The sun had set, casting the land below in twilight as a cool breeze swept across the rolling hills. In the distance, the imposing silhouette of Castle Vephor loomed, its towering walls shrouded in mystery. It was the perfect target for young Azrath, still in the early stages of his necromantic training, and his ever-enthusiastic (and sometimes reckless) companion, Potabeau.

  “Alright, Potabeau,” Azrath said, his tone a mix of seriousness and the youthful confidence only a budding necromancer could have, “today’s the day. I’m going to raise an army of the dead and take over that castle. It's all part of the plan.”

  Potabeau, perched on a nearby rock with his usual mischievous grin, gave Azrath a skeptical glance. "An army of the dead, huh? Well, it sounds delightfully ominous my friend. But do we need to raise an army? I mean, couldn’t you just raise, like, a few skeletons to scare them? The whole ‘horde of undead’ thing will surely get a little... messy.”

  Azrath, who had already begun tracing intricate symbols in the dirt, looked up with a glint of determination in his eyes. “Potabeau, you just don’t understand the magnificence of it all. We’re not just raising some skeletons—we’re raising a varied and incorporated army. We’ll be unstoppable. And besides,” he added with a smirk, “...we’ll be unexpected.”

  Potabeau scratched his chin, clearly unconvinced. “You’re going to summon how many undead? And where, exactly, are we going to find enough corpses for that?”

  Azrath gestured to the field ahead of them, which, as far as the eye could see, was nothing but tall grass, a few scattered trees, and a very sleepy-looking village off in the distance. “We’ll find them. We just need to... encourage some volunteers. I’m sure the villagers will be delighted to help.”

  The two of them stood there for a moment, taking in the scene, before Azrath pulled out a dark tome—ancient, worn, and full of the forbidden knowledge he had so carefully studied. With a flourish, he began chanting in a language older than time itself, his hands moving in fluid, deliberate gestures. Potabeau, as usual, was pacing nearby, humming to himself and occasionally throwing in random, utterly unhelpful comments.

  “So, I’m thinking... when we get this undead army going, should I be the one giving them battle orders? I mean, you’re great at the whole ‘summoning dead’ thing, but I’m definitely better at speeches. You’ve heard my motivational pep talks, right?”

  Azrath didn’t reply, too focused on the intricate patterns forming around him. But Potabeau wasn’t deterred. He had always loved talking, whether or not anyone was listening.

  “Alright, alright, I get it. You’ll handle the raising part, I’ll handle the inspiration part,” Potabeau continued, bouncing on his heels. “Just promise me there will be a few accidental skeletons raised when we’re supposed to be getting just zombies, yeah? We need a bunch of clattering bones on our team and arrows won't have the same impact on skeletons.”

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  Azrath’s brow furrowed. “That’s... not how it works, Potabeau. Zombies are different from skeletons. You can’t just—”

  At that exact moment, there was a loud crack in the distance, followed by the unmistakable sound of something very large falling to the ground.

  Azrath blinked. “...Well, that was certainly not what I expected.”

  Potabeau’s eyes widened. “Wait... is that... a tree?”

  Indeed, the source of the noise was a massive oak tree that had just been struck by a bolt of dark energy from Azrath’s spell. It was now slowly toppling over, as though it had become a *very* reluctant participant in Azrath’s necromantic plans.

  “Uh, Azrath,” Potabeau began, taking a step back as the tree crashed into the ground, “maybe we need to rethink this whole thing? Ok.…..it's big…so…wow. I mean, do we really need the tree as part of the army?”

  Azrath, unfazed, waved it off. “It’s fine, it’s fine. I’ll get it under control.” He waved his hand dismissively, but as he did, the tree began to twitch. The branches curled up like skeletal fingers, and roots dug into the earth, their dead bark now seeming more like the cracked and withered skin of a long-deceased giant. “...Huh. Well, that's certainly not what I intended.”

  As if called by the tree's roots, a series of skeletal arms began to claw their way out of the ground, each more disorganized than the last. One of them held a sword, another a pitchfork, and a third, for reasons unknown, was gripping a very old, very battered lute. The skeletons began clattering around in confusion, unsure of whether they were supposed to be soldiers, musicians, or something in between.

  Potabeau raised an eyebrow, watching the spectacle unfold. “I gotta admit, this is... something else.” He chuckled to himself. “We’re off to a great start. You’ve got an undead band. The undead band.”

  Azrath, now flustered, frantically waved his arms to try and regain control. “No! Focus! I need you all to rise as soldiers, not... whatever this is!” He pointed at the skeletal lute player, who had begun playing a rather out-of-tune rendition of what could only be described as a “funeral march.”

  Potabeau leaned over to one of the skeletons, which had now taken up position near Azrath’s side. “You know,” he said conversationally, “if you can’t get the whole army thing down, I could just give you a hand with a few battle tunes. You know, really rally the troops. We’ll march them right to the castle!”

  Azrath turned back to him with an exasperated expression. “I’m trying to create an army of undead, Potabeau! Not a musical performance! Why does this always happen when I’m around you?”

  “Unfair,” Potabeau chuckled. “ I've heard you fail from afar.”

  “My best friend…” Azrath began.

  “Come now Az, I'm also the jovial spin you need on this dreary work.” Potabeau assured him carefully.

  Meanwhile, the undead army—now numbering approximately three skeletons, a possessed tree, and just one confused zombie—was slowly making its way toward the castle. The tree, having gained a modicum of sentience, was now lumbering forward, limbs creaking ominously. The skeletons, caught up in their own rhythm, were aimlessly following, occasionally attempting to form a battle line, only to be distracted by the out-of-tune lute.

  “This is going well,” Potabeau mused, grinning. “We’ll totally crush them with our unique brand of…music.” He paused. “Maybe we should’ve raised a more zombie heavy force. At least they might not get distracted.”

  Azrath shook his head, realizing that perhaps Potabeau usually wanted what he did not have…But it was too late now. They were committed, and their undead army, as chaotic and disorganized as it was, was making its way toward Castle Vephor. They’d either succeed in besieging the castle—or they’d be laughed out of the siege entirely.

  “Alright,” Azrath muttered, straightening his robes, “we’ll take what we can get. But next time, Potabeau, you can get the army. I’m sticking to the magic.”

  Potabeau shot him a mischievous grin. “Sure, sure. Let’s see if we can teach these skeletons some actual battle styles or if they just need equipment. I think they’d hit better with a bit of a...rock twist.” He carefully began placing rocks in their various appendages.

  With that, Azrath and Potabeau—along with their incredibly disorganized undead army—set off for Castle Vephor, unaware that their siege would go down in history not as a conquest, but as a comedy of errors that would forever be known as the “Zombie Symphony of Vephor.”

  As they approached the castle gates, Azrath muttered to himself as if taking notes, "Next time, I'm summoning and Potabeau is equipping them…And no lute players.”