Castor Foalheart stood just outside the doorway to his family home. He was the seventh son of a seventh son. Had this been a different place, then mayhaps special dignity would be afforded him. However, that was given neither here nor in his wildest imaginings. Come tomorrow's dawn he would turn sixteen, and claim the birthright which evaded his grasp up til now—or so he told anyone keen for an answer.

His inner worries did nothing to betray a bubbly outer appearance. In reality, those worries only worked to heighten the already effective act. As a few townsfolk walked on by, he greeted them with a goofy smile.

"Evenin' Mrs. Andow. Bea-utiful weather, don'tcha say?"

The pleasantries shot from his mouth with practiced grace, more natural because he would leave later tonight. One way or another.

"Didja root out them Burrowacks, Mr. Vincent? Need a hand? No? Ah-"

A stern yell pulled him from the conversation. "Castor! Suppertime! I made the birthday boy's favorite, Gormashe, and Gravy."

"Ah-ah, Ma' you know my favorite is Ticklepear Pie," he gave Mr.Vincent an apologetic look, before going back inside.

Mrs. Foalheart placed her hands on her waist and chided. "Young man, if you act like a dessert is an entree, I'll twist your ear 'til Sunday!"

Castor replied with extra exuberance, "Only a day? Have you grown soft Ma', or didja forget it's Saturday today?"

Her eyes grew narrower, but, quickly she relented with a puff of upward air. "Oh, hush. Now, set the table dear. You know, your Father won't be back until the Road of Bones opens tomorrow. Are you getting excited yet?"

He bit his bottom lip but brightened up a moment later. "You betcha Ma'!"

Castor's brothers were also away, leaving just the two of them to eat in comfortable silence. No doubt they were busy helping his Father, but that made his planned escape all the easier. He knew he shouldn't lower his guard, but he was grateful for every scrap of aid he could muster. Soon, the rest of this lazy Hamlet would gear down for bedtime, and with that, his chance at freedom.

"Mmm. That was dee-lish Ma'! Thanks for the company. I'm gonna go to my room, okay?" Castor played the puppy-eyes card.

She shamelessly pinched his cheek. "Alright, sweetie. I hope you had a wonderful day. Make sure you get lots of sleep tonight; tomorrow is The Big Day."

"Maaa'! Now my cheek is all swoll-y!"

With the darkening skies as a countdown, idleness saw him run down his checklist. He had been hoarding foodstuff and equipment for the past few months. A length of rope here, a dry ration from Father's soldier pack there. Everything he would need was taken into account. No one could afford any mistakes in the depths of these mountains. This mountain range held many different titles, yet they were all the same to him; he knew to stay meant only to invite his own demise.

Castor's eyes fixated on the tiny flame from a candlestick that lit up his room. The ring of wax in its disk-shaped holder being his only indication the big moment was near. As surely as the payoff a measure of patience begets, the inconvenience of day ceased. He made his move after making certain Mother was sound asleep. It wasn't so much that she was careless, just little reason to suspect his loyalty to their cause.

However, he had a different trajectory for his life in mind. He longed to see the world, to carve out his own path. Castor was not content to die a fanatic in this long-forgotten valley, mouthing verses from a legend of generational descent. Through the cover of Youngbark Trees, he made out his family home. The night skies did nothing to diminish his fond memories of the good times spent there. If everything went according to plan, he would likely never return.

"I'm sorry Mother... Father- I just don't hold the same beliefs I did when I was a child," he spoke softly. A whisper which only the trees would ever speak of.

With that said, he moved on further into the temperate mountain valley. The trunks of Youngbark trees were thin, much like Palm trees. The main differences were the Banana leaves and their lack of fruitful seeds. Inbetween them, verdant foliage was thick and a pain to navigate. However, having had the experience of years spent within it, this place was akin to his own backyard.

As the minutes crept on, he was full of giddy excitement. Feelings of adventure, and the glories of Whorrl all laid out before him, only awaiting his descent from these time-stuck mountains. Castor knew the path well, for each of his various preparations, he would not lose his way so easily.

The closer he got to his stash of gear, the more restless with unease he became. Once he arrived at the supply cache, he would follow an old, disused trail to a connecting valley. From there, he still needed to make use of every spare hour to ensure the best odds—distance was key.

From one thought to the next series of arduous movements; nearby, the snap of a twig brought both to a halt. He made himself smaller, craning his neck in stiff concentration. The sound came from nearby, yet to run would only guarantee mutual awareness. The brief stalemate ended when a voice, a man's voice, and the one he least wanted to hear, came to the forefront.

"I know you're there. Come on out now, Son."

Oddly, the revelation didn't provoke any fear in him, only a humorous sort of melancholy. Castor stood up with dignity, a wan smile lifting his head to meet the man's frosty gaze. Even in full darkness, he knew it well.

"Father, I thought you would be busy with the preparations for tomorrow. I must confess, it's a bit awkward to meet you here like this."

Rowen, Castor's Father, coldly regarded him. "Keeping an eye on my deceitful Son counts as that, no? In which case, I must confess it's neither awkward nor groundless for me to be here."

Castor's legs felt like wet noodles, yet he forced himself to stay upright. "I was only hoping for a better fate; you make me sound like such a villain. Fath-"

"Cut the crap," Rowen interrupted, "now, return to the hamlet with me. And you will put on a brave face for the sake of your Mother tomorrow night."

As if in answer to Rowen's point of view, a thunderous wolf challenge broke through the dense underbrush. The howl of savagery brought Castor down to a knee. His ears bled even as he saw his Father shout in alarm.

"Get... Gather the... Castor!... Move your ass!"

The foliage broke apart under his feet, well before he even knew he was running. The primacy of the sound had squeezed his mind into a jelly paste. The [Intruder Wolf] he saw through the shrubbery loomed so menacingly, he wasn't sure if his body was running or if his spirit had left it behind. It was a true alpha amongst alphas, one that came from only the highest of peaks. In his heart, he knew his Father was a dead man.

He cried as he ran without any concern for direction. Finally, after tens of minutes, he came to a sudden stop. His shoes scuffed against a rocky surface, and he saw a cave entrance a few feet ahead. Castor was still fearful of the predatory Wolf, and so, without another option forthcoming, went inside.

The interior held a sense of strangeness, all lit up by greyscale saturation. The path went on without detour or cause for distraction. Unconcerned with the cavern's peculiar nature, and still immersed in the previous experience, he trudged on. His cloudy consciousness made the importance of clarity known, for the walls were a tangle of myriad bones. The path grew steeper, and with it, the struggle to find purchase as well. However, after finding handholds embedded in the walls, steady progression resumed.

Castor's trancelike movements led him to an exit. The moment he stepped outside the cave, he could only stare dumbly into the distance. The view from the terrace took his breath away. It was like a staircase made for giants, that stepped down to a centermost caldera. Eight snow-capped mountains made a perfect circle around the perimeter, with their tips bent inward like a shark's jaw closes.

The land rumbled and shook. The snowy robes on the mountains fell away, revealing a sickly-green, plasma discoloration underneath. These were no mountains, but sky-piercing mounds of bone. This was the seat where the [Cosmo-Lich Bonelord], Milowix, once ruled from his ivory throne. The rattle-song of bone against bone came as a singular note that struck him.

"Come to me."

Against his will, he moved as if a passenger of his own body towards the rancid, milk-colored pool at the very center. The next note burrowed itself inside his inner ear.

"Sink into the baptismal pool. Come to me."

Fading in and out of consciousness, Castor sank deeper and deeper into the dirty water. The third and final note awakened him from sleep on a grey, stone block floor.

"This is my domain Human child. The time of sacrifice is not yet upon you. Still, this may be of better service to me."

Everything was grey except for the high-seated throne and kingly presence that sat on it. Milowix, the conqueror who came from space, sat there unmoving, and as if considering whether to squish an insect. An eight-pointed crown with inset jewels and gems fit snugly on the lich's skeletal head. The beady red light of the undead was steady within his empty eye sockets. A mane of fluffy white fur, trimmed the peak fold of his robe, with the color being regal purple throughout. Accessories of gold and bright, gleaming gems sparkled like the cosmos from pockets, clips, or pins onto the robe's fabric in various places, sizes, and designs.

"I sense the creation of powerful bones to the far North. Soon, I will return. Go, be my eyes that I might see my prize."

Castor fought against the compelling force. He was fully against being of service to supreme evil, even if the alternative scarred him dreadfully so. He thought fast, his mind picking up on a clue that he ran with as he spoke.

"Yu-You need a living p-person, right? I-I want to l-leave this place alr-ready. You d-don't have to compel me, I'll g-go."

For a moment there was no response, but shortly after, the spell that swallowed his consciousness became answer enough.

"[Resistance is bonemeal, sown through my crass fingers]."