In a particularly murky corner of The Garden, where vines writhed like lazy snakes and the air smelled faintly of decay, Zooted Zeke shuffled along, swaying like a scarecrow in a stiff wind. Zeke, a once-proud zombie, was convinced he was the coolest undead in the glade. With his rotting jaw hanging at an odd angle and his milky eyes half-closed, he muttered to himself, “Yeah, man… life is like, a blur… except… you know… I’m dead, so it’s just a, uh… haze…”
Clad in a tattered vest adorned with scavenged patches—most of which were upside-down or meaningless—Zeke clutched a broken stick he called his “magic wand.” The glowing mushrooms dotting the trees around him cast a faint, hallucinatory light that Zeke was sure was a personal trip, even though zombies couldn’t trip. “Whoa, dude, the forest is alive! Wait, am I alive? Nah, bro, that’s too deep.”
Zeke’s self-indulgent ramblings were interrupted by a flash of steel in the distance. Adventurers. They were here again, stomping through the forest, likely after the shimmering crystal shards embedded in the mossy trees nearby. Zeke knew he should probably shuffle off and hide, but he had a reputation to maintain. He was Zooted Zeke, the chillest zombie around!
Lurching forward, he waved his “magic wand” dramatically and hollered, “Heyyy, dudes! You here to… like… vibe? Or are you gonna be narcs about this whole ‘stealing from the forest’ thing?” His raspy voice echoed awkwardly, causing a few glowing beetles to scatter.
Zeke planted his feet and pointed his stick at the group, striking what he thought was a menacing pose. “Y’all can’t pass, man. This is my zone. Like, the universe gave it to me, or whatever.”
The rogue squinted at him. “Are you… drunk?”
Zeke snorted, his decayed nose collapsing slightly. “Pfft, nah. I’m just, uh, elevated. You wouldn’t get it.” His stick snapped in half as he gestured too hard.
Zeke quickly swapped tactics, adopting what he thought was a laid-back lean against a tree. The tree creaked ominously. “Hey, hey. No beef, dudes. I’m just sayin’, like, maybe don’t touch the shiny stuff, yeah? It’s bad karma.”
The sorcerer raised an eyebrow. “That ‘shiny stuff’ is literally magical. What are you even guarding it for?”
Zeke froze. “Uh… because it’s my… vibes?” He waved his broken stick again, but the adventurers began edging closer to the shards.
Zeke decided it was time to unleash his secret weapon: performance art. He collapsed onto the ground in exaggerated slow motion, limbs flailing. “Oh nooo, my chill is draining! Only the shards can restore meee!” He rolled around dramatically, stopping to peek at the adventurers’ reactions.
The cleric snorted. “You’re undead. You don’t even have a metabolism.”
Zeke blinked, processing the insult. “Yeah? Well, uh, you don’t have… cool pants!” He gestured wildly, accidentally knocking over a shard, which began glowing even brighter. The adventurers exchanged glances, realizing the shards might be crucial to their quest. Zeke scrambled to his feet, clutching his broken stick. “Alright, fine! You wanna mess with the zombie that’s, like, too cool for life? Bring it on! But just know, if you lose, you’re all… lame for eternity!”
The adventurers stood ready, weapons drawn and eyes on the shards. The forest hummed with quiet tension, the glowing mushrooms casting eerie shadows. Would they humor Zeke, engage him in combat, or simply ignore him and investigate the shards? The fate of Zooted Zeke’s pride—and the magical forest—was now in their hands.
