Skeletons Don't Make Good Wingmen, but He'll Do

The Revenant's armour sat crumpled in a pile when she finally came across it.

How daring, she’d thought, rage smouldering underneath her pale complexion while she picked through the sheets of metal and chainmail intermingled with the bones of her companion. She gathered pieces and brought them to a weather table sitting outside a burned down dwelling with other pieces saved, yet no living soul but the elf roamed around.

Once gathered, placed on the table in order she observed the pieces missing and scowled when examining the skull. How did they manage to get your helmet off, Reaper? scowling and animating the lower jaw, chiming, Because I am not spritely in my movements like you, elf. A crazed snort of a giggle escaped her lips and placed the skull back, Nyllian’s eyes closed as she began the ritual. Calling on the spirits of the dead to return the soul wrenched from the armour and bones.

I promise we’ll find you replacement pieces once I have recalled you. she’d promise, magic dancing between fingertips while she weaved the sigils and muttered the words of summoning. Nearby the earth would rumble, another body nearby was risen to shuffle its shambling self to the opposite end of the table.