*Dead As* Congratulations, your now dead. As you are laid to rest, your metabolic rates having long since pumped or jiggled their last, your body is discarded as the trees carry you deep into the ground. Twists and turns of the deep dwelling roots would make a pony naucious if they had the necessary liquids and organs to slosh around. Dank soils and long forgotten rock layers are nimbly navigated through by the natural helter skellter leading still further into the yawning blank black which cavernously swallows you whole. The root tapers to a point and you are poored onto your hooves once more. Congratulations, your a ghost now. Welcome to Etherial; the land of the dead. As far as other sub-terrania which deal in the metaphysical or processing of those deceased, it's reviews suggest it's a rather laid back place. The ruler of this land has had many an eon to develop a gallows wit, if only to cut the tention. After all, dying, being returned to the soil we all came from and then lanfing within a shadowy cave of multi-coloured fungus needs a little something to lighten the mood. Dark caves of tree limbs and lychen, the place is always bathed in a plethora of colour at all times. The mushroom's iluminessence coming in a rainbow of species with a distinct glow to each. It's honestly the only comforting thing in the unshakeable crags the obsidion hollows offered. From here, the spirits live on as the life blood of Equestria. They may ride the roots up to find new life to nurish or to swirl and push the weather or even to fuel magic itself to keep the force alive. You, on the other hoof, are summoned to the Queen. You are told you have a mission now. You are told your going back. You are told you must track down errant spirits. You are flung helplessly up. No roots, no rocks, no soil. You are now a lightning bolt, hurtling towards somewhere. You barely feel anything, all vision and hearing are taken up with noisy crackles. You awaken with a jerk. You weren't and then you were. Like you were suddenly plugged in, nerves suddenly working. "Don't panic. Panic and your leg may fall off. I haven't tightened it yet." You are shown a mirror. Your new body consists of a strange orb in the centre, glowing like tiny sun entrapped within a reactor core. Your mainly metal plates and pieces. Battered armour with scuffed hooves. A brass pony that clinks a little as whoever is underneath you bolts your leg on to your body. You don't feel weird. You aren't breathing but that doesn't appear to be any sort of a handicap any more. Everything is connected. You feel through the metal. You hear and smell perfectly well. Your alive, after a fashion. Your back. Congratulations, you are an Automaton. Why aren't you in your normal body? Why would you want to go back to that rotting husk? We're not making zombies and nopony is magicking you up a replacement. It's the metal one or nothing. Now, time to get to work. Name: Age when laid to rest: Last remembered event before death: Gender upon death: Cause of death: Obituary: (What was your life like? Lots of detail appreciated) Skills/Abilities: Knowledge Areas: Favouite Weapon: Favourite Type of Pie: Favourite Character from 'Revenge of The Nagapon': Happiest Memory: Notes: Please let me know if you've got anything to say or ask!