Prologue
There wasn't much to do in the realm of the Death Gods. The apples were bad, the scenery was barren, and the company was old and growing stale very, very fast. Some chose to watch the world of men. Some chose to wander.
Most chose to gamble.
Cards were the only thing there seemed to be plenty of these days, in fact, so the games were frequent and friendly. Rarely did anyone play for anything bigger than a few pieces of dried fruit. Some bones that were found on the ground. Sometimes petty physical feats; I win this round, you stand on your head for a week.
Most of the time.
With every rule there is an exception. Today, one of the card games was starting to draw something of a crowd. The shinigami whispered about it to each other, came closer, peered anxiously. It couldn't be.
Could it?
The final hands were played. Skulls high. Whispers of concern ripple out through the crowd, as the creature with the mammoth's tusks and the lion's mane throws something to the ground. The one across from it sneers, and bends to pick the notebook up.
One death note, won and played for. The new caretaker of the death note, who would rather gamble her immortality than live out life here, forever, rises to her feet and walks purposefully to the place she'll drop her note from.
The world of men is where all the sport is these days, after all. And Sighurd wants in to the game.