Oh, jeez, kids. It's been awhile. Sorry about that. It's actually a pretty sad story: I had this chapter (along with a few more chapters) written out. Then I got slackerish and stopped writing new chapters, stopped playing Drawn to Life (although I still think it's awesome, I beat it, so what's the point in playing it, right?), and got out of the writing style I used for this story (which sucks, because I really like this style) In other words: Even though I have the next three or so chapters written out... you may not be seeing any more chapters after that. It sucks more cuz I had pretty much the whole story outlined. Ugh, I hate it when I get distracted. If I ever feel that I can keep on writing I will definitely try, because it would be a shame to let this plot go to waste.
Well, enough of that. Without further adieu... the second chapter! Enjoy please!
The Jailer
Reeth fled to her workroom, her Studio, if you will, for a few days, retaking her more powerful form to create perhaps the most powerful Raposa in existence. He would not be as physically strong as the Hero, but in his magic he would be practically unbeatable. It was needed for the traverser of Life and Death, the one who kept tabs on the evil dead Rapos and the great deceased mayors.
His title was The Jailer, because Death was like a jail in many ways, and he was made to guard that jail, to keep it locked and also to keep them from escaping. In his portrait, he was a lightly colored, yellowish Raposa with shaggy, longer-than-most-others' hair, and a black outfit. All sorts of keys dangled from his belt, big and small, old and new, and their numbers seemed almost infinite. Who could tell how many Raposa died and thus how many keys there were for each and every cell?
The Jailer could.
He was not born and he could not die of old age; he did not age. He could get killed, but otherwise he would not die. If he died, his keys would vanish so that no one could escape Death. Reeth stared at the finished painting, more of a reference sheet, and then imbued it with her energy. After that, his name almost seemed to flow out of her brush as she signed it in the corner.
Oz. An interesting name, short and sweet. It was definitely his name, suiting him wonderfully for reasons The Creator herself barely knew. It only nudged at the edge of her mind's eye, a curiously faint thought, before it slipped away and was gone. As soon as she signed his name, he appeared on North Beach in the dead of night. Excited and slightly scared at how happy she was that she would be able to visit Wilfre, The Creator transformed into her Raposa form and placed herself near the Island Gate.
She walked through the trees and peeked out from behind one of them at Oz, who did not seem startled at all that he had just appeared out of nowhere. In fact, the blond guard just beckoned her out of the trees with a steady paw, a small quirk to his lip that was a queer sort of smile. His eyes, Reeth decided, were a tad scary. They were buttons like all the other Raposa, black, and by all means should have been adorable. For some reason, though, those eyes were beady and shineless in The Creator's opinion, haunted by something that she did not quite know. It wasn't like she was a mind reader; Reeth was just very good at predicting actions and thoughts, and since she knew nothing of Oz's personality, his face was foreign and slightly terrifying.
The white Rapo started toward him, and as she did so, he took a small key off his belt with a spade for the head. It was brass in color and an altogether interesting little object, and it was all the more interesting when Oz thrust the key into open air. The nothingness quickly colored into something, something The Creator had not planned. It was a door, which made sense, but the door was more like a gate, a dark, shadowy gate with depictions of gargoyles with burning red eyes, of bones and fire.
Glancing at Oz, who nodded an affirmative, Reeth opened the door with a flick of her wrist and walked in. Immediately, there was a roaring noise that made her large, sensitive ears flatten in an attempt to muffle it. Afterwards, a feeling of great loneliness filled her, and she realized the roar was nothing but silence. There was darkness in this place, in Oz's world, and it was not the Shadows that Wilfre had created.
This great gaping feeling, the nothing-but-blackness, terrified her more than she could have imagined. Reeth bucked up and ignored it, although she wanted to slump to the ground in despair because of the oppressive atmosphere. She had to just take it because she was The Creator and she would not be scared by atmosphere. Instead, Reeth walked on with her face set in a determined expression, ignoring the way the air chilled her bones.
Soon she found that the only source of light was herself. Whether this was because she was alive or because she was The Creator, she did not now. That faint wash of light that illuminated a few steps in front of her was comforting, because even without knowing where she was going, a lantern would help guide her there. The light radiating from her was not nearly as bright as a lantern, but it did the trick.
In who knows how many steps (other than that it was too long), Reeth found a steel peg thrust into the blackness of the ground, a chain wrapped around it and staked down by it. The chain trailed away from her until she could see it anymore.
Clink-tink. The sound of a moving chain.
"Hello, Creator."
That voice was smooth and deep, as charismatic as it had been before he'd been twisted into that shadow form that made him sound like someone had shoved tar down his throat. At the same time, it was almost as bad because of the snarl to his voice, the sneer that would be so plainly on his face. Reeth turned to look at Wilfre, almost hurt by the ugly expression on his face. Nonetheless, she smiled slightly at him, glad to see his regularity. He was still gray, still wearing a little suit, still had the cute ponytail she could remember painting so delicately.
In fact, the only thing that had changed was the ice at the tips of his ears. The live Rapo had no idea where it had come from because she had never included it in her laws of Death. "How did you know I was The Creator, Wilfre?" She spoke his name so warmly it was hard to believe he could still look at her with such contempt, or to doubt that she truly did love him.
"I'm dead. I know most of everything," Wilfre said, looking smug and slightly disgusted at the same time. "I know you supposedly love me, for instance. How strange that The Creator who was so selfish could love the one who brought her down a few pegs. Now she walks as a Raposa," there it was again, the odd mix of pride and disgust, although a bit of mocking cruelty was thrown in to twist his words. Reeth also saw a smidgen of honest curiosity in his eyes, but it was so small she decided not to press on it.
"I suppose I should thank you for that," she admitted amiably, referring to how she became a Raposa, which seemed to shock the spirit. "It is nice to walk with my creations; different than just watching them, and I do owe it to you, even if it's in sort of twisted way." Wilfre fingered his tie for a moment, genuinely confused, before a puzzled sort of arrogance came over his face. His lips twisted into a grin that was more of a grimace.
The gray Raposa gave his nasty snicker, dropping his paw away from the black tie. "You're really enamored with me, huh? What a disturbing little thing you are!" He drew closer, and Reeth blinked at the freezing cold that radiated from his body, shivered a bit at the eerie way his face was illuminated by her white light. The Creator merely smiled, finding it easier than she had suspected to take every facial expression, every cruel curve to his voice. "I would ask why, but I suspect the answer would be something idiotic."
As his eyes narrowed with the derisiveness of his statement, Reeth opened her mouth to take a breath (and maybe say something) and caught a hint of his scent. It was sweet but masked with the cloying, dizzying scent of dead flesh; it made her nose wrinkle and her insides quiver. She regained her train of thought and spoke, her voice straight as she expected, although it wanted to shake with terror. "I love you because I always have, Wilfre. When I painted you, you flew off the brush with such certainty and brilliance and as you grew, I found myself admiring you often, if I recall." It was all true, though she had not thought much of it until the last few days, because of Lime.
Wilfre's sardonic snort told her what he thought of that. "You don't love me; you don't love any Raposa. We're just your play things in this big old canvas and you won't share any of the brushes." Reeth shook her head at this. It was so obviously untrue.
"I love and will continue to love all of my creations. You are a shining example of why I can't give others the ability to create. While it is true that I enjoy watching some events in Raposas' life, it is more that I want to give them the best existence they can receive," satisfied that she had countered Wilfre's argument, Reeth fell quiet. As she suspected would happen, his face set in a grim scowl, disbelief and anger shining in his eyes like beacons to warn her of how badly this could turn. In an action so instinctual (but oh so bold) she barely realized she was doing it, Reeth leaned forward in a sort of comforting gesture and their faces touched. It wasn't a kiss, was barely remotely intimate, but a spark passed between them.
This was not a romantic spark, not by a long shot; it could not even be mistaken for one. Something far more mysterious was at work, something The Creator herself had no clue about. In the split second their faces were touching before Wilfre jerked away, rigid with shock, the faint white light surrounding Reeth took to the spirit as well and grew to illuminate several yards around them. The chains and collar round his neck rattled so fiercely it seemed they were going to break, pull apart and scatter across the black floor.
Ice shot through Reeth's veins when Wilfre pulled away, and instantaneously she felt woozy. Never in her existence had The Creator felt woozy, and so she did the only logical thing. She picked up her skirt and she ran, Wilfre still shell-shocked behind her. When she was far enough away, she flicked her wrist and the gate opened out of nowhere in front of her. Warm, salty sea air flooded in, and Oz smiled that unusual smile at her.
"Have a nice time, Reeth?" He asked, and his voice was kind of hollow.
The Creator barely hesitated, but she did, and his eyes flashed as she did. "Certainly. Thank you, Oz," her voice came out primly, with forced politeness, and she hurried past him as he locked the door.
"Not a problem," Oz replied at a quiet volume, although she was already a good distance away. His eyes followed her almost blankly, but there was the strangest emotion hinting up in them.
