Dearest Elisabeth 1

Dearest Elisabeth,

Lo, it has been too many nights since I have had the chance to sit and collect my thoughts for you. My days are filled with adventure and intrigue, but my nights are the intervals of true excitement, for they are when visions of you dance across my mind. Alas that between the two I haven't the time to write you as I once did.

Two days ago our taciturn priest was able to cure us of our poisoning, at last. I will always espouse that I appreciate the work of his divine patron, but I will admit to a small complaint about the efficiency of his ministrations. Two days of prayer for a simple curing of disease? Any city priest worth his salt would be appalled.

Now, I know what you are thinking. 'Perhaps this is recompense for your wicked ways, Nathaniel'. But I should remind you that I haven't picked our good friend the Priest's pocket since we met, and even then I did return what I took when I discovered his noble profession. Eventually. What more piety could one ask from a thief, hmm? The gods are forgiving, I'm told.

I must go for now, my sweet Elisabeth. The mage is beginning to stretch and breathe deeply, which tells me that shortly there will be flames and bolts cast across the sky in what the penny-worth wizard calls 'practice'. I have learned of late that it is wise to take cover while the young man stretches his arcane muscles.

Much love, and all the care,

Nathaniel

White Like Bone

There is a way of thinking that states you are not who you think you are. The you that has been built up over the course of your life is impossible, because your consciousness has been interrupted. Interrupted every night in fact, while you slept. So every day you begin again, fresh faced, well rested, and an entirely new person.

Gods, how I want that to be true. How I long for that to free me from the sins of my past. To know that I was even a little unrelated to the man that shared this skin twenty four hours ago would be a sweetness I do not deserve. I apologize, as I am no philosopher. I have nothing to assert my claim to the invalidity of this theory but my own heart. My heart tells me, every morning, that the blood is still on my hands. Mine. It was my mistakes, my decisions, and my conviction that led me here, to this small room, before this mirror in which I see a stranger's face and a history of violence.

If anything I have lived not ten thousand lives but two. I would have been better off having died at the end of my first, but I am not a lucky man.

Like most I remember little of the day of my birth. Flashes of memory haunt my nightmares. Darkness, and screaming. A terrible pressure, and pain. A light. Arms pulling me through jagged stone and dust. Chalky faces of my family. My new family. And the finality. The loss. The truth.

It makes sense. Everything dies. But being confronted with the truth is often... painful. And there is nothing wrong with that truth.

It's what I did with it that I will suffer for.

The man in the mirror has been there too long already now. He finishes applying his chalky white makeup and stands. The knife dangles loosely at his hip. There is work to be done, and so he turns and leaves.

And my heart is heavy with the weight of the truth I must share with the people. It will be a long night, before I can return, sleep, and dream of a new life, and a new me. Someone else to bear this skin. Someone better.

House Call

Death is many things when it comes to different people, but more than anything he is patient. He has waited lifetimes for individuals to be ready, to come to him in earnestness so they can move on.
But in himself, he detests lateness and sloth. Is reviled by any indication of sluggishness or laziness.
So perhaps that is why, as his album spun to its end and he sat in his comfortable chair, he was already beginning to squirm. Though he could not hear it, he could see the phone ringing, on and on, waiting for his answer. For his next job. But had he not earned this rest? Had he not worked tirelessly, for eons? Was this little joy really too much to ask?
But somewhere deep inside him, he knew the answer would be yes, yes it was.
And so, with increasing irritability, he finished listening to his album, staring at the phone. The final song did not even register in his mind, replaced with nothing but the ongoing, unending, unstoppable ring of the phone, calling him back to work. His fingers tightened on the arms of the chair, but he refused to let them take him before he was ready. His stubbornness gave him that much resolve, at least. As much as it pained him, he would not let them interrupt this. This one little rebellion.
Finally, the record played out, the needle silently sliding along un-recorded grooves. He arose from his chair with a sigh, although if it was one of frustration or relief even he was unsure. He carefully removed the headphones, and placed them gently beside the record player, lifting the needle and turning the device off. His ears, or what was once his ears, slowly filled with the interminable ringing that matched the noise in his mind.
He strode over to the phone and stood square before it, making a choice.
A deep breath in, and he lifted the receiver. Slowly, he put it to his head and waited for the instruction.
"You are old enough to be asking questions." The voice on the line said flatly.
Death cocked his head, confused. "Who is this?"
"Why aren't you?"
Death's jaw opened, shut, opened again, and closed once more.
"If not you, then whom?" The voice said with finality. There was a click, and the line went dead.
Death held the phone out to look at it. No-one had ever called him on this phone, save for work. Ever.
He put the receiver back on its hook, and stared at the device. The voice wanted to know why he wasn't asking questions, but right now he only had one in mind. As it played through his head, a shiver ran down his ancient spine.
Who can call Death at home?

Shadrak

He was below decks in his quarters when the shout came up. A flicker of hope filled his mind, but was quickly contained in a cage of rationality. They had been wrong before.  Carefully he put away his inks and instruments, rolled up his parchments, and placed them in their proper containers. Just as he was finishing, the knock on his door came.

"Come," he barked at the door. It swung open quickly but carefully, and in the frame was the bosun.

"Land, sir," the bosun smiled widely, betraying his joy at the prospect of being free from their journey.

"Hmm," replied the captain. He finished calmly putting away his parchments and turned towards the door. Absentmindedly he fingered the large ring he bore on his pinky finger. He nodded, but could not return the smile.

The two of them emerged from the belly of the ship into the bright sunlight of the day. The crew was quietly jubilant, not wanting to disturb their captain but unable to contain their joy. At last his eyes adjusted, and on the horizon he saw it.

The glittering Golden City. At last.

A smile cracked his lips. There was naught it could be but their goal. Freedom at last.

"Start the ritual." He ordered the crew, who immediately erupted into thrilled shouts. They cleared the spell circle in the centre of the ship and rushed to gather the components.

The captain toyed once more with his overlarge ring, and turned to the bosun.

"Would you do the honours?" He asked, pulling out his knife and handing it handle-first to the bosun. His eyes lit up with surprise and respect.

"I would consider it a privilige, sir." He took the intricate knife, and bowed deeply to his captain. The two moved to the centre of the circle.

The two men looked into each other's eyes with the pride of a job well done, and the bosun slit his captain's throat with the blade in a single, vicious, practised strike. As he fell to the floor, blood gushing from his neck, the captain made no action to stem the red tide. Instead, he pulled the ring from his finger, and placed it in the bosun's hand.

The two shared a last look of profound respect, and the captain's blood ignited the arcane circle etched in the ship's deck. Out of the mystic circle came the dessicated face of the Emperor-Dead, gazing down upon the crew with polite disinterest.

The bosun slid the ring on his pinky, and felt it clamp down with an almost living strength. He stood up straight, and spoke to the image of his ruler.

"This is captain Shadrak of the Dereth Pride, and I am pleased to report that we have found the Golden City for you, my Lord." He bowed to the image, which flickered in reds and blues before him, an ancient face that ever so slightly betrayed a sense of excitement at the news.

Mishak

I have loved you for a thousand years, oh Queen mine.

I let my desiccated hand delicately trace the fine lines of your face in the painting once more. The exquisite agony of the memory of your flesh on mine ripples down my arm into my heart, and I am strengthened by it. As I have always been. As I will always be. My eyes take in the burns on your painting, my greatest shame. I could not even protect your image.

But your face remains, and it is enough. A thousand years, I have forgotten not one freckle, not one line. A smile threatens to crack the dry skin of my face, but it is tempered by my patience.

There can be no joy without you. The last ten centuries have proven this.

I fold my arms into my sleeves, and stare into your eyes. Soon.

I do not know how long I spend with you on this day. Or those days? Time has become such a nuisance. An impediment to progress. But I am nothing if not patient. I am patient, for you.

At last, my mind is sufficiently filled with your divine beauty for me to continue my work, and I can turn away from you. For now. The ache settles instantly in my heart, but I can bear this burden for now. As my ancient eyes adjust to the light, I see an assistant scuttling towards me, his boots clicking on the stone floor.

"Sir?" He asks quietly, not sure if I have been roused from my reverie. I nod slowly, to show my attention is on him. He gulps, and holds out a scroll. With a flick of my wrist, it levitates from him to hover before my face. I cannot read it.

Sigh. The glasses.

I reach in to my robes, and pull out a pair of golden rimmed spectacles. A quick polish on my flowing robes, and I place them on my dried face. The words congeal from blurry lines into a flowing, precise script.

The fourth cask has been unearthed. I nod my approval. Soon I will allow myself a smile, I think.

I hand the nervous assistant back his note. He bows respectfully, and begins to back away.

"Mishak," I call his name out, and he freezes. His eyes rise to meet mine, wide and anxious. "It is nearly time. Have the altar prepared."

"Aye sir." He replies swiftly, once again bowing.

"And when you have finished," I continue calmly, replacing my glasses in the cloak. "Bring me your daughter."

Mishak's face brightens visibly, and he stands a little straighter. "Thank you, sir!"

Your painting tugs at me from behind, but I do not turn. I cannot be lost in memories now, not when things are so close. Mishak's daughter has already suffered overlong due to my childish reveries.

"Your service has been impeccable. It is past time she was cured, I can only apologize for my tardiness." I bow my head slightly.

"No apologies necessary, your Worship," he bows deeply, thrilled, before turning to run off and complete his task.

I watch him scuttle out, his zeal renewed by the love of his family and the knowledge that his work will bring them the relief they deserve. My bones ache. You call to me, in the painting.

But I cannot be with you now, my Queen. Soon.

I have loved you for a thousand years, and soon I will tell you so in person.

The Monster in the Mountain

There is a monster, they said.

The mountain has slept for generations, a peaceful reign long enough for the people to prosper and outgrow their town. Long enough for them to spread up the mountainside, and make use of its fertile soil and dense forest.

The people spread and grew like a tide, rising up the mountain, while it continued to slumber. It had slept so long that all said it would never again wake.

It was only grandfather's grandfathers grandfathers fathers that had seen the living mountain in it's rage, and they had died long past. Now it slept the forever sleep. It was obvious.

So when the thing came to the town and was cast out, when it stumbled up the mountainside away from the people, when it disappeared and the mountain woke with thunder and fire, all was clear.

It was a monster, they said.

As I climbed the ten thousand steps, as I crossed rivers of fire that ran through houses that were, as I drew my cloak across my mouth to combat the noxious breath of the mountain, I could not argue. What could cause this much destruction, this much loss, but a creature of the vilest hells.

And here I stand, sword drawn, at the mouth of the cave it has made its home. Bathed in the orange light of the searing earthblood, fatigued by the oppressive heat, swaying with the shuddering earth, I stand ready. I can see the thing now.

It is a monster.

Its body is twisted and hunched in a painful attempt to hide from the scene unfolding around it. Its clothes tatters and rags of singed fabric, barely holding together on its gaunt frame. Worst of all, its face is contorted in a grotesque mask of pain and fear. I can see in its wet eyes the same shame and sadness that threatened to take me, once. And in that moment, I know what I must do with my sword.

I cast it aside, and step towards the boy. He cannot have seen any more summers than I, barely in his teens. He tries to recoil, but I'm too fast. My hand reaches his shoulder, and I bring him to me in a tight embrace. I press him to me, holding him firm.

The heat is almost unbearable, I can feel my skin beginning to burn all across me, but I will not let go. The cave erupts with flame and heat, the mountain shakes, and the cavern echoes with screams of loss and sadness. I grip him tight. It is too much. I drop to my knees. But I will not give up.

The moment comes that I think I might lose consciousness, and in that blistering moment of heat and panic, the mountain goes silent. The fire dies, the earthblood cools back to stone, and the thunder that pealed across the sky is replaced with the quiet sobbing of a boy, cursed to be a sorcerer by an uncaring world.

I open my burned eyes. Everything hurts. I loosen my grip on the young sorcerer, but do not let go. He buries his head in my shoulder, and I do not stop him. I rest my head on his, and pat him on the back reassuringly.

"It's going to be alright," I lie to the boy, in accordance with the Divine Book of the Platinum Dragon.

On the Path

"Aren't you hot in that big bear coat?" she asked, not taking her eyes off the thin ledge the three of them were traversing. A pebble, carelessly kicked, tumbled away and fell the hundreds of feet down the side of the living mountain they were working their way across.

The squire clutched at the fur of his great coat absent-mindedly. "A little. But it reminds me of a time I was colder than cold, and that keeps me content." He replied, stepping with surety across the cracking path they were taking. He reached back, to help his compatriots across.

The first was a tiny young thief-girl. She deftly hopped the crevice, without even acknowledging the offer of assistance.

The other was a ranger, clearly out of place on the burning mountainside. With every roaring eruption she cast her glance upwards to the fiery explosions at the top. Her footing was sure and silent, as it always was, but her eyes moved constantly, betraying her discomfort with the stone and the fire that threatened to end them at any moment. The squire knew she must be truly worried when she took his hand without question or complaint. The Ranger was fiercely independent, and uniquely capable. She had refused every offer of assistance he had ever offered her.

But here, on the edge of the smoking mountain, she placed her hand in his without thinking. He helped her across, and when her surprisingly soft hand left his, the thought of it remained in his head.

He shook himself, and adjusted the sword and shield he bore under his coat, hustling to catch up to the Thief.

"Do you think it's really a Demon?" the Thief called back as she nimbly picked her way over the rocks. The path was becoming increasingly treacherous as the mountain shifted and cracked. A thunderous roar erupted from the top, and a new collection of magma was thrust into the air, carried to the other side of the mountain by the winds. The Squire quietly praised Bahamut for his protection and grace.

"Hopefully it's nothing, Fa'ar." the Squire replied. But he gripped the handle of his sword, remembering the testimony of the townsfolk. They had spoken of a demon that had wandered into the town, crackling with arcane energy. It wailed and wandered, destroying everything it touched, until the faithful of the town were able to drive it out towards the mountain. They had thought themselves finished, until the mountain woke.

Could be a coincidence.

Could be a demon.

The Squire set his jaw, and carried on.

"But what if it IS a Demon?" Fa'ar continued inquisitively.

"Then we do our duty." the Ranger answered, with a finality that Fa'ar understood.

Silence fell, and the three of them worked their way up the increasingly unstable pass, to the mouth of the mountain.

The Moment's Truth

Doe was padding silently through the forest, just as The Ranger had taught her. Her ears stretched out between the trees around her, seeking and searching for the dinner she was supposed to bring back. Her eyes travelled slowly over the foliage around her but she paid little attention to them. They were too easily fooled in the forest.

Too easily wooed, The Ranger had told her.

He was immune, of course. For he had burned his heart and it was black. The forest held no beauty for him, only treachery and death. And it was his job to make sure that the forest claimed no more victims than it had. Keep the trods clear. Shepherd the vicious things from the paths of Men. Rescue the fools that wandered from the path, and became lost.

It was this that Doe was learning from The Ranger. But she refused to learn his hate. She paused in her search for a moment, so that she could open her eyes. Really open, and see. See the forest for what it was.

The colours, the patterns. The life that was, that is, and that is budding to be. The ancient and the new, intertwined at her feet and for miles around. The ever continuing motion, the immemorial stillness. It was beautiful to her. The Ranger could no longer see like this, and she pitied him for it. He had cut himself off from the majesty of the forest so that he would not be consumed by it. But Doe would not be consumed. Doe would walk The Ranger's path, but she would not be bound by it. Doe would not become the hate that The Ranger wanted her to be. Doe would learn all that she could from The Ranger, and she would learn all she could from the forest. And then she would be ready. So she revelled, for a moment, in the beauty around her. The majesty was intoxicating.

But distracting, she admitted. She closed herself to the beauty, and forced her eyes to see only the truth. Her truth, this moment's truth.

The tracks.

Dinner had passed through here not long ago. Doe smirked to herself.

It would pass back this way before long, on her shoulders. Less than an hour out hunting, and she was almost ready to return with enough food for days.

Let him find a problem with that, she thought to herself as she slung her bow off her back and slid silently into the trees in pursuit of her prey.

Grace

"Where's Charon?"

"Guess." Replied Anubis, without looking up from his paperwork. His corner office was magnificently appointed, but the grandeur was marred by his ill mood and the piles of paperwork that had overflowed from his inbox, across his desk and even on to the two comfortable chairs across from him. His fountain pen ran out and he tossed it aside, pulling a cheap Bic disposable from the canopic jar on his desk and sighing at the injustice of it all.

"Don't tell me the Baron got him to-"

"Go on one of his 'adventures' again? Indeed." Anubis growled. "And now my office is short two staff, and everything's backed up. Again." He snorted, and tossed the cheap pen down on the table angrily. The canid-headed Egyptian god leaned back, and pushed his glasses up onto his forehead so he could rub his eyes.

"I'm terribly sorry to add to your workload, but..."

"Death?" Anubis let his glasses drop back as his eyes went wide. "I didn't realize! I'm so sorry!" He lept up from his chair, and made his way around the desk to the door where the black bulk of Death stood. The two shook hands heartily. Anubis smiled widely, exposing his razor sharp teeth. Death politely returned the gesture. Anubis invited him in with a gesture. "What brings you to my humble office?"

"Well, I came to see Charon but he wasn't in his cubicle, so I thought you might know-"

"Yes of course, of course! So sorry about him. I'll talk to him. To both of them. I might move Samedi to another cubicle." Anubis made his way back to his desk, and slumped into his chair. He indicated to Death to take a seat across from him, but Death shook his head and instead fidgeted uncomfortably.

"Normally I'd relish the chance to spend a little more time on a case, but..." Death squinted out the window at the setting sun. "Perhaps I can implore you to do me a personal favour?" and he stepped slightly to the side to reveal Mrs. O'leary. She squinted through her thick glasses at the scene laid out before her.

"My goodness!" She exclaimed under her breath upon seeing Anubis. She crossed herself quickly.

"Not to worry, he's an..." Death swallowed. "Old friend." Mrs. O'leary looked up at Death sceptically.

"Mrs.... hmmm... don't tell me..... O'leary?" Anubis asked, exploratorially.

"Yes, that's me..." she replied, slightly concerned that the dog headed man knew her name. But, Death had been honest this far, so she tried to trust in him.

"I knew it! Please, please, come have a seat." Anubis got up and cleaned the papers off of one of the chairs hurriedly. "So sorry for the delays, ma'am. I assure you, things usually run so much smoother here." He held the chair out for her patiently.

Mrs. O'leary carefully made her way over, and with one last glance to Death for reassurance, she sat. Anubis smiled in his most comforting manner to her. It was not tremendously comforting.

"Good luck, Grace." Death waved to the old woman as he made his way back out of the office.

"Thank you, Mr. Death." she waved back.

Death chuckled. "Please, please... just Death. No need to be so formal."

"Such a gentleman." she smiled, and watched him disappear down the hall, leaving her alone with the ancient god Anubis.

"He really is." Anubis agreed, shuffling some papers and moving them out of the way on his desk. He also retrieved his fountain pen from the floor, and went about refilling it. "Your papers are much too important for a cheap pen, Mrs. O'leary." He winked.

She blushed a little. Her eyes fell across the various items on his desk. Plenty of disorganized papers, most of which read "Phase 2" in some script or another. A few jars filled with office supplies (And perhaps a heart? Mrs. O'leary wanted to be shocked but found she had been simply too surprised this afternoon and decided she would be shocked about it later, when she could really appreciate the shock), a red stapler, a mug with something written in heiroglyphs and a big #1 on it, and a photograph in a nice golden frame. "May I?" She asked, indicating the picture.

Anubis was retrieving the forms for Mrs. O'leary's afterlife, but looked up at her comment. "Of course." he nodded.

She picked the image up. The frame was surprisingly light. It depicted a young girl, no more than eight, dressed in a soccer uniform. She was holding a trophy. Mrs. O'leary couldn't make out what it said.

"My daughter, Kebechet." Anubis announced, with pride in his voice. "She was the team's top scorer that year."

"What a darling." She replied honestly. She placed the photo back on the desk, and found herself quite relaxed now. "When was that?"

Anubis had begun filling out the basic information on the form. He looked up to the ceiling, and started counting on his fingers. "I think... about... four thousand years ago? Maybe four and a half. She was seven when the picture was taken."

And just like that Mrs. O'leary was a little uncomfortable again.

"Now, we shouldn't be here too long Mrs. O'leary, but I do have a few questions I need to ask you so we can get you set up with your afterlife. Is that okay?"

She nodded politely.

"Wonderful. Now..." Anubis paused, staring at the side of Mrs. O'leary's head. "Oh my."

"What? Is something wrong?" she put a hand up to her head instinctively, searching for the problem.

"Not at all, not at all. You just have a piece of straw stuck in your hair." Anubis tried to indicate on his own head where it was for her. It took her a few tries to pluck it out. She held it in front of her and giggled quietly, remembering.

"Oh heavens, I must have looked ridiculous."

"Not at all, I hardly noticed." Anubis shook his head.

Mrs. O'leary twirled the straw between her fingers, transfixed by the memories it held. She placed it gently on her lap. "I saw a Unicorn today." She announced, in that moment deciding that of all the things that had happened to her today, that was the the most important to her.

"Did he bring you in through the stables?" Anubis asked, shocked.

"He did. It was very sweet." Grace smiled to the god across from her. Anubis shook his head and rolled his eyes.

"I hope he didn't show you his horse."

The Pegasus Also Cheats

The mist slowly faded, an in its place was a stable.

It was a very nice stable. Well kept, and clearly very expensive. Top of the line tackle rested on the walls, all immaculately positioned and cared for. The floor was well swept. Everything was freshly painted. An expensive looking digital clock was inset into the wood above the swinging double doors at the far end.

Maurice took the scene in with some confusion. He looked behind himself, and his gaze was met with a large barn door on well-oiled hinges. He squinted at it grumpily. He had just walked through that door.

Or rather, he walked through the space that the door now occupies. Only it hadn't when he'd walked through it.

This troubled Maurice.

A more troubling thought wedged itself in Maurice. He looked up at the black bulk of his travelling companion.

"Please tell me the afterlife is not a stable." he begged.

Death chuckled quietly. "No, Maurice. Not this afterlife, leastaways." he shrugged and began slowly walking down the stable towards the double door.

Maurice breathed a sigh of relief. Maurice had been a mechanic, and never a lover of horses. He moved to keep up with Death.

"That is the spot where I leave you, I'm afraid." Death nodded slightly towards the doors. Maurice tried to check the clock above them, but it refused to be read. He frowned.

"On some farm?" Maurice raised an eyebrow.

"Probably not."

The two fell silent, and Maurice found himself looking into the pens as they passed by. The first held the most stunning example of a Horse he had ever seen. A capital H Horse. Even Maurice had to stop and admire how perfect a Horse it was.

But not for long. He shook his head, and hurried to catch up to Death who was moving with a bored sense of purpose towards the end of the hall.

As he passed by further pens Maurice quickly forgot the Horse from the first. The second contained a group of strange goats, and the one after that had a sleeping Pegasus. Maurice furrowed his brow, but did not stop. The Unicorn did give him pause, and he cleared his throat to attract the attention of Death.

"Hmm? Oh, him. Yes, very beautiful." Death turned to see what had caught his charges attention. "Cheats at poker." He nodded at the pen. The unicorn snorted angrily at Death, who shrugged, uncaring, in return.

"You played poker with a horse?"

"A Unicorn. And don't let him hear you call him that."

The lights of one of the final pens began to flicker. Maurice thought it was odd that the afterlife had a poor power network, but then remembered this wasn't the afterlife. It was something... else.

"She heard my voice and now she's excited." Death smiled, striding towards the flickering stable. He pulled a shiny apple out of his cloak as the lights extinguished completely.

Curious, Maurice tilted his head and followed. He moved to the far wall, trying to get a better view inside the dark pen. Death put his hand on the half-wall, and held up the apple as a treat. The light didn't simply end at the edge of the stable, it was consumed by it. Shadows formed a horrible veil there. Looking into it hurt his eyes, like they were being consumed by the darkness as they tried to pierce it.

"Oho, you're hungry today hmm? Are they not feeding you enough?" Death pulled his hand back out of the shadows, and it held a perfectly cored apple. He tossed it to the floor, and produced a second. "Don't worry, I'm here for you old friend."

There was a snort from the enclosure, accompanied by a flash of flame. Maurice stepped closer, to investigate. He regretted it.

When he approached, it was as though the veil lifted, and he could see into the darkness clearly. What was inside was, and was not, a horse. A dark steed composed of fire and ichor, a thousand legs tangled in an infinity below and a burning mane that screamed in his head. Its dripping eyes bored into his mind and flayed his soul before him, dragging his existence behind it at a thousand miles an hour as they stood motionless in the shining darkness. He crumbled to his knees and fell away from the shining, grasping coat that tugged at his gut.

Only when he had crawled, rolled, and struggled back out of the realm of darkness that the Thing in the pen made was he able to scream. He hurt, in the way that only a lifetime of pain can hurt. His blood was needles of acid. His brain was pressing against his skull ready to pop. His gut writhed with barbed serpents. But none of this did he notice. He was too busy trying to hold together the shredded remains of his soul. He stared at his shaking hands and watched his essence drip through his fingers, horrified.

Death smirked, and bent down next to the shaking Maurice. He placed a skeletal hand on the man's shaking shoulder, and the shaking stopped. Maurice breathed in sharply, and found himself sitting on the floor.

He cocked his head. He was looking up at Death, crouched before him. He looked down the stable hall.

The last thing he remembered was talking about a Unicorn. Had he fallen?

"You should be honoured." Death intoned warmly. "She likes you." He jerked his head over his shoulder to the black enclosure.