Hello folks! It's me, back for the first time in years!
Unfortunately, I lost a lot of my inspiration for my old fics. I may pick them back up again, but don't wait on it.
Here's a short story, though; about Life and Death.
Part 1: Death
On the enormous, plush bed, surrounded by silk cushions, velvet drapes and hooded, praying monks, was an old man. He was bald, as you might expect, and his facial features were lost in wrinkles, as you also might expect.
This man was also 169. And he was dying.
But he didn't mind. After all, if you've lived the amount of lifetimes he had, would you mind dying? It was, after all, a break. A vacation, if you will. Yes, crossing the Black Desert was his summer holiday, and at the end... well, he'd be reborn.
The chanting of the monks turned into a muted mumble as he closed his eyes for the last time. Saved his colleagues from doing it. He always saw it as a rather grisly task.
Then he re-opened them, and surveyed his flock. One or two of his newest acolytes were crying, bless them. He'd make them cry more when he got back. No time for crying in his monastery.
Then his eyes crossed one hooded figure who wasn't kneeling, praying, mumbling or crying. But then, this man wasn't one of his flock.
This man was wearing black. And he carried a scythe.
This man was an old friend.
The hood turned towards him, and two pinpricks of blue flared in the darkest void of the figure's eyes. He smiled; but, then, he didn't really have any option not to.
ARE YOU READY?
The old man shivered as the figure's voice passed through him. But he wasn't really old any more; his body was that of the young man his soul belonged to. The young, innovative man who'd made a deal not with Death... but with Life.
He smiled, and held out a hand. "Always."
And the scythe came down.
The young man always closed his eyes for that bit. It made him shiver, watching the cold, slightly blue metal of Death's scythe pass through the cord connecting him to his earthly home. But the next time he opened his eyes, he was a little more solid - at least to himself. And his sandaled feet stood on sand as black as ash. He kicked some up, and it floated down again.
He took a breath, even though there wasn't really any air here. This was a place for the dead, and the dead didn't breathe. But he retained some old habits anyway. Habits made one seem... human. And humanity he needed to keep. This would be a long-ish journey.
YOU KNOW THE DRILL. The black figure next to him shifted slightly.
The young man looked sideways at his current companion, confusion briefly crossing his face. "You aren't coming with me? At least a little of the way? You normally do."
PLAGUE IN LLAMEDOS. DRUID GONE BAD. The figure turned his head, the points of light within the empty socets focusing on the young man. YOU KNOW HOW IT IS. BUSY, BUSY, BUSY.
"Oh... Alright." The young man looked towards the mountains to the... um... Directions didn't really matter here. To the thataway. "I'll see you later, then."
INDEED. ADIEU, AS THEY SAY IN... QUIRM, I THINK. TELL THE OTHER ONE I SAID HELLO.
"I always do."
And as the figure turned in the opposite direction to the mountains and faded into the distance, the young man took his first step.
Part 2 up soon.