Kalinthe, The Reaper of Souls. That's what they called him in inns and taverns up and down the coast of The Sea of Swords. He would often listen to the tales they told while nursing a strong mug of ale, shrouded in the darkest corner of the pub. He smiled secretly to himself at the yarns they spun about him, chuckling softly with each new nuance and exaggeration. Yes, he thought, soon, he would be beyond the myths and legends as a fighter of the underworld. Soon, he would become the frightful reality that they all seemed to fear- returned to the glory of his youth.

He closed his ethereal golden eyes and the sounds of that day in battle came back to him in an instant. The Song of the Broken Blade they called it; he could still feel the warm blood spattering on his body and the inspiriting resistance of flesh against the metal of his all but shattered longsword. Kalinthe could easily trace back all his past successes to that single moment in time, and he still silently thanked Myrkul for granting him the much needed second wind that brought him victory that day. Four hundred years, he held the throne in the Seventh Circle before betrayal removed him at the point of a scythe. The very scythe he now used to rend souls in the material plane today, only thirty years later.

With one final shout, the trapper ended his story, startling some of the nearby tavern goers into sloshing their overladen drinks on the abused wooden floor. With a baleful shake of his head, the disguised Devilkin took one last quaff of the amber liquid in his glass, placing it and two shining silver pieces on the counter before him. He signaled his exit to the barkeep without a word.

As he edged around the once animated speaker, Kalinthe's shoulder grazed the other man's many furs causing the trapper to involuntarily growl in rage. Turning to confront the fool who dared mess with the likes of Chase Deerstalker, the unsuspecting human's eyes widened in shock and fear as silence fell over the alehouse. Silently, Kalinthe pulled the black hood back over the impish horns on the apex of his forehead, but the damage had already been done. "Nothing to look at here." He murmured calmly to the unsettled crowd.

"Yer him! Aren't ye? Da one they call Reaper…" Deerstalker gaped. Kalinthe's only reply was but a single nod, almost imperceptible to the inebriated hunter. "Wha'er ye here fer, whelp? Dis town's not the type ta go lookin' fer trouble, ye hear?"

"Good thing I've already found what I'm looking for." Kalinthe leveled his eyes on the man as he moved his scythe arm swiftly and confidently through the brawn of the mountaineer's neck… As the man's thick neck fell to the ground with a slick wet sound followed by a thunk, Kalinthe zeroed in on another source, a sort of shimmering from within the body. Upon death, most souls practically jumped out of the body. This one was a bit slower to rise than normal, but that was no problem since a few of the fighters in the tavern were drawing up arms.

A few of the onlookers were shouting obscenities at him, leering and judging as the living were wont to do, but he ignored it all in favor of sizing up his new opponents- three in all. First, there was another tanned and rugged human; this one looked stronger than the last with a battle torn longsword and no armor. He seemed enraged beyond speech. The next was a tall and fair skinned elf; she stood tall and held a hand crossbow in her left hand. Kalinthe briefly debated whether that was her off hand or not. Kalinthe mentally shrugged. She was the least of his worries by the looks of the hawk perched menacingly on her shoulder. The last defender could hardly be called a challenge at all in the eyes of the Soul Reaper. He was a male child a little more than ten- hardly yet a man, and, yet he stood to fight. Kalinthe let out a sigh. He did not bask in the deaths of the young often favoring the nuance of a more aged soul, but, if the boy were to stand in his way, then Kalinthe would do what he must.

Only a heartbeat passed before the human ran in, swinging for all he was worth, but Kalinthe had the advantage. Although this body was young, he'd once had a deathly affinity for the longsword. He would not allow such a weapon to damage him in this life. Thus, as the brute dashed in, Kalinthe easily countered, a smirk pulling at the edges of his lips.

After the initial swing missed, Kalinthe's mouth grew into a full-blown smile as he used the opening that the barbarian had created to deal a swift and decisive blow to the man's leading arm. Again, blood began dripping to the battered wooden floor, permanently staining it a rouge color. Over time, the tavern goers of the realm would hear the story of the fight and begin to call those stains Death's Blossoms, and, of course, the Inn Keeper couldn't possibly part with such historical flooring; it didn't matter that he had no intention of replacing them in the first place.

The goliath-like figure of the swordsman seemed momentarily stunned, so Kalinthe next turned his attention to the elf, who'd finally jumped into action. The crossbow had slung a bolt in his direction, but, even more importantly, there was an eagle with very sharp talons making a beeline for his eyes. Kalinthe didn't have the speed to dodge out of the way of either attack, and he suffered a moment of utter panic as he struggled to decide what to do to keep his very much mortal body, well, alive.

Just at that moment where he'd thought all hope was lost, the child stepped in. Well, he strolled really. There's no other word for the sheer nonchalance that Kalinthe witnessed. The boy lowered his hood and dislodged a hand from the overly long sleeve of his robe. Then, all Kalinthe could see was fire.

Being a devilkin, Kalinthe had a hellish resistance to the flames of earth; thus, the thick tongues of flame that encased him didn't affect him as they would the other fighters. Regaining his bearings, Kalinthe stepped out of the orb of smoldering flame, looking directly at the young man whom had, saved him from what would have otherwise become a gory fight. Sensing the nearness of four enticingly shimmering souls, Kalinthe feasted with little regard for the reactions of the living onlookers in the now ramshackle tavern.

Once finished, he turned and sized up the boy. "You're not entirely what you seem." Kalinthe whispered enigmatically as the youth summoned a fiery blade from nothing and began slicing through the undamaged arm of the elf who'd been so far from the worst of the blast.

"Aye, and you're the one all the travelers talk about." He mumbled lowly, as if unused to the sound of his own voice.

Kalinthe nodded, although the child wasn't looking- so fully engrossed with his sickening task, he was. "Indeed."

With a flop, elf's body fell to the ground as the blade sunk its way through the last sinews of bicep muscle. "Seems like you could use a comrade for a time. These earthly bodies are so fragile, you see. You can't just let anything happen to them."

"Perhaps." Kalinthe hedged. "But, I have just one question." When his companion did not answer, Kalinthe pressed on, pointing at the dismembered limb that threatened to drag on the floor. "What is that for?"

The boy looked at Kalinthe fully now and smiled, giving the soul reaper a close look at the somewhat stretched and decaying flesh all over the pre-teen's body. Where bluish veins should've been, red streaks shone in web-like designs, and, when the boy smiled, Kalinthe knew immediately what diet the child preferred. If he hadn't been desensitized to such a thing long before this moment, the former ruler of the seventh circle would have found himself retching on the floor. Instead, he looked his new companion in the eyes with no fear as the boy spoke. "Just consider this take out. Nice to meet you. The name's Xanth, by the way."

"Kalinthe." The dark robed devilkin answered in the guttural speech of the Infernal. "Let's go see if we can't find our next meal."

With that, the two left the alehouse, still smoldering and with nothing but a bloody floor and the stories of the scant surviving witnesses behind.