Battle had been going on for hours, the Crusaders’ cavalry vanguard pressing relentlessly toward the cliffs overlooking the coast. Their gleaming armor reflected the setting sun, and their banners whipped in the wind as their warhorses thundered across the battlefield surrounding a coastal eacarpment. But the Crusaders weren’t able to conceive of what Azrath had in store.

  At the crest of the black dirt hill bordering the coast Azrath stood tall, his dark cloak billowing dramatically in the salty sea breeze. His arms were raised, green necromantic energy spiraling from his fingertips and into the field below. Beneath the earth, something stirred.

  "You’re sure this is going to work?" Potabeau asked, perched on the back of a skeletal horse. Its exposed ribs rattled with every step, and its glowing eye sockets gave it a perpetual look of mild foreboding.

  Azrath, sweat beading on his forehead from the sheer effort of the spell, growled, "Do you have a better idea, Potabeau?"

  Potabeau shrugged. "Well, I thought about asking the Crusaders to politely go home, but they didn’t seem like the tea-and-conversation type."

  Azrath ignored him, focusing on the ground below. The Crusaders’ cavalry charged forward, their warhorses moving somewhat uphill—until the earth split open and a stampede of zombie horses burst forth.

  The undead beasts were a horrifying sight: rotting flesh hanging from their bones, green necromantic flames glowing in their empty eye sockets. They charged down the steepest part of the hill with a deafening roar, a nightmare of teeth, hooves, and sheer chaos.

  Potabeau leaned forward on his skeletal steed, grinning. "Now *this* is more like it!" He spurred the horse forward, joining the stampede. "Come on, Bony! Let’s show these Crusaders what real horsepower looks like!"

  Azrath watched in horror as Potabeau rode into the fray, whooping and hollering like a lunatic. "That idiot is going to get himself killed," he muttered. Then, with a resigned sigh, he muttered a quick spell to give Potabeau's steed more direct guidance.

  The undead stampede tore through the Crusaders’ cavalry, scattering their formation and sending their riders fleeing in terror. Potabeau, for his part, made a sport of chasing down the most panicked knights, shouting things like, "Who’s truly ready…FOR THE RISEN?!"

  - - -

  As Azrath and Potabeau wreaked havoc on the Crusaders far to the coast, Grin Hollow was undergoing its own transformation.

  Mervin, Azrath’s earnest but perpetually frazzled apprentice, stood proudly in front of the newly constructed *Hallowhaven Academy of Science.* The building was an odd blend of necromantic architecture and experimental gadgetry, with pipes that occasionally puffed harmless purple smoke and skeletons operating rudimentary machinery.

  Autumn had become Grin Hollow’s resident inventor, and recruited Mervin as partner in chaos.

  She adjusted her goggles and grinned. "You know, Merv, for a necromancer’s apprentice, you’ve got a knack for this science stuff."

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  "Thanks," Mervin said nervously, pushing up his glasses. "Though I’m still not sure if using skeletons as lab assistants is, uh, useful."

  "Hey, they don’t complain, they don’t take lunch breaks, and they’re great with beakers," Autumn said, patting a skeleton on the shoulder. It promptly dropped the beaker it was holding, shattering it. "Okay, maybe not *great,* but they’re enthusiastic."

  Their conversation was interrupted by a loud cheer from the nearby town square, where Lilac was being sworn in as Grin Hollow’s new mayor. She looked every bit the reluctant leader, her arms crossed and a scowl on her face as she endured the applause.

  "If you idiots don’t stop clapping," she muttered, "I’m raising taxes on ale."

  The crowd cheered louder.

  "How long do you think she’ll last?" Mervin fielded to Autumn.

  Autumn grinned. "Longer than she knows. She’s tougher than she looks and pretty popular."

  As the sun set over Grin Hollow, the city buzzed with its usual strange mix of magic and mayhem. Skeletons carried supplies to the academy, townsfolk debated whether Lilac’s leadership would upset the risen, and a poltergeist was stealing pies from *The Laughing Skull.*

  - - -

  Far to the coast, Potabeau raised his sword triumphantly as the Crusaders retreated. "Grin Hollow: one. Crusaders: zero. I call that a win!"

  Azrath, exhausted but satisfied, looked at his friend and shook his head. "You’re impossible."

  "And you love it," Potabeau replied with a wink.

  The makeshift camp on the coastal cliffs was a bizarre sight. Tents made of scavenged fabric flapped in the salty breeze, and the undead versions of the Crusaders’ warhorses stood grazing on nothing in particular. Skeletons ambled about, some hauling supplies, others aimlessly standing where they had been dismissed by Azrath’s commands.

  Potabeau, however, was on a mission.

  "Alright, listen up, you rattling rejects," he said, standing before a group of skeletons who sat around makeshift drums crafted from overturned crates, hollowed logs, and battered shields. "If we’re going to make this new city of Azrath’s less *doom and gloom,* we’re going to need a little culture. And what better way to start than with some music?"

  The skeletons stared at him blankly, their bony faces devoid of expression.

  Potabeau clapped his hands. "Don’t give me that look. You’ve got hands, you’ve got rhythm—or at least you will by the time I’m done with you. Now, follow my lead."

  He picked up a pair of sticks and began to tap out a simple beat on a nearby crate. "One, two, three, four. Come on, it’s easy!"

  The skeletons hesitated before mimicking his movements. Their bony fingers clattered against the makeshift drums, creating a cacophony that could only be described as... experimental.

  Potabeau winced but kept a grin on his face. "Not bad for your first try! Now, let’s spice it up a bit. Third skeleton from the left—yes, you with the cracked skull—add a little flair. Hit that shield over there for some variety."

  The skeleton complied, albeit awkwardly, and the sound that emerged was more of a clang than a beat.

  "Perfect!" Potabeau said, ignoring how terrible it sounded. "We’ll have this camp grooving in no time!"

  Farther inland, Azrath was pacing a field of windswept grass, his staff glowing faintly as he muttered incantations under his breath. He moved methodically, occasionally stopping to drive the butt of his staff into the ground, where the green energy spread like roots before fading away.

  "Find anything yet?" Potabeau called, sauntering over with a stick still tucked behind his ear.

  Azrath didn’t even look up. "If by ‘anything’ you mean necromantic leylines, then yes, I’m close. If you mean an excuse to stop working and listen to whatever madness you’ve cooked up this time, then no."

  "Good news, then," Potabeau said, leaning casually on his skeletal steed, which had decided to follow him. "Because I’m teaching the skeletons to play the drums, and once they’re good enough, we’re going to have a full-on undead percussion band. We’ll call them... the Bone Rattlers!"

  Azrath froze mid-step and turned to glare at him. "We’re on the brink of founding a city built on the ashes of a Crusader defeat, and *that’s* your priority? A skeleton band?"

  "Az, Az, Az," Potabeau said, waving him off. "What’s a city without music? You’re dealing with the big, boring stuff—leyline this, arcane nexus that. I’m handling the culture."

  Azrath sighed, rubbing his temples. "I’m beginning to regret bringing you along."

  "No, you’re not," Potabeau said with a grin. "Because deep down, you know I’m the only one keeping you from becoming an insufferable hermit."

  Azrath chose not to dignify that with a response and instead returned to his work. He drove his staff into the ground once more, and this time, the energy that spread out pulsed brighter and lingered longer. A faint smile crossed his lips.

  "There," he said. "A necromantic leyline. The perfect foundation for a new city."

  Potabeau clapped him on the shoulder. "See? Progress! Now, let’s celebrate with a little music. I promise, the Bone Rattlers are getting better. Slightly."

  Azrath gave him a sidelong glance. "If I hear a single clang while I’m working, I’m banishing you to the undead stables."

  Potabeau just laughed, throwing an arm around Azrath’s shoulders as they headed back toward the camp. "Fine, fine. But don’t come crying to me when you realize your city’s missing a proper marching band."

  As the sun dipped below the horizon and the sound of clattering drums echoed across the cliffs, Azrath sighed again, but this time, there was a hint of amusement in his expression. He’d never admit it out loud, but Grin Hollow—and this city they built next—wouldn’t be the same without Potabeau’s ridiculous ideas.