Field of Broken Banners remembers its own," they say. "There are better bones to borrow there."

Their fingers cradle these fragments like precious things, though we both know duty would have dragged them north regardless. Or tried to, before the magic failed.

The hungry darkness recedes further, its many eyes watching with malevolent patience. It knows the armored figure's limitations. Knows that intervention must be brief, measured, precise.

"I watched," they continue, voice heavy with the weight of endless witnessing. "When the legions fell. When kings charged with common soldiers. When darkness devoured worlds."

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The figure rises, my fragments secure in their grasp. For a brief moment, their helm turns toward the hovering darkness. No words pass between them, but the many mouthed shadow retreats further, clearly understanding some unspoken warning.

They move across scorched earth with steps that leave no mark, yet somehow part the grey fog. The hungry darkness recoils from their presence, but still follows at a distance, unwilling to abandon its prey entirely.

"So many prayers. So many last breaths spent on faith I could not answer. All I could do was watch. That was my purpose to witness, never to act." The words emerge like the tolling of ancient bells, resonating with unimaginable weight. "I was Justice, the observer of all deeds, the measurer of worth, the silent witness to oaths kept and broken."

These fragments sense truth in those words. This being once held power beyond comprehension. Now they carry only duty's weight, like these borrowed bones. But where my purpose drives ever forward, they remain bound to endless observation.

"The pantheon decreed that I must only watch. That judgment without intervention was the natural order. That gods must not directly interfere." Their helm tilts upward toward distant skies. "We saw how well that ended."

They walk north, bearing these pieces toward familiar soil. The hungry darkness does not follow, though its countless eyes remain fixed on their retreat.

"Your magic comes from deeper wells than mine," they say. "Older. Born from choice rather than command. I watched it form in battlefield soil, fueled by final stands and last defenses. No god granted your purpose. You claimed it."

A sound emerges from their helm not laughter, for laughter requires joy, but something adjacent to appreciation. "You have greater claim to godhood than I ever did."

Their armored helm turns, regarding these fragments with that impenetrable shadow where a face should be.

"Justice," they say. "There was a time when that word held meaning. When oaths and laws bound both peasant and king. When the strong protected the weak, when truth mattered more than power, when promises were kept even unto death."

Their fingers tighten around my fragments, not from emotion, but simple fact. "Now there is only death. Death and endless watching. The strong prey on the weak. The corrupt devour the pure. And justice?"

"Justice died with the old kingdom. Even the ground remembers no law but suffering."

The Field of Broken Banners emerges from the fog not through their power, we have simply arrived. The ground here remembers its dead, and through it, these fragments recognize home. Ancient bones lie half buried in black soil, remnants of the final stand that failed to stop the darkness.

But the Field is not empty. Other forms move across it not living creatures, not yet fully formed, but things halfway between purpose and manifestation. Fragments like mine, scraping across hallowed ground, seeking to reform, to remember, to rise again.

The armored figure pauses, watching these half formed guardians with that featureless helm. "I am not permitted to intervene directly. To raise armies or smite enemies. But perhaps..." They study my fragments more closely. "Perhaps carrying one who chose his duty back to where he might rise again falls within the bounds of observation."

They kneel one final time, placing my pieces in soil that knows its own. The magic pulses stronger here, ready to draw new fragments home. As they kneel, something changes in their perfect armor a dulling of the metal, the first hint of imperfection in divine craftsmanship.

"I wish," they pause, helm bowing slightly. "I wish I could have done more than watch. But perhaps carrying you here is enough. Some duties must be chosen, not commanded."

Ancient power flows through steel fingers, different from the magic that bonds and binds these last fragments. Where my borrowed power pulses with battlefield oaths and final stands, this energy carries the weight of endless watching the accumulated force of witnessing every injustice ever committed, every oath broken, every truth denied.

"I am Juridan," they say, pressing my pieces into black soil. The ground of the Field of Broken Banners responds, remembering its dead. "Once I was Justice. Now I am merely the Observer, last of my kind, bound by oaths I cannot break even as the world falls to those who break theirs."

The soil around my fragments stirs, responding to both Juridan's presence and the return of its own. Other bones shift beneath the surface, drawn by familiar purpose.

As Juridan's fingers press deeper into the soil, their perfect armor continues to change tarnish spreads across plates that should be immune to corruption, joints creak that once moved in divine silence.

Juridan rises, the motion now visibly difficult, as if divine joints remember pain they should be immune to. Their armor, once untouched by time, now shows clear signs of mortality scratches mark surfaces that moments ago were flawless, tarnish dulls metal that once gleamed with inner light.

Their helm tilts down, considering these scattered fragments one final time.

"The field remembers. It will give you what you need." Their voice changes too, the sound of mountains grinding together now carrying hints of mortality. "When you rise again, as you surely will, remember that I chose to act, however small that action might seem. Remember that even fallen gods can change."

They turn, facing the direction from which we came. The hungry darkness waits at the Field's edge, countless eyes blinking in malevolent patience. Its many mouths form silent words a challenge, perhaps. Or a reminder of ancient limitations.

"Your kind has fed enough," Juridan says to the shadow, voice carrying less weight than before, divine resonance fading with each word. "This one is not yours to claim."

The darkness ripples, its countless eyes narrowing. It senses the change in Juridan, the weakening of divine essence, the cost of intervention made manifest in failing armor and diminished voice.

Their gauntleted hand spreads flat against the soil, and more divine power flows into the earth around my fragments. Not commanding, but offering. The ground accepts this gift, this sacrifice, this final intervention.

As the power transfers, Juridan's armor dulls further what was once perfect divine craft now resembles ordinary steel, subject to mortal limitations.

"I choose a different path," they say, voice now almost entirely mortal. "Not dissolution, not continuation, but purpose. I cannot restore your form entirely even gods have limits in these broken times. But I can ensure your magic endures long enough to find new bones to borrow."

The darkness recedes further, clearly recognizing the threat beneath Juridan's words. The Observer is willing to pay the price of diminishment.

"Go," Juridan says to the shadow. "Find easier prey. This field and its guardians are not for you."

The many eyed darkness retreats, its countless mouths closing in frustrated hunger.

It understands the bargain just struck, divine essence spent to protect these fragments, intervention paid for with diminishment. It knows there will be other opportunities, other broken purposes to feed upon. For now, it withdraws into the mist beyond the Field's boundaries.

Juridan turns back to these fragments, armor now more mortal than divine. Rust forms at joints where divine metal meets divine metal. Their helm, once perfect in its simplicity, now bears dents and scratches from battles never fought in physical form.

"Your oath and mine," Juridan says, "different in scale but not in nature. To protect. To serve. To stand against darkness."

They rise one final time, the motion clearly painful, divine nature almost completely spent. Their armor, once perfect, now bears the full marks of mortality dents where there should be none, rust where divine metal should be immune, joints that creak with effort that should require none.

"The field remembers. It will give you what you need," they say, voice now almost entirely mortal. "I return to watching, but changed by this choice. Lessened, yet somehow more."

They turn to leave, then pause, helm tilting toward my fragments once more.

"When you rise again," they say, "remember that even the least action outweighs the grandest observation. Even fallen gods can learn this truth, though the lesson comes too late."

Then they vanish not in divine light or cosmic power, but simply by walking away into grey mist, footsteps now leaving faint impressions in scorched earth. Juridan, once god of justice, now something less and perhaps something more.

Ancient power lingers where armored knees touched earth. In times past, it would have weighed deeds and measured worth with perfect detachment. Today it merges with battlefield soil, with the magic that binds borrowed bones, with purpose that refuses to die.

The finger bone and skull fragment sink deeper into blood soaked earth. The ground welcomes them home, ready to provide what these borrowed pieces need.

The field of broken banners remembers when justice knelt in charred ground, finally choosing to act rather than observe. It remembers, too, the price of that choice divinity spent, godhood diminished, purpose reforged.

These fragments feel the change as the soil embraces them. The magic strengthens, not restored to what it was, but stabilized by divine sacrifice. Enough to continue. Enough to rise again when the time comes.

Darkness falls as my consciousness dims, not to void but to sleep. The compulsion still pulls northward, but now there is time. Time to rest. Time to reform. Time to remember.

The field of broken banners holds its secrets beneath blood soaked soil. It remembers kings who died as common soldiers. It remembers gods who chose action over divinity. It remembers, most of all, that some oaths transcend even death.

The ground accepts these fragments as it has accepted countless others. But unlike those, these pieces will rise again.

The magic grows stronger, drawing from the Field's deep memory. New fragments rise from blood soaked earth not just bones, but purpose itself taking physical form.

The compulsion remains. North. Haven. Protect.

But now there is time. Time to gather strength. Time to reform. Time to rise again.

Because Justice stands guard over broken bones, allowing them the peace required to remember who they are.

And what they must become.

The dead remember duty longest. But sometimes, even justice remembers mercy.