The raccoon had skittered up the glassy-smooth walls of the Crypts of the Dead Gods like a passing reflection. Now, unleashed, the plunged down like an avenging masked angel, makeshift club extended. The skeleton was decapitated in a single blow, the magic holding it together violently dissipating and blowing it into hundreds of bony shards.

“Womprat” delivered his kick swift and true. The patrolling skeleton never saw what was coming; it toppled headlong into the pool, and then began the long, slow descent to the mystery waters at the heart of the astral island. Its +5 broadsword of alacrity and decapitation was the weight that bore it downward, never to be seen or wielded again by the hands of mortals.

“Ja, zat vas…mein lunch,” said Cryptkeeper Sands, sadly, as his plate of talc shards was greedily taken. “But okay.”

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