On the bridge, Roy was mid-sip of lukewarm coffee when Father Skeleton burst in, lugging an all-but-naked, unconscious Lutrian. Roy nearly spat out his drink.
"Uh—what the actual hell?" he coughed, setting the mug aside. "Father Skeleton, why are you— And Lutrian… is he okay?"
The skeleton's jaw clacked. "He fainted in the shower, Captain Gunn! I fear my squeaky duck startled him. I do apologize for the puddles." He gestured at the water streaming from his bony frame. "No time to get him clothes—he toppled like a sack of flour."
Roy's pulse spiked. "All right, put him down. Gently."Father Skeleton laid Lutrian onto the floor with fussy care, stepping back. "Should I fetch towels? Pants? Hot tea?"
Roy waved him off. "We'll handle it. Just—go find a mop or something. And for gods' sake, don't drip all over."
"Yes, Captain Gunn!" Father Skeleton chirped, scuttling out, leaving soggy footprints across the deck.
A couple of Elite Presidroids rushed over with towels. Roy helped cover Lutrian, checking for a pulse—still strong, just unconscious.
Moments later, Lutrian's eyelids fluttered. He groaned and sat up, blinking in confusion.
"Wha— I saw… a skeleton," he managed, wincing as he realized just how little he was wearing. Eryndra and Takara hovered nearby, each looking torn between concern and exasperation.
Roy let out a resigned sigh. "Yeah, Father Skeleton. He's, uh, a passenger, I guess. Been on board for a while. You good?"
Lutrian swallowed, voice shaky. "I'm… fine, mostly. But that's a human skeleton, right? With a mind of its own?"
Takara nudged Roy. "You never told us you had a freaking undead stowaway," she muttered.
Roy shrugged helplessly. "He mostly keeps to himself—eats fish, does chores. I didn't think it was a big deal."
Lutrian's expression darkened. "A big deal? Captain, if it's truly a human skeleton walking around, that can only mean one thing." He paused, noticing their blank faces. "He might be from the Immortal Family—the single greatest threat in this world's recorded history."
Eryndra's gaze sharpened. "Immortal Family? Roy…?"
Roy shook his head. "No clue what that is. He never said 'I'm an immortal monster from hell' or anything. I just found him in some old ruins, docile and weird. Are you sure you're not jumping to conclusions?"
Lutrian gripped his towel, knuckles white. "Captain, everyone in this world grows up hearing the legends of the Immortal Family—three skeletal figures who ravaged entire continents with undead armies. They were sealed away centuries ago, and if one's on your ship now… If word gets out, entire armies might rally just to destroy you before they risk that trio's resurgence."
Roy stood there, mind whirling. "So… we're basically harboring a living apocalypse?"
Takara's brow furrowed. "But—this one seems so… harmless?"
Eryndra snorted, though clearly uneasy. "Harmless or not, if the rest of the world thinks he's part of that triad, we're screwed."
Roy exhaled, anger and confusion warring inside him. "First Keeper and his nonsense, now this skeleton fiasco… We can't catch a break."
Lutrian dragged a hand through his damp hair, turning to Eryndra. "Could you please explain more to them? Or—actually, never mind, I'll do it. I assume you've never heard these stories, either?"
Eryndra crossed her arms, unsettled. "No. I'm… new here, too. We don't have bedtime stories about necromancers where I come from."
Takara took a small step back, arms folding protectively over her chest. "I've read about some undead stuff, but nothing called the 'Immortal Family.' What are they?"
Lutrian sucked in a breath, eyes flicking to Roy. "Then… let me tell you what every child here hears by the time they're able to speak."
-
In the ancient days, when the very skies lay choked with ash and the ground quaked beneath endless legions of the dead, a grim shadow fell across the land. At its heart stood a single family of pale bone—three figures bound by darkest sorcery and a hunger for dominion. They called themselves the Immortal Family, and their names have been uttered in terrified whispers ever since. Children learn of them as a warning; warriors cling to their legends in bitter awe.
At the head of this dreadful triad loomed the father, the Mourning Tyrant.
No mere skeleton, he was a living wellspring of necromancy, a warlock of bone whose very presence warped the battlefield. An entire continent's worth of corpses rose at his bidding. Among his servants were twenty legendary champions once blessed by the gods themselves, whose final, fatal mistake was challenging him. Stripped of their free will, they marched under his banner, eyes hollow and silent with eternal obedience. For thousands of years, his brittle fingers clenched the world in a vise of undeath. Few dared speak his name, for his power reached beyond the grave, and defiance meant annihilation beyond mortal comprehension.
Beside him stood his queen, the Noonshade Empress—the black-blooded daughter of the First Witch.
Her sorcery transcended mortal possibility, weaving spells that unraveled life in a single breath. Where holy magic casts out spirits, she could banish the living just as easily, leaving only quivering echoes of those who once were. Her laughter, they said, was like shards of broken glass tumbling in a bell, a terrible chorus that drove men to madness. Many who witnessed her sorcery became husks of themselves, doomed to wander in shadows of her making. Even the bravest knights felt their courage shrivel when she took the field, for her dominion over midday was an affront to nature itself, turning the brightest hour into a cloak for her dark designs.
Yet, by all accounts, the cruellest and most powerful among them was their child, the Gloaming Scion.
Where their mother warped minds and more, and their father commanded legions of dead, the child's blade struck far deeper than flesh, it tore at the soul itself. Every strike leaving a wound that forever hurt, forever bound them to the mortal realm, and forever made them regret crossing them. Those unlucky enough to meet them in battle found their bodies intact, only to realize too late that part of their very being was ripped away. Even death brought no release; the spirits of their victims roamed the night in torment, unable to pass on, forever howling in an agony that no prayer could soothe. Mothers in every land threatened disobedient children with their name, warning them that a single cut from the Gloaming Scion would doom them for all eternity.
For millennia, the Immortal Family's rule ground the realms underfoot. Human empires burned; demon lords were humbled; beastfolk tribes were enslaved; and even the monstrous armies led by the Primeval Dragon, The Emberspawn, crumbled. In the face of such power, no kingdom stood; their defenses fell like wheat before the scythe. To challenge the Immortal Family was to invite extinction. They killed not simply bodies, but hope itself, as each day brought new horrors beyond imagination.
In time, the world's patience was spent. At last, every race, manfolk, demon, beastfolk, demonfolk, monsters of every shape, formed an unthinkable coalition. The final war raged for a hundred years: entire oceans boiled with fell sorcery, and mountains crumbled under the weight of colossal dragons locked in battle with undead abominations. Blood and ichor flooded the earth, staining it a deep crimson that lingered long after.
In that desperate struggle, only the Final Demon King, Sáthye Su, found a way to strike at the very heart of the Immortal Family's power: their cursed fortress. He sacrificed his own life in a cataclysmic spell that shattered their stronghold, severing the family from the source of their unyielding might.
Weakened but still unkillable, the Immortal Family was bound with ancient wards and sealed away in the ruined husk of their fortress, hidden deep within the Forest of Shadows. It fell to the elven guardians to stand watch over that dreadful place. Generations of sentries have come and gone, ever-vigilant against the stirring of bones behind the broken walls.
And so, if you can only remember one thing, let it be the final words of the Demon King:
Fear the hush of restless bone,
The Mourning Tyrant beckons to all graves.
Tremble at the wails that sunder the silence,
The Noonshade Empress reigns where the sun refuses to stand.
Dread the blade that cuts beyond flesh,
The Gloaming Scion stains every soul.
For now… the Immortal Family slumbers in their tomb,
But should they rise once more,
The world shall drown in deathless doom.
A tight silence settled over the bridge, so thick you could practically bottle it. Roy could swear the Presidroids were beep-blooping at half volume, like even they realized this was a moment that demanded caution.
Lutrian stood there pale and tense, Eryndra's usual confidence replaced by something pensive, and Takara looked rattled enough that Roy half-expected her to fling a screwdriver just to break the tension.
Finally, Roy forced a clearing of his throat. "So… that's, uh, one hell of a bedtime story, Lutrian. But the skeleton I've been seeing? He mostly shrieks for fish, complains he doesn't have a butt, and trips over railings. Like, zero mass destruction. If he's the big 'Mourning Tyrant' or whatever, I'm just not seeing it. He is comedy, not calamity."
Lutrian let out a weak laugh, the sound catching in his throat. "Captain, their fortress was destroyed a thousand years ago, so the rumors say. The wards meant to keep them sealed off obviously didn't hold. They might look harmless, acting like bumbling morons, sure, but every kingdom under the sun would panic if they realized you're harboring them. You'd be labeled a calamity right alongside them. I...I am ashamed to say this, but even I had to hold back striking you down on pure instinct."
As if summoned by sheer irony, Skelly Mom (the "mother" skeleton in a ragged bathrobe) suddenly wandered by the open doorway. She gave Roy a cheery wave, let out a shriek, then smacked into a low railing and disappeared with a startled holler as she fell over a railing and shattering on the deck below. Everyone just… stared.
Roy covered his eyes with one hand. "You mean to tell me that is one of the legendary city-frying warlords from your nursery rhymes?" He blew out a hard breath. "I'm sorry, but they seem about as terrifying as a clown car."
Lutrian didn't budge, expression taut. "I swear on my life, Captain. Their power once eclipsed every mortal army. If the father skeleton truly is this 'Mourning Tyrant,' he could reanimate tens of billions of corpses again. He is the source of all manfolk necromancy, no one else can use it but him, which is why I know for sure he is the one." He rubbed his arms, fighting a chill that might've been more mental than physical. "If the rest of the world even suspects you're sheltering them, the response will be… cataclysmic."
Roy clenched his jaw, refusing to let it rattle him. "Then no one finds out. We keep them below decks, hush-hush, as my prison guards. I'm not abandoning them, though. They haven't tried to enslave a single corpse or, I dunno, devour souls or whatever. If anything, they occasionally do chores and were the only non synthetic company I had for a time. I owe them at least a place to exist where they aren't hunted."
Eryndra exhaled in relief, shoulders loosening. Takara let out a shuddery breath and gave Roy a nod. Even Lutrian seemed slightly mollified. "If you say so, Captain," he agreed, quietly.
Roy raked a hand through his hair. "I did catch them a week ago fighting for thirty-five minutes over a single can of sardines. They had an entire mountain of identical cans next to them, but that one can apparently had 'the best feel.' Definitely no undead legions coming any time soon."
A half-nervous chuckle flickered through the group, tension easing, but not vanishing. They filed out, each carrying the weight of Lutrian's story. The knowledge that these legendary horrors, once the stuff of apocalyptic nightmares, were now rummaging for squeaky ducks in the Nightshatter's showers felt absurd, yet dangerously real. One slip, and every kingdom in the land might brand Roy a walking disaster.
Out in the corridor, Father Skeleton dripped water everywhere, wringing out his cap with a sigh. Some ways off, a reformed Skelly Mom's distant screech echoed, presumably cursing that same railing that had "ambushed" her. Skellbro spied on the group with a mischievous smile, clearly getting some enjoyment from the chaos.
Keep them hidden. That was the only plan.