Gareth Skettlebones: An Altogether Unassuming Lich - Part 1

Timmy was cold and tired, not to mention petrified. The village boys had all come rushing up to him, as he stood there peeling potatoes, to dare him. It was common in the village to heckle Timmy; his mother was a two-bit whore who spent more time on her back than on her feet (not that the village complained). His father, on the other hand, spent very little of his time around Timmy or his gutter-gobbling wife. He preferred the company of the seamen at the docks over yonder village. Understandably, there wasn't protection for poor Timmy from bullies such as Manx McCurd, the baker's boy. Manx had the furriest palms he'd ever seen, for a twelve year old, and a bristling mane of chest hair lurked beneath his incredibly ill-fitting roughspun. Little Nancy swore blind that he wasn't actually twelve, but then someone found her in a well, her eyes replaced with cherries. Everyone knows that the Lord-less-than-Known deals with liars harshly. Well, those who mattered.

   The local lads, headed by Manx, who wore high-waisted pickle-green dungarees and very impractical trudging boots, unlaced (he swore blind against laces), came charging out of the bakery towards Timmy. Manx's crumpled white blouse was very unusual, it being entirely too tight-fitting. And the spectacles that he wore seemed most improbable; obviously Mr McCurd had forgotten to fit his son's pince-nez with lenses. Maybe they had run afoul of monetary problems?
   "Oi, Timmy you doter of elderly womanfolk." Manx believed that an insult should show wit and panache, and expressed himself as such. "We got a dare for you." Timmy put down the potato and knife, blinking apprehensively at the frowning fluff of foliage threatening escape from Manx's shirt.
"You know old Carrowack's Graveyard? We bet- guys, hush...we bet that you, Timmy o' the wetted sheets- guys, shut your holes now or I'll rape your sisters. Timmy, we bet that you won't be able to spend a WHOLE night, in Carrowack's..." Manx broke off and grabbed one of the boys crowding around his feet, who had been giggling with excitement. He now looked comically petrified. Manx strode off, dragging the boy into a nearby house. Some crashes were heard, and then some screams. Suddenly, the second story shutters burst open and Mindy Breezeshank's head poked through. She was screaming, then moaning, then saying "Manx you filthy donkey please prepare me-OOH, make me a field, fertilise me so I can grow dirty cabbages and call them...ahh, call them Mabbagesssss." A final scream.
   "Lord-less-than-Known, I warned you Pottage Breezeshank you little shit. How am I supposed to keep it real when you keep making me plug your whore sister?" He was buttoning up his britches as he exited the house, Pottage in tears at the threshold behind him. What a peculiar twelve-year-old.
   "Right, Timmy. As I said. Carrowack's. Graveyard. One whole night. I dare you. If you say no, I'll rape your dog." Timmy thought about disagreeing. He did like Bonny. She was a shitzu. She'd probably die. So Timmy agreed, and made off to old Carrowack's Graveyard. It was going to be a spooky night.

***

An owl hooted. Not that it wanted to, but generally that's what owls do. If it had its way, it'd be sitting in some tree bough somewhere reading a good novel from at least two centuries ago, but alas nature didn't like being agreeable and would prefer to be a spiteful bitch and make it hoot until its beak fell off. 

   The spooking, incidentally, scared many shades of wholesomeness from Timmy. He crept along a cobbled path, stopping to warily admire the shapes of cobwebs or read some bad poetry etched into a tombstone:

"Being dead is ok

But I'd rather be in Limbo

Not many people get to go to Limbo

I gave up trying to make this rhyme

You probably wouldn't appreciate it anyway"

-The Patrician Miller

Timmy shuddered at its stupidity. It was growing dark now. He found his way to a small patch of grass amongst the eerie tombstones. Why had he agreed to this again? Oh, his dog. He was suddenly struck with a strong sense of apathy for his dog's insides. He wished he had his diary with him; he had been feeling emotional of late and he found it useful to write down his feelings in the form of a fictionalised medical drama. Often, he'd be the chief surgeon in the King's Apothecary while his nurses bumbled ineptly around him, falling over themselves in interesting position while he remained aloof of all such worldly desires as he apathetically cured each patient with understated ease yet inside he actually cared and all the nurses swooned at his skinny white doctor's scrubs. 

    "Young fleshling, what is getting you down?" A very tall skeleton was sitting on the roof of a small sepulchre; he wore raggedy robes across his angular body, with a sharply contrasting, pristine white tophat. Inserted into the midband of his tophat was a two of clubs. In one skeletal hand, he held a book, the other a pocket watch. The book's cover was weathered and discoloured, but the pages were a very vibrant white. 

   "W-who are you?" Asked Timmy. He suddenly felt like he had pretty much ruined all chance he'd ever have ever again of asking a skeleton a witty opening line, and had instead opted for the incredibly lame who are you approach. "I, young one, am a lich. My name is an obscure one; it was quite common during the late Almost Antiquity, but not so much any more, its pretty unique. Yep, I'm a pretty old guy, Been here since, well, I think I was the first guy buried here actually. All these gravestones kinda came after me. To be honest, I preferred it then. It was nice, quieter, fewer people coming through. Ruining things. Man this one time, this alchemist was passing by. A relative had been buried somewhere near the back of the cemetery a few years back and he was visiting. Get this, heh, he, in a fit of "madness", tried to transmute his relative back to life. Like, I'm a lich, so I get the whole "morbidity" thing, but man, that was an intense night. He got all spooked when some beat chick crawled out, skin shedding etcetera, and tried to bite his ankles."

   Timmy stared dumbfounded at this bizarre, talkative skeleton. It was staring at a propped up mirror, fixing its hat so it sat at some unnecessary angle. It would glance over at Timmy, then look away, then take out its pocketwatch, as if noting the time, then putting it away, then taking it out again, tapping at it. Timmy could see that the hands had fallen out. 

   "Would you like to hear some poetry, young livington?" It cleared its throat. Wait, what? Timmy bit his lip in confusion.

"Oh, the life of a lich is so dull and

I'd really rather not be here so, 

I think I'll just take my life,

oh wait."

"I'm working on a new form of poem. It's pithy and punchy, a new creation of mine. I don't like those stuffy, over-done verses that they use in the city. No no, I like to be original. I'm generally a pretty original guy, once you get to know me." It straightened its robes, then looked appraisingly at Timmy. "Like my drapes, eh? I made 'em myself. Crept my way right into this the groundsman's house and nabbed his curtains. Hah, he'd never suspect me. Thinks I'm way too nice a guy to do something like that. Well jokes on him, I can be quite a bastard when I want to be, you know. Oh, and this little thing?" It lifted the book. "Ulysses, second edition. I really think Joyce is one of the greatest writers of our time, and this is a pretty old copy. Probably the oldest." 

   Timmy didn't quite know what to make of this creature that prattled endlessly in front of him. Then it struck him. 

     "What did you say your name was again?" 

     "Oh, I do believe I forgot to tell you! Well, that happens sometimes. I rarely ever hear my name used in conversation, you know, so I don't get a chance to remember it. It's kinda unique, you know? Well, it's Gareth. Gareth Skettlebones,"

   "Gareth, you're such a fucking hipster lich."