even death is mystified by the purpose it may hold.
the shadow isles do not welcome them. they are the end - they are the final road, the end of creation. the answer to a question life does not know how to ask. eternal. they exist as proof of nonexistence; conclusion.
thusly, they cannot exist in a place that defies their truth. it is death they cannot hunt.
( his song sounds good. )
they come when they must. when a mortal must choose between the brevity of the lamb or the thrill of the wolf - that is when they split the path between their mark.
why did this one choose a path they did not offer?
( the singer mistakes melody for substance. )
it is only in the carved path of the harrowed slaughter that they may reach him. his requiem has a verse from the hymn of the kindred he would sing as a mortal man. they do not forget that.
they pass. their death (true, absolute, final) and his (limitless, juxtaposed, philosophical) cannot linger together for long - the hunt cannot continue when the target writhes in the mist of the isles, because those lands are cursed. the limited mortals who know of the isles, and the even more limited denizens of those isles, believe it to be empowered by death's cold ability.
it is not real death, the kindred believe. it is magic. it can be reversed. karthus has magic no being should possess, but it can be taken from him, as they can a soul.
the single time they spoke with him, in a respite that they cast to hold the balance of truth and faith - they did not question him, and he did not question them.
he remembered them, from his mortal existence. he spoke fondly to them - a fondness only those who fell in love with the mystery of death could possibly hold. he laughed on lungs he did not have with a breath as rotten as thick blood, and asked if they had come to collect him. cull the reaper himself.
( the wolf's teeth ached. )
death can, perhaps, be sought. they do not agree that it can become a purpose, however.
a purpose to anyone but them.