So this is four chapters in one day, whew! *sighs* Well, I'm out for the night after this. This is probably full of typos, but I'm really tired so I'll fix it in the morning..

RedBlackDoYouHearThePeopleSing Thanks, Reddie!

Leo: *strolls in* Well, I actually don't like hunting, it's cruel a- *pauses* *sees Sparkfang* *eyes widen* *runs like the wind*

Song To Listen To: Get Out Alive by Three Days Grace

Mortimer Graves was not a bad man. Quite the opposite, in fact. If only others would see that, the dashing not-so-young spirit thought to himself with a sigh.

Armed with his prized Death Scythe that had a miniature skull encrusted in it and a tendency to make those surrounding it tired, Mortimer Graves set out to find the souls of the recently deceased and guide them to the Afterlife. It was a lonely job, yes, but somebody had to do it- and, quite frankly, Mortimer didn't trust anybody else but him with the responsibilities that came with being the Grim Reaper.

Though in the olden days Mortimer took the form of a skeleton while collecting skulls, he found his skeletal form too frightening to people- both alive and deceased- so he decided to stay in his natural form.

In the aforementioned form, Mortimer was often described of as "dreamy", or, if you want to make a bad pun, "drop dead gorgeous". His luscious jet black hair was thick and shaggy, and contrasted deeply with his smooth ivory skin. His irises were a pure jet black, and seemed to be filled with the despair he had gained over the years from the stress of his job. Mortimer was tall, about as tall as Bunnymund (perhaps a bit shorter) with a bony frame, however could make even North nervous. Mortimer occasionally donned his black robes, though when not doing his job can be found in a grey blouse made of silk with sleeves that covered his hands, black trousers, and black combat boots.

Now that we're done with the description, let's move on to exactly where Mortimer was, and what he was doing.

Mortimer was currently wandering down a dark alley- typical of him. Most deaths happened in dark alleys. He didn't like it, but he couldn't stop it. The alley was right across a hospital, so if some poor mortal didn't get ganged up on in the alley, at least a few people would die in the hospital.

His Death Scythe was in his hand. Ahh, his Death Scythe. It was his trademark, his weapon, his source of power- without it he was nothing. Mortimer twirled the staff in his bony fingers absentmindedly. His shoulders were pushed back, and he looked calm but dangerous.

Suddenly, the back of Mortimer's neck prickled, and he felt a strange tugging feeling within him. He couldn't help but smile. Finally, he thought. Hm, I wonder who it is? Mortimer let the feeling guide him deeper within the alley. He wasn't afraid.

However, he was curious as the tugging feeling grew, coming from the exact same place. Suspicious, Mortimer commented in his head. However, he continued to stride down the alley. The shadows seemed to smile at him, mocking him, grinning and...

Mortimer shot a glare at them, and the faces reflected in the shadows appeared to fade away.

Now the tugging feeling was growing even more- at least three or four deaths. In the same damn alley. For Moon's sake! Mortimer thought, exasperated. He quickened his pace, his long legs guiding him down the alley. He didn't waste time before he arrived at the dead end.

Mortimer paused, looking around. He let out a scoff and held up his staff, ready to teleport away, before a voice made him stop.

''Well, well,'' The voice seemed to echo around Mortimer. ''Grim Reaper. At the risk of sounding cliché, I've been expecting you.''

Mortimer's back stiffened, as if his spine had turned into a ruler. He recognized the voice, and prayed that he was wrong.

''What, cat got your tongue?'' He sounded amused. ''Come on, now. We all know that you can speak.''

Mortimer stayed silent, but it was clear he was wondering what Pitch meant by 'we'.

Pitch knew this, and he acknowledged it. ''Oh, have you not sensed it by now, Grim? Look around you.''

Mortimer's eyes darted around, and he realized his mistake. Nightmares, he thought, cursing.

''Pitch, you sneaky bastard,'' Mortimer said calmly. His voice was deep and smooth, with a hint of a British accent- much like Pitch's.

The boogeyman materialized from the shadows in front of Mortimer. ''Oh, I'd watch my language if I were you, Mortimer.''

Mortimer clenched his fists. ''Why should I? I'm not one of the Guardians you have a so-called hatred for.'' He crossed his arms maturely. ''Now, back to the subject at hand, why did you lead me here? I suspect that it's not to sit down and have a cup of tea.''

''How are you so sure?'' Pitch's tone made Mortimer growl in frustration. He sounded amused, as if he were talking to a pathetic child. As if he knew better. As if...

Mortimer cleared those thoughts from his head. Conceal your true feelings, he reminded himself. ''You have not talked to me in centuries, Pitch,'' Mortimer told the Boogeyman, just the right hint of bitterness in his voice. ''Why shall you start now?''

Pitch held a hand to his chest in mock hurt. ''Mortimer, I must say I am hurt. What happened to the goody-two-shoes Grim Reaper you try oh-so-hard to be?''

''Pitch,'' Mortimer's voice hardened, and grew deeper. ''Stop these foolish games. Cut to the chase.''

Pitch held up his hands. ''Fine, fine. I merely came to say...'' He paused, letting the silence scream in Mortimer's ears before continuing, ''Goodbye, and good luck.''

Mortimer shifted into a defensive pose, but it was too late. The nightmares cantered out from the corners and spaces in between buildings. From the cracks in the sidewalks and underneath parked cars. Heading straight for him.

The Grim Reaper held up his staff, creating a barrier of shadows around him that stopped the nightmares. ''I do believe you are forgetting, Boogeyman, just who you are dealing with.'' He boomed.

Pitch waved his hand dismissively from on top of Onyx, his most trusted nightmare. ''Of course I haven't. You're Mortimer Graves, and I do believe it's time for a new Grim Reaper to take over.'' He smiled, showing off his dangerously sharp teeth like a shark spotting a helpless body underwater. There was no happiness in Pitch's smile.

''Wha-'' Suddenly, Mortimer's shield of shadows fell, and the Nightmares immediately charged. ''No!'' He tried to fight them off, he really did, but it was no use. His staff was yanked out of his hands, and he fell to his knees as he was swamped by nightmares. Soon enough, Mortimer's ivory skin was littered with painful looking bruises.

''Pathetic,'' Pitch sneered, kicking Mortimer in the ribs, smirking when he heard them crack.

Mortimer groaned, and attempted to get up, only to be shoved back down again. ''Honestly, Mortimer, how you've been Grim Reaper this long is a mystery. I think I'm much more suited to the job.''

''N-no,'' Mortimer wheezed, mentally cursing his asthma. ''I-I won't let you..'' He coughed, hoping that his injuries weren't too serious.

''Hm,'' Pitch pretended to consider, gazing thoughtfully at Mortimer's Death Scythe. His scythe. His dear, precious scythe was in the hands of the so-called Nightmare King. Anger flamed in Mortimer's stomach, though not enough to allow him the strength to get up. ''I don't really think you get any choice in this.''

Mortimer felt Nightmare Sand being sprinkled on his head, and he fought to keep his eyes open, only for them to droop shut. ''Hush, Timmy,'' Pitch cooed, his voice dripping with false sweetness. ''Go to sleep.''

That was the last thing Mortimer heard before his world went black.

Disclaimer: I don't own ROTG. But I do own Leo, Mrs. Brighton, and Mortimer Graves/Death/Grim Reaper.

Once again, please read and review!

Gaah, the Song To Listen To probably doesn't suit this chapter... meh, I'll try to find another one tomorrow.