Brendan stared at the creature in the pale moonlight, transfixed by the silvery petals that glistened beneath that perfect purity. It was not until his final breath that he gathered his wits enough to scream after the thing had descended on him, all muscle and thorns and hard, barklike skin. It was too impossible, even the crimson blossoms that shone in the light of the moon.
These small, luminescent creatures are a distant relative of the willowisp, little bits of orangish light that are attracted by the flames of a fire. When enough of them have gathered around a fire, the fire appears to take on a fuzzy indistinctness.
On a world made entirely of molten rock, there is still life.
A golden skull contains the spirit of a person who has been magically entrapped in an ethereal undead status by an ancient ritual. The person was boiled alive in a golden mixture until nothing remained of him except the bones, now covered by a golden layer. Whoever has these golden bones, controls the spirit and can command it. It can assault the living with wind and storm. Manipulate objects and communicate with the living. (Inspired by Anne Rice, Servant of the Bones)