In Wolfstone, the fog-shrouded, cobblestoned capitol of the deathless kingdom of Durç, a long, dark limo pulls up to the palace in the light drizzle common to early autumn. The paparazzi gather in cafés nearby, cameras at the ready, aimed at the passenger door of the limo. A skeletal servant approaches, opening the door when the passenger signals.
The passenger unfolds as he exits, a solid six and a half feet tall. King of Bones is many things: gaunt, black-haired, stately, glamorous, cold, distant. His eyes linger over the banks of photographers for a moment, but he can't blame them. It has been far too long since he stood before his people as a man. As he turns, his form wavers, and one paparazzo manages to snap the shot- the ghostly form of the impossibly ancient king. Not that it's a secret, by any means. The Necromancer King took control of the land that would be come to be called Durç over six hundred years ago, with only a few short breaks in his direct rule.
Nearby, undead stand in shadowed alcoves, controlled and linked by the occasional knight astride a bone horse, as cars hum by, a testament to the growth of the nation and of the world.
Somewhere underground, a ground of young, angry people with bright blond hair and dark-painted weapons talk amongst themselves. Narthalians. Northerners. This was their land, after they took it from the first Durcks. Then the King of Bones took it back, and made it into a necromantic utopia. The Narthalians would take it back, and free their people from the cold, northern exile they had been forced to.
Elsewhere, a sommelier lists fine Durckish wines- Yve red, Etanby whites… Towards the end, he throws out Norland Undead-Free Red, almost as though he's embarrassed to acknowledge the label. To his chagrin, the customers gratefully order the wine made without undead labor.
Elsewhere, a state-sanctioned necromancer raises the corpses of executed criminal prisoners. He checks his list once again, and notes that the Duke of Gathan hasn't paid him this month, and goes to report the drained corpse to the proper authorities… After, of course, disposing of the other fed-upon corpses, be they drained by the hemophilic members of the nobility, or munched on by the… carniverous members.
The quiet, beautiful nation ticks along under the watchful eyes of the King of Bones and his Bone Knights, as it has for centuries, and will for centuries yet.