Chapter Text

Contrary to what optimistic people believe, several aspects of life are determined by chance. The rolling of the dice, talking to strangers, eating food a day past the expiration date; none of these things have a set outcome.

‘Keep hard at work and your future is assured!’ successful people say. But nothing is 100% certain. Those who think anything is certain don’t acknowledge the several lotteries they’ve won before. Someone can prepare as much as they can for a disaster, but that only increases their odds, and never to 100%. Even a 99.99999% chance of not contracting a plague still bears that lone 0.00001%.

This isn’t to encourage people to lock themselves up in baby-proofed fortresses, of course not! Hurting is a part of living and chances will always need to be taken.

But dear god, you wish Lady Luck stopped playing ‘Heads or Tails’ for how your life was gonna go.

Heads. Got some pretty alright parents who treated you well, taught you many valuable Life Lessons.

Tails. You had to move far, far away from them to pursue your dreams.

Heads. You were born with a talent for painting, crafts and other creative projects.

Tails. You were born during the worst time period for creatives in the economy.

Heads. You landed a pretty stable tavern job and made friends with the owner, a booming bearded burly big bellied bartender (nicknamed Stubbs, due to the one time he came into work with the worst shave alive).

Heads! Stubbs put you in his will to take over the tavern, since he heard you were worried about employment!

Tails. You learned this at the will reading after his funeral.

Tails. You didn’t want to run the tavern, despite everyone peer pressuring you to do so because ‘it’s a good investment’ and ‘it’s what he would have wanted.’

Tails. You ended up taking it over anyway. And you don’t know a thing about business.

Old associates of Stubbs reached out to help, taking over a business is tough work after all. But no matter how much you tried to study and learn the lingo, things like “churn rate,” “SQLs” and “Minimal Viable Product” never stuck.

Bartending, dealing with unruly customers, cleaning the counters of grease and booze; these were things you knew how to do. They were simple to carry out and you frequently settled into a rhythm working day to day. Stubbs even taught you smaller things, like how to fix a creaky chair or keeping track of profits throughout the month. All valuable skills to learn for day to day life.

But that is not running a business.

Stubbs clearly meant well, he was a man beloved by those who knew him. But he absolutely put his business in the wrong hands. Everything piled on far too fast; paperwork, a gradual decrease in customers, managing payroll and calculating the dozens of taxes you need to handle. It’s just... A lot to deal with together.

Some would scorn him for not teaching you more, others would blame the people who pressured you. But you know that everyone means well. It’s just a bunch of circumstances on coincidences on chances. And despite being pushed into this, it’s still a good thing you’ve got going and you don’t want your friend’s last wish to be abandoned.

That’s why you’re spending your emergency savings on a shady magical amulet from the Black Market.

“Fuilana Cortez." The merchants boney hands creep out from the shadows of his cloak. Late afternoon sunset seeps through the cracks of the bricks around you, mixing with his purple robes to make a deep crimson. "Ten thousand shillings, no less.”

You clutch the giant jar of silver coins tight to your chest. “Could we agree on nine thousand? Maybe?” A smile creaks across your face–your best customer service smile. Though with all the mildew and moss in this alleyway drilling into your nose, it’s more like a snivel.

Nobody’s buying it, least of all the merchant. He gestures to the jar once more. Cheek muscles slack into a frown and you look down into the collection of silver.

You’re thankful for your parents drilling the importance of saving money into your brain, because boy is this thing expensive. Over ten thousand shillings for a gold-plated necklace is ludicrous!! Even if the orange (sorry, Carnellian) crystal does shimmer in a pretty way under the light. Your conscience would be–and is–screaming at you to back away and go back home!

But you saw what it did. Every single luck-based game you challenged him to—dice, cards, even guessing fingers behind your back—he never lost once. Pure 100% odds. Absolute certainty.

This level of good fortune, this could help make up for the customers you lost, and bring in more!

Maybe a handsome prince would come by to try out your cooking, so his admirers run to get the authentic pretty boy experience~

Maybe one of your flyers would reach a curious millionaire and they decide to sponsor you on a whim, since he doesn’t have anything else to do with his money!

Maybe Puss in Boots himself could show up and dump some stolen loot right on your doorstep in exchange for your finest milk!

No more worrying about marketing or economics or complicated jargon, you could just cook and serve patrons and live a comfy life. You could have time to do what you love again. You could create again.

Even still, staring down at all these coins twists your gut. All of this money you’ve saved up day by day, even before the tavern. Not a single cent left.

The purple robed man gestures with his bony hands. You’ve been standing here for almost a minute now. He might back out soon if you don’t stop wasting his time. Now or never girl.

A shaky breath bubbles out of your throat. You hug the jar of life savings tight against you, even press your cheek against the glass for a tiny kiss. “I’m sorry…”

Both eyes squeeze shut and you force the jar into the merchant’s hands. A pleased chuckle fills the damp alleyway as the absence of weight in your arms begins to set in.

“Very nice.” Sounds of coins clinking as he waves a hand across the surface grate against your ears. “Very nice~ I’ll take your word for it that every coin is in here. If it’s a few short, I’ll fudge the numbers a bit on your behalf.”

You know every coin is in there, you spent a good few hours counting it out by hand.

Boney fingers lift up one of your fists, then slip the cold metal into your palm. “As stated, this shall grant you marvelous fortune for the rest of your days. I hope it lives up to your expectations, little miss~”

That last s~ slithers through one ear and out the other. You can practically feel the gak. You’re sick of this alleyway already.

Clutching the amulet tight in your hands you start running back the way you came. Out the mildew alleyway, past the illusionary wall, returning from the underbelly of town. No time to think about the gravity of your choices or the feelings of guilt for going back on the lessons you were taught from seven years old! Everything will be okay.

After all, Lady Luck was on your side now.

The wooden door SLAMS shut against your back as your chest heaves up and down. Man, you are not cut out for sprinting across town like that.

Voices of passers-by are muffled by walls, only leaving the creaking of floorboards and your panting gasps to fill the empty air. Faint traces of bourbon and fries drift across your nose–the tavern’s natural smell. It used to make you sick, but now the grease is oddly comforting.

One hand clasps the cold metal of the amulet, holding it against your chest, while the other grips the cloth of your skirt's blue top. Your breath heaves in and out, course against your throat. You lean forward and rub your thumb across one of the embroidered animals heads on your skirt as you wait, focusing on the texture. The cat’s face is getting rather frayed, but its brown yarn whiskers haven’t failed to ground you before.

“Might have to replace your threads soon gatita.” You whisper to the yarn with a smile.

Once your head is cleared of brain fuzz you take a step away from the door. The room is filled with tables and booths cluttered with scraps, loose menus and old flyers that you haven’t bothered cleaning up since four days ago. A photo from one is on full display; you accepting ownership of Stubb’s tavern with an already exhausted smile for the camera. You flip it over as you walk past so the eyes don’t stare back at you.

Dark orange creeps past the cracks in the windows and illuminates the surroundings just enough to cast long shadows across the room. Your hands reflexively reach for the arms of chairs and the main bar counter to let your fingers trace across their surfaces. Some parts are nice and smooth. Others rough. Varnish is starting to fade.

A sigh fills the air as you rest in your personal chair behind the bar. The amulet is tossed onto the counter next to a plate of fries, barely seasoned on top of a red and white checkerboard paper. You tried to eat some earlier, but ended up losing your appetite as the stress built up. Looks like you left one of your shillings here too.

You toss some garlic salt and other seasonings on top first before you start nibbling your way through. It ain’t dinner, but you’re not in the mood to cook anything right now.

“…guaranteed luck, huh?” You mutter with a cheek stuffed with fry, reaching over. Your thumb rubs along its grooves and feels the engraved signs. Extremely intricate.

There’s likely some sort of ‘luck deity’ or something in the world. Or luck fairy, luck elemental, whatever. You’ve served all sorts of creatures at this point, fairy tale or not. One time you even got into a particularly fierce exchange with a garden gnome regarding what were the best colors for a flower crown, so you’re decently familiar with how weird things can get. Plus, if there can be potions that make you stronger or fairy godmothers that can grant wishes, it isn’t too illogical to assume luck gods exist.

But if luck is something that you can channel into an object, does that mean it’s more of a force? Is it something in the air, like magic or water? Maybe those with large amounts of luck are drawn together like a sort of gravity, or low amounts to low amounts. Would certainly explain the up and down life you’ve been on.

If luck acts in that way, then, isn’t it more akin to fate? The idea of fate being a thing never really stuck with you. If it was real then it’s plain cruel. A person gets stuck with the shittiest life imaginable just because some guy wrote it down a bunch of years ago? If everything is always planned to happen, then what’s the point of trying to be better or aiming for a comfortable life?

In that case, having fate be more of a force that draws things together feels more appropriate. Less of someone planning your life out in advance, but a thing that nudges people along. It’s more comforting in that regards. It’s wild and unpredictable, but hey so is the economy. You’d rather live with general indifference instead of someone controlling your every move.

Would certainly help you process the “soulmates” idea, just two people with very similar gravities. Fate nudges them into the same building at the same time, maybe sits both at the same table or nearby seats at a theater. The only thing that fate influences is their meeting, the relationship between them is still their own. All they need is a nudge in order to meet.

You grip the pendant. “Maybe this little thing can help nudge the person I need through that door.“ Both eyes drift to the entrance, unmoving. Even if the tavern’s closed today, wouldn’t hurt to try.

Jamming the last few fries in your mouth and brushing the spices off on your skirt, you step away from the counter. Time to officially give this baby a test run. You pull the pendant up to your neck and…

“Ugh, why do they have to make these things choker tight?” A gag escapes your throat. You would prefer if the chain was bigger or longer too.

Thankfully it doesn’t take too long to disconnect the actual gemstone from the chain. Snatching a fairly long string of yarn nearby you loop it through the hole and then tie both ends behind your neck. The gemstone hangs just above your chest. Much more freeing. The dark green string also matches well with the gem’s sunset orange.

Merchant never specified if the chain also holds power, but you suppose it’ll be fine. It’s only a powerful magical artifact after all.

“Hoooooooh, you can do this hermana, you can do this. It’s okay. This will totally work, totally.” Both hands start tapping against your gut, par for the course. “Just manipulating the laws of the universe to bring in someone who can singlehandedly save your career. No biggie!”

Your hands clap together. No more stalling, it isn’t going to change the process at all!

…though just in case, you grab the silver coin you left and palm it in your hand. Something something lucky penny. texture.

“Alright.” Deep breath in, then out. The merchant never specified if there was a specific incantation or ritual you had to do for this, so you’re just gonna free ball this.

You bring your left fist up and press it against your chest, holding the silver coin. Your right rises above it and pinches the sides with a careful delicacy. You let your eyes close, focusing on your breathing.

“Spirits of fate, I call onto you…” You whisper. “In this time of need, I heed your assistance to help my existence. I yearn for simplicity, a world where I can, uh, act like a tr–no that’s dumb what the hell rhymes with simplicity?” Your left eye peeks open. No magical lights or anything.

“Whatever, um, I am seeking the one who can help my life become much simpler, allowing me to pursue my true calling in my craft. So spirits, I humbly ask…”

You let go of the pendant and point towards the door, preparing a snap.

“May you guide the one I desire most through my doo–”

C R A C K

Right as you snap your fingers, your ears strain against a ragged sound that pierces one ear and out the other. The boom of a lightning bolt combined with the tearing of leather. It isn’t raining outside, did the amulet do this?

Despite the dim lighting, you do see something emit from your fancy necklace. Deep, dark purple streaks surge outwards and along your arm. Would’ve expected it to be brighter, and not surging into your chest.

The whole room begins to shift, tilting downwards as you stay in place. The ceiling takes up the center of your bulging eyes as the creak of the floorboards can be heard faintly behind your head.

'Wh… Why… is it so cold?'

Your head rolls to your left. The coin you were holding rolls out of your grasp–you can’t keep your fist clenched anymore. It wobbles then falls lopsidedly against the ground with a clatter. The last thing you’re able to see before everything goes dark.

Tails.

.

..

...

....

.....

Ugh, sleeping on wood is not comfortable.

Everything is sore. You’re not sure if the creaking as you move is coming from your arms or the floorboards. Both your lungs and throat burn from the slight chill in the air. To double check you run the fingers along the floor–yep, still rough wood planks. Same material as always. At least you weren’t kidnapped or anything.

Crust around your eyes breaks apart as you peel your them open, staring up at the ceiling. All around you is the type of darkness where you can make out the shapes and outlines but none of the detail. Even your hand, as you bring it up, is nothing but lines.

…oh. It’s already night.

It may have been sunset earlier, but it doesn’t surprise you. The thought moreso… settles in. The feedback from the amulet must have knocked you out. How long has it been? There’s no hunger trying to yank you up by the stomach so it couldn’t have been more than a day. Though the stiffness and soreness caked across your limbs would like to argue otherwise.

Probably only been a few hours. Which means…

“Díos… idiota...”

Both of your hands plap against your face. The merchant never told you about any sort of feedback. When he used it it seemed instantaneous and harmless. But all those games you challenged him to—the dice, the cards, the fingers, everything. They must have been some kind of rigged.

Which meant that this has been a scam.

An obvious, stupidly simple scam.

“Uuuugh, idiota.”

He probably designed that feedback knockout intentionally, if you tried to use it right away. He could be halfway across the world right now, with all your life savings.

“De todas las estupideces que tú creer, es la una de un perro viejo morado de un calléjon oscuro. ¡Idiota, idiota–!”

C r e a k

...someone is here.

You peek through the spaces between your fingers and look up. Moonlight is being filtered in on the left side of seating. Little bits of frost nip along your skin.

They opened the window. A shadow is cast along the wall behind you, far reaching and oppressive. You could swear that the shadow itself was watching you.

But you have latches on your windows, you’re sure you locked up earlier.

They can only be unlocked from the inside..

Practically your entire body cracks at once as you move, but you force yourself to sit upright. Then immediately need to place a hand on the bar to balance yourself because dear lord you should not have gotten up that fast.

Even when you try to strain your ears and listen carefully you can’t hear any footsteps. Are they just standing by the window? Taking a quick look around behind the bar it doesn’t seem like anything is missing. So then what are they doing here? Did they just come in or are they about to sneak out?

Whatever’s going on, you reach for one of the pint glasses. You’re well aware of how dangerous a weapon like this can be, you’ve seen Stubbs dismantle bar fights by himself, one in each hand.

Creeaaak, croooak, creeaaak

The shadow is moving, though their footsteps are soft the floorboards give them away easily. Thank god you never got them fixed.

The intruder is moving from the left window across the tavern, weaving past the tables. Their pace is slow. Relaxed. If they’re coming this way they might not know you’re awake yet. As soon as they come by you can chuck this in their face. Element of surprise.

Croooaaak, creeeaak, croooaaak,

Getting closer, just a few more footsteps. Don’t think about how fast your heart is beating, just focus.

creeeaaak, croooaaak, creeeaaak.

shhhfff.

Thump!

...wait, what?

You wait a few more seconds to confirm. No, no more footsteps.

They sat down.

There’s no sounds of rustling through a bag or clanking of armor or anything. A few paper ruffling sounds, likely from the things you left out. Were they looking through them?

Why would someone be so relaxed while robbing this place? Actually, no–why would someone want to rob you at all?? Your tavern is far from the fanciest, and there’s a potion shop just down the street! The most you would probably have at this point is a fancy frying pan in the back–

Oh my god.

They’re fucking whistling.

It’s a short tune, barely twelve notes long, but it somehow echoes through the compressed walls of your tavern. The intruder’s song bounces along every wall and crevice then comes all the way back to you. Your body is blanketed by the haunting tune, seeping into your skin and making your hair stand on end.

Okay. Not here to rob you then. Here to kill you. This is where you die.

Your hands tighten against the pint glass until the knuckles go white, just to make sure it doesn’t slip out of your hands.

But who would want to kill you?! Stubbs never took out any loans from what you’ve heard so it couldn’t be a debt collector. Maybe an old enemy of his? Do they not know he’s dead already?? All you’ve been doing is running this place when you never even wanted to all you’ve wanted was to do art what on earth did you do to deserve–

“I know you’re in here.”

. . . . . . .

You don’t even risk breathing.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

“Well? I’ve decided what I wanted, I’m waiting to place my order.”

His voice is low, deep. Lightly gravely but not to the point where it would cause reverb. The tone is almost disgustingly casual, you can even hear the creak of the chair as he leans backwards and balances on the hind legs (a noise you’re far too familiar with here).

He wasn’t just trying to scare you. He was actively trying to mess with you.

There’s a way out in the back. A small window in the storage room, where Stubbs frequently went to smoke cigars without it stinking up the building. You tested it yourself before, you could fit. It would be a race, but if you close the door behind you and throw down the shelf right beside it, you could get enough time.

You’re sure that if this moment was in a stage play the crowd would be yelling at you to leave, get the head start since he’s already sat down.

But you don’t.

Instead, you grip the counter, grit your teeth, then pull yourself upwards to standing height.

You were right, there’s a person sitting in the center table–the one littered with menus and pamphlets. He’s leaning back in the one he’s sitting in, balancing on its hind legs while kicking his feet–no, paws–on the table. Though moonlight is shining in, it’s hard to see him properly. His tattered cloak blends in well with the darkness surrounding him. The air around here, feels thicker in his presence. Injecting your pores with dread.

But you won’t run.

You can see his head turn a bit in your direction, the front of a grey snout outlined for you.

“Ah, there you are perrita. You finish looking for what you needed down there?” A grin tugs his lips back and reveals a few fangs, pearly white and practically glowing. Sharp. Could tear through meat and bone in one bite.

“...what would you like to order, sir?” You ask firmly, pressing your pint glass down on the countertop.

“Hmm...” Papers on his table get another glance, but are soon brushed away. The top of his cloak is pulled down over his eyes, can’t see the full view of his face yet. “Well, seeing as you’ve already got a glass for me,” he points with a claw, “how about you pour me some ale?”

“...a pint is six shillings, sir.” A gulp travels down your throat.

“Sure, sure. I don’t mind.” He nods, then picks up one of your menus to get a closer look through it.

You move across the bar area towards the bottles. Not once do you even think of moving your head or taking your eyes off of him for a second. Instead of bending over, you squat down to pick up the hefty brown bottle, twist the cork out then pour into the glass. All the while refusing to outright blink.

You’re fully aware of the stupidity of what you’re doing. That escape plan was something you’ve practiced several times on your own in case something happened and staring down this wolf as you pour a pint feels like walking into a bear trap.

But honestly? At this point? You couldn’t care less.

All of your life’s savings are now in the hands of someone who’s likely done this to dozens of other schmucks. And he didn’t even come to you, you sought out the black market all on your own to purchase the amulet hanging around your neck.

Every last coin you saved up, down the drain for the equivalent of a damned sleep spell.

And now, after you spent the entire day stressing for something which you ignored every single warning sign for, it’s hard to care about what’s going on. This wolf thinks he can just walk in and scare you, act all high and mighty? Whistle a little god damn tune while you shake in your boots??

Fine. You’ll play his game. And if he does try to go for your life, you’d rather go down swinging.

After all, what’s one more bad decision to add onto the pile?

The bottle of ale is SLAMMED against the bar. The pint is spilling over with each step you take and getting your fingers sticky. Hope your new customer doesn’t care much for a dirty glass.

Just leaning back in his chair this wolf man almost meets your height. You hold it out for him to take. A few drops get onto his leather arm braces.

“Thank you perrita.” The intruder smiles and gladly takes it into his paws. Little scars riddle his digits, silver to the grey. Both arms are slim, but the claws clink against the glass. You don’t doubt how sharp they may be.

You don’t give him the satisfaction of looking afraid. It’s been a very, very long day.

After bringing it to his lips the wolf leans his head back and drinks. Drinks. Drinks. A steady pace throughout, one gulp per second. Doesn’t waste a single second to take a breath and keeps going until he’s gotten every last drop.

“Wheeewww, not bad. Not bad.” The wolf raises the glass in a ‘cheers’ motion before his canine tongue licks the residue off of his snout and lips (revealing more of his teeth in the process, right up close. Wonder what toothpaste he uses). “You brew these yourself, little miss?”

“No. I don’t like alcohol, have no idea how to make it.” You answer bluntly. “Get some from a brewery a few miles due East every two weeks.”

“A tavern owner that doesn’t like to drink?” His body bounces a bit from a chuckle. “How bizarre. How did that come to be?”

“May I take your order, sir?” Fingernails dig into your palms.

“Alright, alright, touchy subject.” He raises a paw in defense and places the glass on the table then brings a claw up to his chin. “I’ll admit, a lot of stuff here sounds pret-ty good. I don’t often have the chance to stop in places like these, you see, so I always try to find the restaurant’s best dish.”

“So what, then? Breaded beer battered chicken thighs?” It was your favorite anyways, next to the chili fries. God, you wish you could’ve had that as a last meal instead of those cold barely seasoned fries.

“Hmm, sounds nice I’ll admit. But no.”

Your customer pulls his legs off of the table (finally) then leans in to the various papers. He drags a claw across the menu, from entrées to desserts.

“I skimmed through everything here, you got a good platter of options here. But I’m feeling miiiiighty hungry.” He smacks his lips. “And for me personally, perrita…”

The claw starts to travel to where you assume the meat will be, but then it keeps going. Past the appetizers and drink options, all the way off the paper. And then to the pamphlet of your restaurant.

He plucks it off of the wood, then holds it up to you with three fingers. Two hold it in place, the third taps a claw right against your black and white photograph.

Both rows of fangs are fully revealed, along with his glowing blood red eyes.

“This is looking like a nice, filling dinner for me~”

Chapter Text

“This is looking like a nice, filling dinner for me~”

The intruder’s red eyes are cavernous in their neon red; a deep chasm that is only filled by two pinpoint white dots in their center, illuminated by the moonlight. His maw isn’t drooling, but you are aware of how easily he could tear through flesh from the sheen of his teeth. How eager he would be to do so from the tapping of his fingers.

You can sense it: you are not the first victim he has tormented, nor would you be the last. His mannerisms are collected, everything intentional. Though his fur is matted and his cloak is dusty, the scars on his paws are real. Those polished fangs have no doubt been painted red before.

He hasn’t moved from his seat since he began talking, despite him no doubt having entered before you awoke. Likely saw you sleeping helplessly on the ground, yet he left you be. He kept you alive, for his own sake.

You are only alive because he permits you to.

“......hhah... hahah....”

The edges of the wolf’s grin creep wider. “Aw, what’s wrong little miss? Breath starting to fail you? Heart pounding against your ribcage? Life flashing before your eyes~“ The crimson abyss sits just beneath your feet, open and cavernous for one to step in and fall, fall, fall, into the pit of fangs lying in the bottom.

“h-haah, hah, hahaha…” It’s impossible for you to keep it contained, even if you tried to cover your mouth.

“Hm?” His smirk slips a smidge.

“Hahahaha, ahahaha!!” Convulsions run across your body with each bit of air, forcing you to bend forward. One hand goes to your stomach, another to your face.

“What… are you…?” The arm holding the flyer lowers. His eyebrows are crooked.

“AhhahAHahAHAhaAHaHAHhaHAHAHAHAHAAAA!!” Air flowing into your lungs sounds like a drowning man breaching surface, then you throw your head backwards.

“AAAHHHHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!!!!!!”

“...um.” Both of the whites in his eyes fade back to black. He glances around the room, wondering there’s something he’s missing. But there’s nothing. And this laugh of yours is downright liberating. “Is this supposed to be fear madness or...?”

“REALLY?!?!” Both of your hands whip out to the side as your head swings back down. The wolf’s eyebrows surge upward, though he doesn’t lean back at all from shock. “THIS was your plan this whole time?! To just, what, walk in and scare me stiff? Try and get me to run so you can do a cat and mouse game or something???”

God, this is just rich! He was so confident and sure of himself a few moments ago, but now he’s leaning forward and squinting his eyes trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Mouth only slightly agape, incisors almost out of sight. You wish you had a mirror right now to see how wide your grin is compared to his own!

“Oh. You’re not scared by this.” Not a question, but a statement of fact.

“Scared?!?! This is one of the most hilarious things I’ve seen in my life!!!” You cheer, throwing up your hands. “I mean, honestly man what are you, thirty? Forty?? Your fur is greying so you’re obviously getting up there in your years. Then again, I’ve heard twelve is pretty old in dog years!”

The wolf’s brows lower upon you confirming his statement. “Girl, I have been walking this earth longer you can even fathom–”

“See– that!! That right there!!! Who are you even doing that for?!” Your body is bubbling with all of the chuckles slipping past your throat. “Trying to act all big and scary–OooOoOOooohhh I’m the big bad wolf! I’m gonna gobble you up good!” All of your body hunches forwards as you hobble back and forth, baring your teeth and flexing non-existent claws in his face.

Your new grumpy punching bag isn’t saying anything. He sits and crosses his arms, completely stone faced.

“It’s like I’m looking at someone who spent all their time reading storybooks and got too attached to the dark and mysterious anti-hero. Couldn’t handle the thought of being a villain, no that doesn’t fit your image, their outfits are too flashy! So you ripped off the most stereotypical outfit of a rogue. Actually, wait wait, let me guess! Your weapons are dual daggers with waaavy blades~? Maybe hiding a giant scythe behind your back somewhere, hm?”

Your intruder just blinks. Unamused. Then he brings a few digits beneath his cloak and flicks off the right side. It takes everything in your power to not scream in delight when you see a sickle in a unique sheath.

“Lookit–Look at that!! Come on!!” You gesture to the blade shaking with disbelief. “You’re making this too easy man, why not spice it up a bit and give yourself a bit of originality? Maybe dress up in a pirate’s coat or, I dunno, literally anything else?? Don’t get me wrong I can understand the appreciation for cloaks, but seriously?! You afraid people won’t take you seriously with that hood down??”

A floorboard creeaks as you step forward and flick the hood off of the wolf’s head. Both of his large pointy ears flick up and the fur coloration on his face becomes clear. Brows continue to press together.

“D’aaawww, little wolfie looks so cwute!” Clap! Both your hands clasp together in a fake swooning motion, puppy dog eyes and puckered lips and everything. Doesn’t take long before you get sick of it and let it drop into a condescending smile. “Your face looks like a T-Bone steak by the way.”

“Are you done?” The wolf asks flatly. A finger taps against his arm.

“Oh, oh far from that! I could keep going for days if I wanted to! In fact, let me just give off some rapid fire lines:” Right hand to use the thumb for counting, left to count fingers off from. “I bet those eyes of yours are from a five shilling illusion potion with the way they glow, they’re probably a soft baby blue. You desperately need to stop by the pet groomers, looking like you only bathe once a month. Yet put way too much focus on brushing your teeth! Is looking intimidating the only thing you care about? Also, eat me? Listen bud, if you’re gonna be using wording like that then at least ask a girl out to dinner first–!”

“Alright, that’s enough.” The wolf huffs and stands up to his full height. Huh, good foot or so taller than you. “I was hoping I could get a decent meal tonight from how much of a nervous wreck you’ve been the past few days, but clearly that won’t be happening.”

“Aw, what’s the matter Señor Borozi? Don’t want a taste of this juicy flesh anymore because you’re not in the mood?” Your body leans in as you wave your hands up and down to make sure you’re showing off the goods. You even slap your chubby stomach. “Come on then, I got some big-ol’ thighs and plenty of fat!”

“Oh please, the taste of flesh disgusts me.” He scoffs. “I’m not like that low-standards mutt from the fairy tales. I’m far more interested in what your soul tastes like.”

Your hands jut up and gesture at his completely clueless face. The pleading eyes convey your desperation, praying that he catches on.

“No, I’m serious. I actually eat souls.”

“Oh yeah, totally! At let me guess,” you put a hand on your hip as you lean forward, “you wanted to scare me first because the fear adds seasoning and zest to your meal?”

. . . . . . . .

The hand slips down. “Oh my god you’re serious.”

“Ugh, I don’t care at this point.” He huffs and rubs a paw down his face. “I tried to have a bit of fun, but I suppose some people in the world are just too stupid to scare.”

“Sure bud, sure.” Your eyes couldn’t roll any harder. With a shrug and a smirk you spin on your heel and start walking back to the bar. All those beer stains need cleaning up. If anything came out of this, at least you finally got a chance to fully let loose against a ‘customer.’ “Oh, before you leave though, I am going to need those six shillings for the ale. I mean, I doubt you’re gonna be doing anything with those since you don’t buy any soap–”

A sharp gust of wind billows from behind you. Your skirt flutters violently from the air pressure.

When you blink, two sickles are wrapped around your throat.

...ah.

“Now who said I was running, hm?” You can’t see his face, but you can hear the grin return in his voice. “I may not get much of a meal out of you, but that doesn’t mean I’m letting you off the hook. I came here to collect, that’s what I’ll do.”

“H-heh, collect what? Rent, a debt? Well jokes on you bud, I just gave away all my life’s savings earlier today!” Come on girl, he just said that he thrives off your fear. Keep that frog in your throat quiet!

“You honestly still think I’m some sort of common crook or loan shark? Oh pup,” a playful chuckle fills the air, “you have no idea who you’re talking to, do you?”

Light gleams in your eyes for a moment as he adjusts one of the sickles. Down near the blade’s point you can see your own eyes trying to stay still with your blood pumping so hard. Along the top are the dual blood moons of the wolf. Full and gleaming with anticipation.

Carefully you lift up one of your legs, hoping to make a move. Your floorboard croooaaks from the change in pressure, and no sooner than a second later the left blade is poking at your throat.

…fuck that feels really sharp.

“Ah ah aah, weren’t you the one who scolded me with how cliché a chase was?” You watch his brows lower and hear his smile creak wider. “I mean, after all that constructive criticism you graciously gave me, I thought I should ‘spice things up a bit’ like you said~”

A soreness in your neck is forming as you crane it back and away from the blade. Up close you can see every last inch of the surface is polished to a fine point–if he pulls it backwards, your neck would cut smoother than you chop onions. Still, you clench your teeth and do what you can to keep face, keep that foot frozen in the air. Don’t give this fucker the satisfaction.

“Trying to put on a brave face, are you?” His reflection shifts on the sickle, moons setting towards your flickering eyes. “Did you already forget these ‘cute ears’ of mine? I can hear the air rushing out from your lungs to your nose. I can smell the adrenaline pumping through your veins.”

A low growl underscores his every word, crawling out his throat and worming into your ear. Heat from his breath puffs against your neck. Parts of his cloak are draping over your back.

“I may not be able to get the proper meal I expected from you, but to make up for it, I’m going to make sure I wring out every last drop of terror from your he–oOUUF!!”

You swing your raised leg backwards into his dick. Hard.

The wolf’s body tenses up all at once. Body lurching forward, arms retracting backwards. Moving returning with them.

Your body braces itself for landing as you let your other leg fall away, tumbling downwards against his legs. Not fast enough to slip away completely untouched though; you can feel a line of burning up your neck from where the sickle point was. No time for processing the pain right now though! You need to scramble on all fours away from this madman.

“ghAcK,” Your tormentor gasps for breath while using a table to stay standing. Hard to breathe when your balls hop all the way up to your throat. “Tú– mierdita–”

C L O N K

Right as he lifts his head back up he’s met with the bottom of his own pint glass right across the snout!

The blow was enough to force a knee. One of his sickles clatters on the floor so he can press a paw up against his face. Seems it did a bit of damage, both his ears are back and his eyes look unfocused. You’re sure that you chipped one of his pristine fangs, and if not? His snout bleeding is already ruining his image.

“H-hah, ya know, there’s something I realized about tough guys like you.” You stand over him on the ground with the pint in hand. War drums are pounding inside your head as you step back. “All of you are so sure of yourselves, so when it comes to protection…”

Another burst of air surges from his mouth as a swift KICK against his lower gut forces him lower and away. “NONE of you have armor where it COUNTS!!”

The wolf is on hands and knees now, panting from the quick barrage of low blows. A lot of people who come in here looking for a fight don’t expect the one with the skirt to deal the most damage–many call it cheap. But those who complain about “fighting dirty” can afford to lose.

There’s a yearning for you to mock this man while he’s down, laugh at him for being as pathetic as you claimed him to be. But another noise churns out first: a growl, deep and guttural. All of the wolf’s teeth are bared, but you know this time it isn’t for show.

He’s staring at the blood drops on the floorboards. You doubt this is the first time he’s gotten injured in a fight. But this was likely the first time he had his ego crushed within the span of two kicks and a clocking.

One of his eyes flick to you. Pinprick pupils. No more surprises.

You chuck the pint glass at his face to buy some time. He catches it in the air with one paw then CRUNCHes the metal in his grasp. Clearly tin mugs or leather boots won’t do any good.

So you settle for wood and lift the nearest chair above your head.

The wolf is clearly able to see this coming; this guy is refusing to take his eyes off of you. His movements are slower than normal on account for the ball assault earlier. But this just puts him on your level instead of giving you any sort of advantage.

He tosses the crushed cup aside and grabs his other sickle, then pulls both of them together above his head, ready to intercept. As much as you want to dodge out of the way or do a sweeping low kick you are fully aware of your own limits. Momentum has already taken hold, so even if you wanted to get out of the way it would be tough–

C R A C K

“Graahk!! Dios– Fuck!!!”

It takes a moment to process what just happened. There was a flick of light from where the wolf’s sickles once were, but now both are down at his sides. The chair in your hands was split in two–though only for a moment before splintering into hundreds of little pieces. Wood chips and chair legs explode downwards from the impact. Right into the wolf’s face. He’s holding one of his arms up to his eyes and hacking up the wood that got into his mouth.

Stumbling away, you look down at your own hands. They’re littered with splinters as well.

Ah, right. These chairs are shit.

As much as you want to savor this bout of good luck, you don’t want to waste this moment any more than you have. Bastard is dazed and you have some time, gotta think fast!

Grab another chair? No, he’ll likely just go right for you this time instead of cutting it up.
Take his weapons? Definitely not.
Grab the bottle or knife in the back? It’d be too far.
Run?

Even with how late it is, at least a few patrolmen should be walking around. Plus with this guy’s overall aesthetic, you doubt he’s the type to kill in public view.

Yeah. Nothing wrong with running away.

You take off sprinting in the direction of the front door, putting all your weight into each step and lengthen your stride. “HEEEEEEEEEEEEEELP!!!!” You scream like a god damn banshee and tear through your vocal cords. If someone hasn’t heard the commotion already then they at least would hear this, right?

The growling from behind stops and pounding floor stomps follow. “GET BACK HERE!!!” His fury booms throughout the tavern, you swear you could feel it right behind you.

You throw down chair after table after chair to slow him down. Even if he needs to lunge over them or slice it in two, any extra seconds would help. “GO FUCK YOURSELF WOLFIE, I’M LEAVING THIS GOD DAMN GREASE TRAP FOR GOOD!!”

Heartbeats are drilling against your skull, combination of stress and exhaustion both hitting at once now that the high of kicking this asshole in the balls is gone. For every one stride you make two stomps sound behind you. More wood CRACKS and clatters on the ground or is thrown against the wall. Whatever he came to “collect,” he certainly doesn’t care about that now.

As fast as he may be the head start afforded you enough time. You don’t even bother reaching for the door handle and pulling it inwards. You just clench your teeth, close your eyes and brace your shoulder. Then,

B A M

Brass hinges are torn from the wall (thank god for people refusing to open it gently) and the door comes tumbling down. Moonlight pours into the musty shack you’ve been fighting in and though your shoulder pounds from the impact your body rushes with euphoria! Edges of your mouth creep upward as you peek an eye open. Sorry wolf boy, looks like meat’s not on the menu toni–

. . .

. . . . .

“Wha… where-?”

A furred paw snatches your wrist and YANKS your body back with the ease of a sack of potatoes, pulling you up and away from the falling door. Claws dig into your flesh.

“LITTLE BRAT!!!”

Another paw clasps against your throat. The world spins, then your body SLAMS against the wall. Lungs crumple from the impact and a cough spews from your tightened throat.

Deep, bloody pools glare into your widened eyes, boiling with fury only a few inches from your face. Both sickles are discarded on the floor behind him, but with one paw holding your trembling wrist and another your throat it’s hard to say he needs them. Growls slip past his feral snarl and reverb through your fragile body. The blood leaking from his nose doesn’t make him look any less frightening.

Razor-blade teeth vent out puffs of steaming breath against your neck.

“You should feel proud,” the wolf hisses through his teeth, “very few have managed to piss me off as much as you have tonight.”

His eyes are darting across your form, perhaps looking for a sign of what you’re going to do next. Another kick from your dangling legs, another quip?

No. It’s a bit of a surprise to you as well, but the snarling bear trap right in front of you isn’t what’s commanding your attention.

It’s hard to do so from how tightly he’s holding onto your neck, but your gaze is fixed on the now open doorway you nearly escaped through. No doubt it is the exact same doorway as your tavern, no magical tricks or anything. Tally marks and carvings from months ago linger around the frame. The door should be lying right outside for you to see even in this position. Chips and splinters scattered across cobblestone.

So then why was there no ground to catch it?

“You’ve thoroughly wasted my time, energy and patience.” He lets go of your wrist then flexes his claws, ready to harvest. “So then, perrita. Any last words?”

Your eyes turn back to his. An endless abyss of seething rage. Bottomless.

Maybe you could go out in a blaze of glory like you planned. One final kick or even a quip. But looking outside that door. The feeling that’s twisting your stomach is indescribable. So with what little air you have, both hands limply grasping his strangling paw, you sputter out.

“Whhhh- ick, Where… where is… everything?”

The wolf looms over you, fur silhouetted against the backdrop of pale light flowing in. He merges with his cloak, not a darkness but a void. A space of pure nothingness where existence should be. All it would take for you to be consumed is a simple pull inwards towards the cloak. The only thing that remains in that space are the blood moons above.

And yet, as your eyes filled with terror gaze into them, something shifts. Little pinpricks of black return, a bottom to the abyss, and his eyebrows raise just above a centimeter.

He stares at you for a long, long time. Saying nothing. Letting his low growls drone on and on until you’re convinced that it’s just how things sound.

And then he drops you to the floor.

“GhhHHHUUUHHhh, hooooh!!” Your hands reach up to your own throat while your lungs vacuum in as much air as possible. Plenty of sputters and hacks follow suit

Your attacker turns on his heel and stomps away, grumbling into his paws just loud enough to discern some swearing. Though too quiet to hear everything.

“This has got to be one of the most pointless, stupid, idiotic...” He grinds his own claws into his fur and kicks away a table leg. Not all of that fury has faded from his body quite yet.

It’s still a little hard to breathe and being dumped onto your ass does hurt a smidge, but you’re able to force your frozen legs to move. One hand goes to the wall to make sure the world doesn’t spin anymore. You’re tired of dropping to the floor like this. Deep breaths, girl. Deep breaths.

“W-well?” You ask the seething wolf.

He turns back to you, eyes now more annoyed than furious. You’re in disbelief at why he’d let you live after all of that, but your focus right now is answers.

You point out the front doorway where he pulled you from. When someone walks out they find themselves in a small plaza that’s a bit far from central square.

To the left they would find a clock tower standing tall above a combination bakery and smithy. “Flames of War/Passion.” They had to lease the same building to pay rent and share the same central flame.

To the right they would find they would find a toymaker’s shop next to a a community garden. A local botanist constantly complained at the dirt that was spilled out by kids burying their toys in the soil.

Straight ahead there would be a path that led to the outskirts of town. Every time someone came through the door you could see, through that narrow stretch of brick and cobblestone, the treeline of a wide forest. A splash of green against the brown, crimson and red. A place you fantasized of fully exploring on your days off.

All of these things you remember clearly. This small shopping district, its sounds, its familiar faces–it became your slice of the world each day you came in. Even if you went blind you could always make out that chaotic combination of soot, soil and sugar in the air.

But now…

You jab another finger out the door. The words tremble as you force them out.

“Where did everything go?”

The wolf follows your gaze, towards the void of pure nothingness. A pale light is coming in from a night sky, but that’s it. The door that you busted through is still falling. Deeper and deeper into that bottomless void.

Nothing else exists outside of this tavern.

A snarl flashes again on his face, likely from being commanded to answer. But then it fades. You can almost sense a twinge of pity in how he looks at you, past all of his annoyance.

He huffs. Then points a finger back to the bar.

“Go look behind the counter. In the spot you woke up.” His tone is flat, yet heavy.

You don’t know why this answer fills you with so much dread.

It feels like you’re watching your own body move as you take a step back into the bar. This has to be some sort of magic the wolf did, right? Something to isolate you, to mess with your head and make you scared. He said he thrived off of that, so why wouldn’t he? Everything was still normal.

After all, you can still feel your neck burning from where the sickle cut you.
After all, you can still feel the splinters in your hands from breaking that chair.
After all, you can feel the sticky residue on your arm from spilling drops of ale.

Everything should be fine.

So why aren’t you looking behind the counter?

You try to gulp down a boulder in your throat to silence that blaring alarm in the back of your head. With your hand gripping the countertop, you drag your leg one more step and train your eyes downwards.

You feel sick.

Lying down where you once were, skin darkened with the same crackling energy you saw before and eyes frozen wide with fear, is your own dead body.

Chapter Text

“I’m dead.”

The words fall from your mouth all on their own. Like someone slipped cotton swabs past your lips and now they’re tumbling out.

It should be impossible. Right? The wood of the bar counter is poking into your skin with how hard you’re gripping it. If you were a ghost or spirit or any other name, shouldn’t your hand pass right through? The air surrounding you breathe chills your throat and your skirt is still drifting against your knees. You can still feel everything.

And yet, this is you. Your corpse. Sprawled out along the floorboards in an ungraceful angle right where you had previously fallen. What look to be dark scorch marks extend outwards from where the pendant rests on your chest. The center of a lightning strike.

Only now you remember to blink.

“I’m dead.”

Words again speak by themselves. Parts of your brain are scrambling to think of other answers. Maybe this was some sort of dark magic? An illusion? So many other magical happenings have occurred in the world: giants that guard golden eggs and fairy godmothers who grant wishes. Is this not out of the realm of possibility?

You tear your gaze away from the body and look at your hands. Both are still as solid and opaque as they were before. One of the splinters is pushing deep into your thumb, at least an inch. But there’s little pain and zero blood.

One of your hands rises to touch the mark which the Wolf scratched you with his sickle. A grimace reflexively strikes your face as the wound is touched, finger sliding across the scar.

You bring the hand back down. Zero blood.

“I’m… d–”

“Yes, yes you’re dead we get it already. Can we get on with this?”

From behind a hiss-whisper snaps you out of your spiral. This time, you’re unsure if it’s the floorboards or yourself that creeeaaaks while you turn.

The wolf is leaning against one of the walls on the other side of the counter. Arms crossed and a foot propped against it. His eyes are half open as a claw taps against one of the wrist braces. Despite the fact that those claws were just wrapped around your neck, now he’s more annoyed that you’re wasting his–

…wait.

“You knew?” A question slips past all the blockage in your throat.

“Whole time.” The wolf says.

“The, whole time?”

“Moment I saw you take that amulet, I knew it wouldn’t take long.” He stretches his neck and rolls his shoulders. “Just a matter of waiting for you to activate it.”

He’s been… watching you? If he saw you take the amulet then he must’ve been watching for a lot longer, but even then the fact that he’s here talking to you–

Your eyes shoot to your corpse, with all of its scorch marks, then back to him. And his blood red eyes.

“Is… is this hell?” None of the blockage in your throat can be gulped down. The idea that this single tavern is your afterlife is much more terrifying than any sort of punishment.

The wolf huffs. “Heaven and Hell, Infierno y Paradiso, Good Place or Bad Place. You mortals come up with such elaborate stories for things you don’t understand.” He’s elected to take out one of his sickles and inspect a few engravings on it, filing down certain lines. “To answer your question, no. It isn’t.”

“Then why are we still here? Is this some sort of weird dying dream I’m having?” Both hands hover around the sides of your head.

“Yet another overly complicated story. Honestly what is it with you all and asking the same questions over and over?” He shakes his head, then notices he still has some wood chips in his fur and moves to work on picking them out. “It’s a replica of the building I made to talk with you. Exactly the same, down to the quality of your furniture. And before you ask why, I didn’t want you running out of the real deal, wanted to take my time.”

“And, me still feeling pain? Still having a heartbeat?”

“It’d ruin the magic pretty quick if you realized you couldn’t breathe, don’t you think?” More of his teeth come onto display.

“You can just… do all of that?” You glance down at the bar counter, all the little grooves in the wood you’ve looked at the past few years. Except they aren’t. “What kind of creep are you?”

“You’re still asking that question?” His chuckle is deep and weighty. You wish you could tape that snout of his shut. “I joked about you being too dense to scare, but I’m starting to wonder if that extends to other parts too.”

“How about instead of mocking me for not getting it, you just tell me?” Hopefully your frustration towards the cloaked figure can make you forget about your own body nearby.

“To be honest? I’m surprised that you haven’t asked the most obvious question first.” A fanged grin peeks out from his lips. “I mean, you just found out that you died and the first thought in your head is whether you ended up in one place or the other. I’d say fire and brimstone are the least of your worries right now perrita.”

“…is the question ’why are you still trying to act scary after I kicked you en las pelotas?’”

“If you still have enough wit for that, surely you can figure this out too.”

The intruder steps up to the counter across from you and rests an elbow against the wood. You take a reflexive step back as he stares into your eyes. He may not be trying to kill you anymore, but that doesn’t mean you want him anywhere near you.

“Tell you what? I’ll give you a niiiiiice big hint~” The wolf says, twirling one of the sickles in his paw. He raises it up, then–

SHINK!

Embeds the sickle’s tip into one of the tavern’s pamphlets lying on the counter. Your face on the photograph is shredded.

The wolf plants his elbow on the counter and takes one of the stools for himself. He rests his chin on the back of his paw. Then, Tink. Tink. Tink. One of his claws tapping against the blade. Slowly, methodically, to a rhythm you can’t decipher.

Your eyes lock on the now mutilated picture of your former self. With how deep that blade is embedded in there, none of your head remains. You feel compelled to look downwards to your other face soon after–scarred and devoid of life. Then, you look down at your own hands, at the one splinter.

This intruder, whoever he is… he only appeared after you ‘woke up,’ after you regained consciousness in whatever this place is. This copy of the tavern. And when he wasn’t trying to go for scare tactics, he mentioned he was here to ‘collect’ something. Something he could only get by ‘killing’ you.

It’s clear that this person isn’t a debt collector or assassin or something else you thought about before. At least not a normal one, given the magic. But even considering how he looks: the dark cloak, the sickles. The red eyes.

‘I’m far more interested in what your soul tastes like.’

Your eyes go wide.

“Oh my god.”

“Theeeere, I think she’s got it!” The Wolf waves a paw in your direction, turning back to a crowd that isn’t there.

Your hands tremble as they cover your mouth.

“Gotta say though, I truly appreciate the advice you gave to me about mixing up the normal routine. People normally see me and immediately skip to the begging or running, which starts to get a bit old.” He picks up the sickle and shrugs with both.

“I…” Your back bumps against the wall of liquors, staring into those abyssal blood red pools.

“I kicked Death in the balls.”

“You did, perrita!” He enthusiastically nods with arms raised for a slow clap in celebration of you finally catching on. Though it doesn’t last too long as his face falls flat again. “And I gotta say, not exactly a fan.”

Your lungs start to strangle themselves out of self-preservation. Oh, oh this is it. This is the worst case scenario. Not the guardsmen throwing you in jail for making a mistake on your taxes, not a serial killer breaking in and adding your head to his collection. Nope, you were visited by the Grim Reaper––in the fur––and you went and brutalized him. Whacked him with a mug, smashed a chair over his head, kicked him in the groin! Twice!!

Both your knees betray you and you need to press your weight on the back wall to stay standing. That’s it! Final page, The End, close the book and toss it in the trash! There’s no way you’re getting out of this one! Whatever afterlife you were planning on going to, completely out the window now!!

“Sniiiiiiffff!”

A noise briefly pulls you out of your spiral. The Wolf is leaning across the bar, eyes pressed shut as he gets a good taste of the air around you. The sweat and adrenaline mixing in the air.

“Aaaahhhh,” a wide smile breaks out across his face as he gestures excitedly towards your trembling form. “Now THAT is what I’ve been looking for! A little tainted by wood shavings and shitty ale, but I’ll take what I can get.”

“S-so you were serious.” You place a hand on one of the shelves to support yourself. Too afraid to look anywhere else but him. “You’re actually going to eat my soul.”

“That’s the plan, little morsel.” With a swift yank the sickle is lifted from the bar. “Beings like me don’t technically need to eat, but you gotta find enjoyment somewhere in your field, you know?”

“Is this what happens to everyone? They die, then they get eaten, then that’s it?”

“No, not exactly.” The Reaper puts one paw on his hip and twirls the other sickle in the air. “You see, most souls typically go through this whole process for reincarnation. Purifying, refining, something-izing; it’s a whole ordeal, not exactly my field. My job is just to collect them.” He shrugs.

Well, reincarnation exists. That’s neat to know at least, given the situation.

“That’s the fun thing though: I collect all of the souls, keep them from hanging around and becoming ghosts, etcetera etcetera. But not all of them need to be reincarnated.” The Wolf puts both sickles on his shoulders as he walks around the counter. “Nobody notices if a stray soul goes missing every now and again. And to me? It would be a net positive if certain people, after aaalll the things they’ve done, don’t misuse the gift that Life gave them.”

…wait, what?

“You’re, you’re saying I’m one of those people?” Your head shakes a bit in disbelief.

“Wouldn’t be here in the first place if I wasn’t, perrita.” He waves both sickles to the side in a sort of bow.

“But–– what did I do??” Your voice finally rises above a whisper. “All I’ve done for the past few years is work in this stupid tavern! I’ve never hurt anyone!”

The Wolf raises an eyebrow.

“…if they didn’t start it first.”

“Yeah well, you’re right on the point of not doing much. Even after watching you for a few days I started to get bored.” He rolls his eyes while stepping forward. “All that self pity, walking around here in circles; Honestly, I’ve seen more exciting ends from people who farm grain for a living.”

“Then why come after me? Did you just get bored and wanted to find someone for easy scares?” You start to lean your head forward, but then press it back in its spot as The Reaper steps even closer.

“Oh no no nonono, don’t misunderstand, little morsel.” The Wolf waggles a finger as he’s only a foot away. “I’m well aware of how people see me. How their hearts skip a beat and blood freezes in my presence. I’m Death, sweetheart, I can’t help how I look. But make no mistake–”

S L A M

A fist goes whizzing by your right cheek, sickle included, to the wall of liquors behind you. None of them crack open, but the wolf’s large form is blocking off all other escape routes. Going off of how your muscles just locked up, you doubt you could run if you tried.

All of the moonlight is eclipsed by his presence, bathing you in shadow. You can still see his silhouette shifting, head lowering as much as it can while red moons hang overhead.

The tip of The Wolf’s other sickle touches your chin, easing it up as you try to get away from the pain. You can see every last one of Death’s fangs as his grin stretches impossibly wide, inches of space being the only separator.

“I’m no monster~”

…however much you try, you can’t come up with any sort of quip in response. You can’t even move. Every last part of your body is locked up, staring up with wide eyes at the hungry, hungry wolf. You don’t want to think about what ‘eating your soul’ would look like. Everything that comes to mind only makes your chest feel worse.

The Wolf lowers the sickle down your chest, then tugs something around your neck to lift it up even closer to his maw.

“This, esta cosita, is what put you on the menu tonight.”

The amulet.

“…are you serious?”

“As serious as I can be, perrita~” With a small nick, the yarn string around your neck falls away wraps around his sickle with a twirl. “Trying to mess with the rules of nature for your own benefit is a big nono around these parts.”

“You’ve got to be fucking with me.” You stare at it dangling from the sickle. That god damn amulet.

“I don’t typically approve of people using death magic, or really any enchantments like this. So many people think that they can use little trinkets like these as a fix-all solution for their sorry little lives. Pfeh. I’ve seen plenty in my time.” He tosses the amulet back to you and you just barely catch it. You hate even having this in your vicinity, but reflexes did most of the work.

“But you said that you’ve been watching me the past few days, before I even bought this!” You shove your fist out with the artifact in hand. “It’s not like I wanted to brainwash people or have all of their wallets grow legs and run to me. I just wanted to not have to deal with this marketing shit anymore! Have you ever spent five hours trying to come up with a jingle for a place nobody goes to? My brain is infested by ear-worms!!”

“And so you decided to spend your life savings to not write a jingle?” The Wolf cocks an eyebrow.

“That’s– you–!!!” Fingers wrap around the amulet as you point it right in his face… though both of you wait a long time for a rebuttal.

“I’ve listened to hundreds of sob stories, little mortal. No matter what you try to say,” he points his own finger and pushes yours back, “you still tried to mess with nature.”

“But it didn’t even work!! It killed me!!!” Your hands shoot down to gesture at the body (though you can’t look at it too long without feeling nauseous again).

“Acts as a good ‘Cheater Trap,’ what can I say?” He shrugs and turns his back to you, walking away and out of the space behind the counter.

“That– no that is unfair! You are not allowed to call me that!” The wolf is unfazed as you stomp and follow him. “I worked hard my whole life, I put in the effort ever since I was a kid to make a living. All I wanted was ONE free pass from esta mierda porque quíera dibujar sin estrés de los problemas dineros! I don’t deserve to be lumped in with assholes who used magic to rob people blind or brainwash some chick to be their wife!! I don’t deserve to be toyed with in your–” your arms flutter around “–personal fear fetish dungeon!!”

“Snrk– Heheheh, that’s a new one.” His head lowers as he chuckles. You don’t know if Death can choke, but god you want to shove your fist down his throat.

“I am a good person, I’ve had to deal with so many unruly assholes while working here and all I want to do is just DRAW!! I don’t care if you lump me in with all the other people you’ve met. I don’t care if you yank out my soul and double dip it in mayonnaise when the time comes!” You stomp in front of him and shove a finger into his chest. “I deserve to have my life be easy for once!!”

The wolf stares down at you with half-closed eyes. Glancing for a moment at your finger, pressing through the dusty fabric of his cloak.

“For someone who keeps insisting that they want to live, you certainly didn’t value it that much.”

You scoff. “Excuse me? Did you not hear what I just said?”

“Oh I did, I’ve heard plenty.” The reaper twirls his sickles one more time, then sheaths them both. “But your own actions speak a much better story than you.”

Furred arms cross along his chest. No snarl breaks out across his face, no claws are flexed; he just stands firm.

“Tell me, if you didn’t want to run this ‘grease trap,’ why did you keep doing it?”

“Wha– really?” You hold your arms out. “Come on, even you should know finding a new job is a whole process!”

“Oh I never said anything about quitting. What I asked is why you kept running this business.” He states flatly. “If you didn’t want to deal with the marketing, why not pass it to someone else in the old man’s family?”

“Stubbs left this place to me in his will, and all of his family wanted me to take it to ‘honor him.’ If you copied this whole room then surely you read one of the pamphlets around here?” You gesture to the dozen on the table next to you both.

“You do know wills aren’t legally binding contracts, right?”

A bemused scoff escapes your throat. “Of course I know that, but–”

“But you didn’t want to make them mad?” He tilts his head. “You didn’t want to have that conversation with them?”

“...”

“Your silence only makes the point for me, sweetheart.”

You clench your fists. “Don’t call me that.”

“You could easily have handed off the business to one of your associates, or even a complete stranger, and kept working as a waitress.” He gestures with one of his paws. Arms still crossed. “But you didn’t. Even when you knew you got too over your head. Why?”

“…What kind of asshole rejects something in another person’s will?” You ask.

“A person who knows what they want.” His eyebrows press together. “Call it whatever you wish, but whatever excuse you make? You still made the choice to run this place. Not out of respect for your boss or because you wanted to do so, but because you couldn’t say no.”

The amulet in your hand starts to droop as your fist unclenches. You manage to catch the yarn string before it slips away, but your eyes drift down to it. All of the ornate designs look cheap now.

“Alright, maybe I did mess up. Maybe I should have gotten out earlier.” You try to swallow some spit to keep your throat from tightening. “But I still valued my life! I just wanted to live it without worrying about luck for once.”

“Is that so?” A paw taps against the reaper’s cloak impatiently.

You lift up the amulet again to show him. “I bought this so I could know for sure customers would come in, so I could get a steady income. So I could pay rent, eat food, and not have all my free time be taken up by marketing and advertising. Yes, I fucked up by spending so much money on this. But I did it so I could do what I loved again. So I could draw, knit, sew again! I didn’t,” you breathe, “I haven’t thrown my life away!”

“But instead of using it on the lottery, or anything else, you bought it for customers?”

The engravings are forming imprints in your fingers. “I thought you said you didn’t like me ‘cheating.’”

“And I still don’t. But even I can see that using it for something like that was a stupid choice.” A foot taps on the floorboards. “Also, you haven’t answered my question.”

“I, didn’t want to go that far. I still wanted to work.”

Death’s face flattens.

“I thought it would be cheating too much?”

He taps his foot.

“I– I don’t know, alright?!” The ground Creaks as you stomp your foot. “I was worried about customers so it was the first thing I tried it on. Is that really so hard to believe?”

“Yes, perrita. Yes it is. Let me tell you what actually happened.”

The reaper shifts his weight and points a claw straight at your face. You can’t stop your stomach from twisting into knots.

“Because you were too afraid to say no, too afraid to make people upset, you decided to keep going with this business. Keep running this ‘grease trap’ as you called it. You wanted to leave, but how could you even imagine something like that?”

“Stop…”

“No, instead you doubled down, placing all your self worth on doing something you never wanted in the first place. You keep saying you wanted better, praying for things to get better on their own, but never took any steps to do so. ”

“Shut up…”

“So instead of your goal being ‘pens and needles’ or any of the other crap you do, you wanted to keep yourself in this tavern. Because you were too scared of letting down the people who forced this place on you. That is why you went to the back alley, why you were fine spending all that money–”

“SHUT UP!”

You chuck the amulet at The Wolf’s face. He catches it without even blinking. Then, lowers it back down to present right in front of your own.

“Because to you, your life was worth nothing more than ten thousand shillings.”

Both of you stare at each other, silent. No animosity, annoyance or teasing in his voice, no drama in his movements. For the first time since you two have met each other, he’s talking to you completely straight.

A lone chuckle seeps past your lips. It’s hollow, stings. It feels like some sort of sick is plaguing the back of your throat.

Dozens, hundreds of hours. Cooking. Serving. Cleaning. Sleeping. Cooking. Cleaning. Accounting. Sleeping. Cooking. Writing. Sleeping. Cleaning. SLeeping. Day after day, hour after hour. The exact same things, over and over.

One of the pamphlets is on the table next to you, illustration facing up. You can see your own smiling face staring back, from when you first took over the tavern.

Even back then, your smile looked just as forced.

“........god damn it.”

You swipe the amulet from Death’s grasp and throw it onto the floor. He doesn’t even react as you crush it easily underneath your foot.

The metal frame folded easily.

“God damn it.”

Your hands clasp the back of the nearest chair. If you grip tight enough the sting in the back of your throat seems lesser by comparison.

You’ve fixed this chair more than you’ve sewn in the past year

“God… damn it!”

You lift up the chair and throw it across the room. It crumples just as easily as the one you broke over The Wolf.

Your non-existent heart is racing, your ephemeral hands shaking. Eyes stinging.

You kick the table over and it snaps as it lands. You stomp towards it then kick down, hard. CRUNCH. CRUNCH. CRUNCH. CRUNCH. CRUNCH.

Wood chips decorate your skirt and shoes.

You throw salt and pepper shakers across the room until they explode with a shatter and piles puff against the ground.

You grab the framed photographs lining the walls and SLAM them against the ground, shattering the glass across the floor.

You think about how many hours you came back home exhausted, promising yourself that you’d relax tomorrow.

You take another chair and CRASH it into another pile, feeling the burn in your lungs.

You struggle to recall what was the last thing you wanted to draw.

You plant a foot against the footrest and TEAR several boards out from the countertop.

You remember the day you found your needles and yarn had collected dust.

You run over to the long wall of liquors, dozens of bottles lined up across the long shelf.

You grip one of the sides.

Your eyes sting.

Your throat hurts

You’ll never have pencil lead and paint stain your hands again.

“GOD DAMN IT!!!!”

C R A S H

Glass and alcohol explode outwards as the shelves SMASH through the countertop. A slurry of ten different alcohols and multicolor glass shards slosh past your ankles and seep in between the floorboards. Fumes assault your nose and lungs as you huff, heave, pant from the exertion. Glass bits, booze, grease, pepper, wood chips cover your body from head to toe.

You look across the tavern–the place you’ve grown to know more intimately than any person you’ve met. Look at all of the scrap that has replaced the furniture you’ve continuously fixed. At the wall of booze you just flipped over. It’s hard to see your own body underneath the rubble.

Violent thumps in your head are telling you to tear this place apart until there’s nothing left. But now that your body’s stopped moving, all of the adrenaline is starting to seep out quickly.

“.........f-uck.”

Arms hugging your sides you lean against the wall and slide downwards into the puddle of muck. It smells rancid and the seat is uncomfortable. But none of this is real anyways.

You died here. You died in this god damn grease pit because of your own impatience and fuck up. Every smart investment and careful plans and days spent exhausted, none of it mattered. Because you made this one unbelievably stupid choice. And you can never take that back.

Sounds of glass shards cracking and floorboards creaking approach you. You just keep your head down.

“Well,” his voice holds no inflection, “that make you feel any better?”

It’s hard to tell what he means without looking at his expression.

…you shake your head.

“Shame.”

You push your body further against the wall, pressing your knees against your chest.

You’re expecting him to say something else, to mock you for wrecking the place he created as if it would make all the bad thoughts go away. Or for dying in the place you said you loathed.

But he doesn’t. He just stands there, a few feet away. As you take long, deep breaths. All you can see is his shadow peeking around your feet.

You don’t mind at this point. More frustrated at yourself than at him. You prefer silence right now anyways.

...

...

...

...

...

...

...

...

“...I’m not planning on eating you anymore.”

Your head perks up a little bit. “Hm?”

The shadow raises an arm to scratch his head. “I ‘unno. All of this liquor and glass you’re soaking in? Don’t think it’d mix all that well. I’d rather just throw you in the reincarnation cycle and be done with you.”

His tone sounds a bit more casual than before. “So, what then? You’re saying that if you eat me you’ll get sick?”

“That, yes. But I just think that even without the mess, you probably wouldn’t taste that good anyways.”

“Pfeh. I thought fear was like, the seasoning, or something for you. Isn’t existential dread part of that?”

“Season an undercooked steak all you want, it’ll still be too tough to chew. Besides,” you can hear the smile sneak in, “I got my payback for earlier anyways.”

“Payb–Pffeheh.” A weak smile matches his own. You’re still tired and the fear hasn’t left you entirely. But the laugh feels nice. “You fucking asshole.”

The shadow shrugs again and chuckles as well. “Maybe the next time around, you can provide me with a proper meal.”

…next time around, huh?

Sounds of leather brushing against metal fill your ears, and the shadow is moving his arms with a few clicks and clacks.

Curiosity gets the better of you, so you look up to see what the noise is coming from. The Wolf is pressing the bottoms of both sickles together, twisting them, then extending. Whether it’s more of his magic or some intricate mechanism, The Reaper now wields a dual blade staff. You can’t help but wonder if Death being represented with a scythe came from this.

So this is the end now? One swing of the blade and then, that’s it? You’ll be someone else?

“Just sit still, I’ll do the rest.”

Reincarnation is nice, but won’t that mean you’ll forget what happened? All your skills, your talents? You?

Death raises the staff up over his head, stance prepared for a precise strike. Silhouetted against the moon, his eyes look calm.

“Hasta muerte, perrita.”

He starts to swing.

“Wait!”

You hold out your hands as if to block the strike.

SCHWFF, the blade stops inches from your face.

“Ghhrrrr, come on! Are you kidding me?!” The Wolf swings his staff to the side. Brows pressed together, fist clenched, teeth bared once again.

“I–I changed my mind! I’m not ready to die yet!”

“Changed your– are you kidding me? You think ANYONE is ready to die?!” He throws his arms upwards in frustration and walks turns around, slapping a paw on his head. “We could have ended this migraine of a reaping right then and there and we both would’ve been satisfied. But no, you’re still as much of a headache as you were before.”

“I learned my lesson! You told me what I did wrong and I won’t do it again! Isn’t that enough?” The fear in your gut returns with a vengeance. While the idea of reincarnation sounds nice on paper, forgetting every part of who you are and then turning into someone different does NOT sound appealing to you.

“That’s not how it works! I can’t just GIVE you a second chance. If I did that for you, I’d have to do that with everyone! You think if everyone who asked nicely for a second chance got it, it would be a little unfair?”

“W-well…” You’re looking around the room as if there’s something here that could give you a hint of what to say. Whether it’s a blade staff or scythe, you really don’t want to be at the end of that–

An idea strikes the back of your head. If this really is the same Death as all of those folktales, then wouldn’t that mean…?

“Whaaaat about…” You scrunch backwards a bit. “…a game?”

The wolf freezes in place, ears perk up. He turns his eyes back to you. “Did you say…?”

“A-a game, yeah!” You nod. “You said that you don’t normally follow procedure, right? Since you eat some souls. You’ve done this a few times before. I remember hearing one where a guy beat you at poker in exchange for a few years. So why don’t we do a wager?”

“.....pfft–hahahaha!” The Wolf tilts his head back with a paw over his snout. With each laugh that bubbles up, his body seems to bounce. “Ooh, Ooh perrita, you are the absolute bane of my eternity right now!”

You feel the air around you whistle and see a blur of motion where the wolf is standing. It takes all your effort not to yelp from the hooked blade resting against your cheek.

“But I’d be lying if I said you aren’t entertaining.”

The dam in your throat is blown away from the tornado that escapes your lungs. As your body finally regains the ability to move, The Wolf holds the blade staff behind his back. You place a hand against the toppled shelves and drag yourself upwards.

“So you’ll do it?” The shelf buckles a bit but you remain steady. “If I win, you’ll bring me back to life?”

“That is a very big ‘if,’ perrita.” Death holds out a finger right in front of your nose. “You’ve heard the stories, yes. But have you considered the fact that those came from the people who won? How often do you think I get challenged to games like these?”

“Erm… thirty?”

“In the past week.” The edge of his mouth creeps up as he counts off one hand. “Cards, chess, darts, dominos, foot races, riddles, arm wrestling, spitting contests, speed eating, fiddling–you name it, I’ve played it. And though a few have slipped from my grasp, hundreds more’ve provided as a nice meal~”

So if you lose, he’ll go through with his original plan. Great. You figured that would be the case, but a part of you hoped that you could bet the life of the merchant who scammed you with the surprise retirement plan.

“I’ll be blunt, little one. In the past half hour, you have solidified yourself as a contender for the most annoying mortal I’ve met--and believe me, I have a very high bar!” Though his voice has a tint of disgust, his face is brimming with delight. “I’ve given you the opportunity to join the cycle with all the other souls, but if you’re this confident? Then I want to see what you can do! Try to paw off some cards, see if you can out-eat a wolf; heck, if you’re so inclined I can give you one of my blades for a duel!”

He even goes as far as to separate the staff into sickles, goading you into picking that option. You hold up your hands and shake your head.

“If you think you can outwit Death? I’d love to see you try. But are you sure this is what you want to go for? No take-backs, no second-second chances. You’d be throwing away your one chance for something better. And if I catch even the tiniest hint of cheating? Hmhmhmhmm,” a long, slick tongue cleans off his teeth, “I hope you don’t mind me using all my teeth~”

No attempt is made to hide your disgust from the wolf’s threat, but it does help you stop and think instead of acting as brazenly as you did in the back alley.

As much as you hate to admit it, you’re really at the disadvantage here. Any game that comes to your mind is one you’re sure he’s played thousands of times before. Sure you had your artistic crafts, you were reasonably good with those. But for once you appreciate your imposter syndrome because you are DEFINITELY not confident enough for you to bet your soul on.

Not to mention (as much as you loathe to admit it), Death is right. Reincarnation sounds a lot nicer than being his afternoon meal. You’d much rather have another go at life instead of ceasing to exist entirely. But while being reborn sounds comforting in terms of dying of old age, it’s difficult to see the appeal now. Hints of who you are still remain, but no memories.

Thinking back on your own life, on all those coin flips, you also can’t help but worry if this is the best you’ll get. If next life you’ll be born homeless, a street rat, or (god forbid) a landlord. Even if you somehow retain all your current memories in your next life, existing as an adult in a child’s body, it would still come down to another round of Heads or Tails for if it would be better than this one.

Dying to the maw of this wolf is a nightmare… but so is forgetting everything you are.

Even still, that doesn’t solve the matter of what game to play. You can see it in his eyes: he’s waiting for you to pick something that you think you’ll win at. You can imagine all the people before him, taunting Death about how he’s better than them at something like weightlifting or juggling. Only to have the hope drain from their eyes as they’re outclassed in every sense of the word.

You rub your thumb along the brim of your skirt. That little yarn cat is in desperate need of fixing up now. The wolf is still waiting patiently, eyes poring into you.

No matter how hard you think, you can’t think of anything that could guarantee you a victory. All it comes down to is…

‘Oh,’ your eyes widen, ‘oh this is a terrible idea.’

Taking careful steps, you tip-toe around the glass shards and puddles of liquor the best you can. A few times you panic and grab onto the wall to steady yourself, but you keep walking deeper into the bar.

The Reaper’s eyes follow you, watching closely. Maybe he thinks you’re going to try and stab him with a bottle as a sneak attack, or challenge him to a drinking competition. But your plan is much, much more idiotic than that.

When you spot your own hand amidst the wreckage, you stop. Then you bend down, brushing away shrubs of glass while reaching into the bog of booze. It all absolutely reeks. But you can’t smell your own corpse at least.

A minute passes. Picking away glass and searching through the murky waters. But then, while feeling the bits and pieces under the surface, your fingers graze against something. Smooth, engraved, round.  This is it.

Taking a slow, deep breath, you take the treasure in your hands and stand back up. Looking back to The Wolf, he is in the same spot as before, but infinitely more curious as to what you’re up to.

“This.”

In your right hand, you present the last remaining shilling in your savings. “This is what I want to play.”

Death’s jaw drops, hanging loosely. An unbelievably wide, astonished smile washes over him.

“Really?” He sounds delighted. “A coin? That’s your grand plan?”

You wouldn’t call it a plan, but, “Yes. Just one coin flip. I win, you have to grant my wish. I lose, you do what you want to me. No fancy tricks, no attempts at cheating. This is what I want to play.”

“........pff, pfahahaha!!” The Wolf makes a half-assed attempt to cover his mouth, but soon after seems to remember that he doesn’t care.

“Hhhhhhhhhhahaha! ” The wolf slaps a paw onto his head and presses a fist against his chest. If he had a groin to kick, you suppose it’s only natural he’d have lungs too. “BFAHAHAHAHAHA!!–haack! Ooh, ooh ¡estás matandome! ¡Estás matandome perritahhahahaa!!”

A huff escapes your throat, standing in the slurry of your mistakes. You don’t bother waiting for him to finish wheezing and catching his breath before tip-toeing back out from the bar. Not once do you even consider letting go of your lifeline.

It’s not hard to slip past Death once you make it out into open space again. You cross your arms, doing what you can to push down the uneasiness building inside of you.

“Lo–lo siento, lo siento perrita, just–” the wolf snickers as he turns to face you, “you sounded so confident and sure of yourself. While suggesting something like Heads or Tails! I thought you, of all people, would move away from the test of luck!”

“Yeah, me too.” Your eyes shift down, looking into the smudged reflection. “This is probably one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever done.”

“Hands down.”

You don’t thank him for the color commentary. “But I know I can’t beat you. It’s like you said, you’re much more skilled at me in the games I know how to play. And from how you moved earlier, I doubt I could beat you in anything physical. In every other game I could think of, my odds of beating you were next to nothing.”

“Awww, sweetheart, you flatter me~”

You force your mouth shut for that one. “Even if I tried to cheat, I don’t know how likely it would be for me to slip it by you. No matter what I try, I know you’ll probably catch on. So cheating or playing it straight, I know I won’t win. Odds are next to none in my favor. But if there’s one thing I do know?”

The shilling is pressed between your thumb and index, passing it over to The Grim Reaper. “Coin flips are always fifty-fifty. This is the best chance I got.”

Death stares at you for a few moments, before sheathing both of his sickles. He takes the shilling from your grasp and raises it up to inspect it closer. Feeling the texture, judging its weight, dexterously passing it between the cracks of his fingers. Seems like he’s testing if it’s weighed or tampered with in some way.

“You know, I’ve been challenged to plenty of games of chance, typically by gamblers and charlatans,” Death spits on the coin and polishes it with his cloak, “but I think this is the first time someone’s challenged me to flip a coin. This confidently too.”

“What can I say?” You chuckle through the anxiety. “I know what I’m not.”

After he’s satisfied he brings the coin up to his eye to stare at its gleam. Then he looks to you with the same expression of amusement. But also… respect?

“Well then, little one, let’s make this official.” The Wolf holds out a paw to you. Open and wide. You can see all the little scars beneath his fur.

You raise up your hand, then pause… Breathe in, breathe out… then clasp your hand tightly around his.

“One coin flip. No do overs.” He says, staring you in the eye. “Heads, I’ll bring you back to the world of the living exactly as you were. Tails, I take your soul to the afterlife and have a nice, filling dinner. Do you vow to accept the outcome, no matter what it may be?”

“…yes.” You squeeze his fur tighter. “I, Fuilana Cortez, vow to accept the outcome.”

As you say those words, you can feel some sort of tingling sensation along your arm. Thin strands of white light, weaving around each other like braids of hair, emerge from your wrist and wave in the air. If it weren’t for the wolf gripping your hand tight, you likely would have leapt across the room.

“Relax, it’s just to make sure you keep your end of the bargain.” Death says. “I, El Lobo del Muerte, also vow to accept the outcome.”

Just like you, strands of light emerge from his wrist–only his are a bit darker.

“What, you too good to tell me your name?” You probe El Lobo for his choice of words.

“Sorry, Fuilana, I’m not stupid enough to give out my True Name to someone I just met.”

Your eyes go wide. True names. You just gave him yours.

Death shouts with laughter. “Don’t worry perrita, I promise I’ll play nice~”

The strands of light around both of your wrists weave across the connection between your hands. His grey ribbons slink up your arm, softer than any fabric you’ve felt, then weave around your neck. The white strands from your arm do the same for him, though he’s less concerned than you at the new necklace. After a few seconds, the light fades away and it feels like nothing was ever there.

El Lobo lets go of your hand and slips the coin onto his claw. “Hope you’re feeling lucky today, little morsel.” His voice is playful. Trying to squeeze that last drop of terror out of your system before he can sink his teeth into you. “Ready?”

You aren’t.

“Do it.”

C L I N K

The shilling launches high in the air, propelled straight upwards by the reaper’s strong flick. It twirls, gracefully, glittering with moonlight like a single star.

You stare with bated breath as it turns and spins, never taking your eyes away. Watching closely as each face comes into view, as if predicting where it will land will help you gain some sort of advantage.

A flood of conflicted feelings swarm through your brain like a thunderstorm. Apprehension. Regret. Anticipation. Despair. Hope. All washing together and roaring with more ferocity each flick.

How often have you prayed to Lady Luck or someone else during coin flips throughout your life? Too many times to count.

The coin descends past Death’s snout, replacing the pale blue with the abyssal red.

You did the same when trying to harness that amulet’s powers, but you see now the exact situation it led you to.

The coin sinks beneath your chest.

Yet all the same, you can’t stop your eyes from shutting and your fists from squeezing tight to your skirt. Repeating over and over in your mind.

The coin looms over the floorboards.

‘Please, for the love of god, don’t let it land on Tails!’

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Thunk!

‘....thunk?’

The wolf guffaws. “WOW!! Hahaha, you don’t see that every day!”

It takes lots of effort to peel your eye open from your cringing face. Heads? Tails? Once you spot the coin, both eyes explode open.

The shilling is standing up on its side, stuck between the floorboards.

You... what are you supposed to do here? El Lobo keeps chuckling astonished by the results. And you can’t help but stare as well.

Neither heads nor tails. Neither of you won. Does this result even count? Your competitor seems pretty relaxed about it.

“I, don’t think I’ve ever seen this happen before.” You stare at the coin, blank.

“Me neither! I don’t even know what the chances of this would be.” Lobo kneels down to get a better look, then snickers. “Wow. No wonder the floor creaked so much here, this is shoddy craftsmanship.”

“Hey, don’t look at me. It was already like this when I took the tavern over.”

He looks at you.

“…and yeah, probably should’ve looked for someone who could fix it.” Maybe woodworking should’ve been something you practiced more.

“Well, either way, suppose we should do this on a more even surface. We can move to one of the tables you didn’t wreck.” Death shrugs and starts to reach for the coin. “Still at least one left.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You start to take a step towards the front. “That’d probably be a good–”

You freeze in place. You feel like another lightning bolt from the amulet struck you–this time across your mind.

What are the chances that you get something like this again?

Death is still reaching for the coin, ready to pluck it out from the crevice. He doesn’t think this counts, and you didn’t either at first. Something like this is impossible, one in a billion chance, that only could have happened right here. The strands of light aren’t reacting either. They could very well let this happen.

This outcome. You won’t be brought back to life, but according to Death’s own words, you won’t be brought to the afterlife either. Something else. You have no idea what that could entail, but if this is neither of the outcomes you two agreed upon then that means your soul won’t get devoured by El Lobo. You would survive, if in some strange way.

It’s not what you aimed for, not what you wanted. But if you let this happen, if you let Death pick up that coin again, then you’ll have to do this one more time. Take another chance on either life or oblivion. Risk another coin flip.

You’re not sure if you can get this lucky again.

“Gotta say though, this is definitely a good story to tell if you–”

El Lobo feels a tight grip around his wrist. He looks over, and finds your own hand holding his back from reaching any further.

Though the corners of his mouth dip, The Wolf looks more confused than anything. He follows your arm up to your head and looks into your wide, dinner plate eyes.

“Señorita,” he chuckles, “what are you–”

“You’re not keeping your word.”

The amusement drains from his face in seconds. His eyes match yours. He tries to pull his arm away. “What are you doing?”

Honestly? You’re not entirely sure yourself. Even as you feel the words forming in your throat you can’t help but feel like this will be a gigantic mistake. Either that or you’ll just be making a fool of yourself. Even still, you need to try.

“We both vowed that whatever side the coin landed on, we would accept that.” Your grip around his furred wrist feels like that of a statue. Tight, unmoving. Firm. “And you aren’t keeping your end of the bargain.”

As if on command, the white strands of light reappear around El Lobo’s neck. They don’t tighten, only remind the wolf of his previous words. Whatever magical contract you made, it seems it favors you in this argument.

You hear him gasp. Honest to god you hear the Grim Reaper gasp in shock.

“No…” He tries even harder to pull away, but now the strands of light tighten around him. Not enough to choke, but he coughs and reaches up with his other paw. “Not with you…”

“You already know what this means, don’t you?” Both of your eyes tear into him, watching closely for every little movement. His growling sounds different with restricted airflow.

“Fuilana.” He points at you. The fur on his arm is standing up. “I’m warning you. Stop this nonsense right now, or else!”

“Or else what?” You lean in closer to his face. “Want to tell me, El Lobo?”

“…no. No, you are not doing this! I refuse– ghakk!!” He begins to point, but then grasps at his neck once again.

“I think,” you pull his arm upwards, with the help of some of the light strands, “you know what this means. And you’re not telling me, because if you do, then I’ll automatically choose it. Am I right?”

You watch is the color drains from his face.

“In that case, Lobo,” You plant both feet on the ground and stand up to your full height, and lean in right up next to his face, “I think I’ve made my decision.”

“Perrita, you cannot be serious…” He isn’t trying to wrestle his arm from your grasp anymore. There’s almost a look of pleading in his eyes.

“Dead serious.” Despite the stress building in your gut, you can’t help but crack a smile. Here you are, standing in front of Death itself, and he looks shocked. “You made the rules. Only one coin flip. Heads, I stay alive. Tails, you take me to the afterlife.”

You point down at the coin, sticking up on its side between the floorboards. “You flipped your coin El Lobo, so take me there.”

Pristine white light clasps around his wrist and neck, enforcing the vow that both of you took for this wager. The wolf’s eyes flicker from you to the strands, trying to do what he can to claw them off. But the more he tries to pull the tighter they become.

You grip his wrist tighter, stepping forward as you lift his arm up. El Lobo stumbles backwards, his stance uneven. He tries to twist his mouth into a snarl but it ends up looking like a grimace. His growl, a gargle.

He looks like he wants to strangle you.

“Did you hear me, Lobo?” You force his attention back to you. “Take. Me. There.“

“Ghhk!! Ggrrrhhhkk!!” The dog shuts his eyes tight. “GhhkkhkrrrrrfFINE!!”

The light strands disappear. You let go of his hand while he stumbles back and coughs. One hand on his throat, the other pressing its claws into his palm.

Even with the uncertainty of what’s coming next, you can’t help but let yourself feel that little bit of pride. Relish in this little victory over a literal force of nature. If only for a few seconds, you let yourself enjoy this feeling.

The Reaper sure isn’t enjoying this though. Forget glaring daggers, he’s glaring rapiers into your being. Though it’s slightly garbled, that full-teeth growl conveys all you need to know.

You simle back.

El Lobo shoots to his full height, seemingly doing all he can to not pounce on you and rip you apart limb by limb (because he knows that the white strands will show up again). Each stomp makes you think he’ll break through the floor.

“You want to spite me this bad? Fine.”

Death snatches your wrist and YANKS you up close to him. You have to brace your arm on his chest to not fall over.

“But you don’t get to complain.”

Death snaps his fingers, and in a blink, W H O O S H!!! The tavern around you is swept up in a flurry of dark wind. Artificial moonlight is first to go, leaving nothing but the golden threads and El Lobo’s red eyes to illuminate the void. You can see flecks of glass and splinters of wood whizz by, yet when they pass they all puff into the same dark smoke. Whatever place this tavern replica resided, it’s coming apart now.

Wind howls, your hair flies all over the place and force your eyes shut. It’s like standing in the middle of a cyclone you can barely hear yourself think! Through it all, El Lobo’s grip on your wrist feels like it threatens to break a bone (if you had any left in you). It all keeps raging, until–

“HERE!”

B A N G ! !

You’re shoved up against something behind you, something wooden. You quickly lose your balance and land flat on your butt, though it feels like there’s something under it.

As you open your eyes, you notice there isn’t any natural light where you are. In fact, there’s barely any light at all! All around you is a vast, dark void (except for whatever is behind you). Yet you can still clearly see the shapes and color of everything around you. Still see that the booze, wood and glass have all been washed out of your clothes after leaving.

You try to move to stand, but Death STOMPS in the empty space between your legs. He jabs a finger down at your chest.

“Stay here, behave yourself until I get back, and for the love of god, Don’t. Touch. Anything!”

Then, with a flick of his cloak, he vanishes into the darkness.

“…well. Okay.”

You turn around, trying to process everything that happened at once. Yet as soon as you do, you’re met with even more questions.

Right behind you stands… a cottage. Not some sort of cave or dark mansion or whatever you expected to find in a place like this. Just, a cottage. Two floors, dark wood, decent enough craftsmanship. But little to no flair aside from a window or two, not even any paint.

Your hand moves to the ground to push yourself up, but you feel it brush against something course and rough. It’s whatever you’re sitting on. Some sort of mat?

Slowly, gradually standing up, you take in the strange new house in front of you. And then, look down at the mat placed right in front of the door. A welcome mat.

“Home Sweet Home.“

“....oh no.”

Chapter Text

“Okay.”

“Okay.“

“Okay.“

You’re still sitting on top of the scratchy welcome mat. Next to the lone cabin. In the middle of an ink black void. Still processing everything that just happened.

Both of your knees are pulled up close to your chest, as far away as possible from the void surrounding you. Like a little mouse on a plank of wood in the ocean. You saw El Lobo standing in the darkness earlier but that doesn’t make you any more eager to try. You could be an exception to… whatever this place is.

“It’s not life.” You think out loud. “But it’s not the afterlife either…”

You poke your legs. Yup, the sensation of touch hasn’t left.
Both hands run over your skirt. All of the debris from earlier are gone and all the patterns still remain.
Any noise? Nothing, not even wind. Not even the faint ringing of your ears that typically filled the silence when you were alive.
The cottage?

You shift around and crane your neck upwards. There’s a faint smell of dust coming from the wood, all of it a desaturated grey. Compared to the tavern nearly all of the woodwork looks stable, neatly organized rows of planks firmly secured in place by even rows of nails. No curtains to blow, no lights flicker out from the glass windows (though you can apparently see everything around you fine without a light source).

“So. This is his home.” Your fingers course through the rough mat below you.

There’s a strange feeling of distant professionalism you get while staring at this. All the foundations for a sturdy house are clearly present, the person who built it (likely El Lobo) knew what he was doing. Yet after building said foundation he just. Stopped.

Is it because he couldn’t, or that he didn’t want to?

...as fun as the speculation is, the presence of the all encompassing void isn’t going away. You should probably go inside.

You slowly ease yourself up from the welcome mat, using the wall as assurance you don’t fall backwards, then rest your hand on the iron handle. Considering that Literal Death brought you here your mind races to potential things you’d find on the inside. A swirling mass of darkness with vaguely eldritch-shaped furniture? A gothic castle with stuffed predators lining the walls? Would you be next?

With a deep breath and a clench of your teeth, you crreeeaaak the door open and peek an eye through the cracks to find…

“Oh.” A cabin. It’s just a normal cabin.

The inside appears just as consistent as the outside, both in terms of space and design. Same ashen grey wood, same dusty smell, same level of light. For size, it’s a little bit bigger than the tavern you were running. And once again, there’s the feeling of distance to all of the design (or rather, the lack of it).

A glance to your right is a large portion of space, filled by black chairs and a sofa circling each other, with a small coffee table in the middle. All about as ornate as you’d find in a furniture store. No special trim or throw pillows.

You walk over and run a hand along the fabric; its cover is thin and has a slight ruffled feeling, like it’s been used at least once but not much after. Nothing sits on the coffee table either, no stains or traces of objects put on it previously.

A lone shelf sits on the far wall; just a plank of wood with bars fastened against the wall. Exactly two books rest on top. You pull both down to get a closer look.

The first is a thin, sky blue book with some flowers on the edges of the cover. In wavy white text, the title reads “The 7 Steps to Find Liveliness in Your Work.”

You grimace and toss the self-help book back and out of your hands.

The other is a rather thick, black leather-bound book. No title or patterns residing on the front. A quill, however, sticks out of the top.

Is this… his diary?

‘Don’t. Touch. Anything!’

…yeah you’re not even gonna pretend to be the better person here.

You flip open to a random page around the middle to see what he’s been thinking lately and–

It’s blank.

You flip a few pages back. Blank. Further, blank. Blank, blank, blank blank blank aaaaaall the way back to the cover. You’re halfway convinced that this is just an empty diary, until you finally land on the very first page and are met with exactly two lines written smack in the middle of the page.

“Mi hermana piensa que este ayudaráme a ‘procesar mis sentimientos.’”
[My sister thinks that this will help me ‘process my feelings’]

“Yo pienso que este es un pérdida del tiempo.”
[I feel that this is a waste of time.]

…you’re not sure what you expected.

The quill (which has a gold grip with a shimmering crow’s feather) is completely dried up, ink is chipping off the point. He must have gotten this a long time ago.

You’re partially curious at who exactly this ‘sister’ would be. If she’s also some sort of animal being that matches Death in his sadism. An image pops in your head of a sister wolf in normal clothes, trying to have a regular conversation with El Lobo over lunch. But every time she tries to talk about… whatever wolves talk about, he starts monologuing about the color of blood and how ‘the arc of blood spray from a freshly made gash glitters beautifully in the moonlight.’

“I like hearing people talk about their interests, but even I’d get sick of that after an eternity.” You put the journal back on the shelf.

Hollow thumps come with each of your steps along the floorboards. What else is there here?

To the left of the entrance is a short hallway with two doors on opposite sides. The opposing wall feels naked without a desk with a lamp, or something to fill them.

Left door first. It’s a smaller room than the others, with a singular window on the other side reminding you ‘oh yeah we’re still in the void.’ Lovely.

A lone bed sits in the corner with a single blanket and a single pillow. All of them very thin and, honestly, miserable looking. A coat hook (cloak hook, more likely) hangs on the wall next to it. Right next to that rests what looks to be an empty wall plaque with little hooks for something to rest on. His sickles, maybe?

Even still, that’s it. His little corner takes up barely a tenth of the room. There’s enough space in here for you to do cartwheels (if you could do cartwheels, of course).

You back out and close the door with a click.

“Man,” you say to yourself while opening the next door, “what’s the point of him saying don’t touch anything if he barely even has any–”

flUMP

You fell a few feet into a pile of something hard, round and smooth. Turns out that this is the one singular room which doesn’t have a floor. Fun.

Popping your head back up, you take a look around. Theres no furniture here, not even any walls. All that exists in this space is a sea of dark red containers with purple nameplates on the front, spanning several miles in every direction. The shape of the containers reminds you of rolling pins, with the gold handles on the sides. Looking back up, the door simply floats in the air, raised above the pit without anything to rest on.

This is what you were expecting out of a cabin belonging to Death.

The handle of one of the rolling pins pokes the underside of your arm, so you decide that this will be a suitable start to snoop. A name is inscribed on the front in a cursive font: Eliza Brickta.

You grasp one of the handles and slide the container off, revealing a faded paper scroll. Unfurling it reveals some formal-looking text.

Eliza Brickta
05/22/1582 – 01/14/1613 (31 years)

Death: Ingested a cranberry pie while competing in a pie-eating contest, succumbing to her allergy.

Notable Qualities: Was misdiagnosed with leprosy by a lazy doctor, when she had merely contracted strep throat. So believing she didn’t have much time left, participated in the contest to cross off the bucket list. Was close to making a world record, but succumbed to her allergy on the final pie.

“Damn.”

There’s more on the document detailing the person’s life, but you elect to roll it back up and slide it back into the container. At least she went out with a full stomach.

You grab another container and slip open the parchment, reading about a few other victims. There’s David Lynchpin who wanted to do a theatre play with real weapons to increase immersion, then soon found out using a prop sword isn’t proper training. Another talks about Feris Mistalry, who went back to sleep in a burning house thinking it was just a nightmare. Then finally Patricia Laneheart, who was a knight that came back from a glorious battle, only to die via alcohol poisoning the next morning.

After slipping Patricia’s scroll back into her container, you look back out against the wide collection of documented fates. No matter how hard you strain your eyes you can’t see the the end, and you don’t even know how deep the collection here goes.

With how minimalist the rest of the cabin is, this feels out of place. More lazy than professional. Like stuffing all your dirty clothes back into the closet, leaving them to wrinkle for weeks instead of sorting them. But unlike that pile, it feels strangely out of place.

You need to pile up a bunch of the sealed fates to climb your way back out the door.

The rest of the first floor is pretty standard. Turning left from the hallway and across from the front door, there’s a circular dinner table with three chairs. No wall decorations or tablecloths. To the right (with a stairway dividing it from the living room) is what you suppose is meant to be a kitchen. A counter faces the wall, with a single plate placed on top. No forks or spoons or stains.

But against the far side, up against the windowsill, sits a potted flower. A small, blue hydrangea that could rest in the palm of your hand. Its gentle blue stands out amongst all of the grey, with light blue buds in the center. You never expected someone like Death to be into gardening.

The flower looks healthy enough, though the dirt seems pretty dry. With a lack of sink, you suppose watering might be difficult.

Opposite to the counter is what appears to be a crate, standing in for a pantry. Nothing’s inside though, save for (of all things) a bottle of red wine. A rather intricate label is slapped on the front, olive greens with twisting golden vines for the text. But you groan looking at the fancy near-unreadable cursive font. Not like you were going to drink it either way, but it seems even in death you can’t escape cursive.

And just like that, that’s the entire first floor. It barely took seven minutes to explore everything. All that’s left is whatever’s on the second floor. The stairwell up is a bit cramped, just wide enough for one person to walk through. You’re accustomed to these kinds of spaces though, they feel oddly cozy to you.

You let your fingers bump against the little gaps in the walls as you climb the steps.

The cabin’s second floor is close to what you’d consider an attic. Wide open space, rafters exposed overhead, circular window looking out into the void. And, surprise surprise, a majority of it is empty space. This time it’s enough to make up a dance floor at a small wedding venue.

In front of the window rests a small desk with a single chair pushed off to the side. An inkwell and quill rest against the far edge, while in its center lies a scroll and empty container–the same type used for the sealed fates from before. It’s unfurled, but there’s no writing on its surface. Was he in a rush?

…you look out the window and crane your neck to see the front door. Nope, not back yet.

“Ehe.”

Edges of your mouth creep into a grin as you grab the quill, tapping it against the inkwell’s side. Humming a little tune you doodle in the corner of the scroll. Spikey little ears, big ol’ angry eyebrows, long snout, grill lines…

“There!”

Truly, nothing can compare to this magnum opus.

The quill returns to its resting place. You turn your attention to the last notable thing in the room: a large, intricate black mirror.

The glass itself is a large oval, just barely bigger than you. Around the sides are what appear to be vine-like patterns, wrapping onto and away from the mirror itself–enough to act as handles. Keeping with the theme of the rest of the house it’s all different shades of black and grey, with tiny shades of dark purple for flair! Spicing things up a little bit, it seems.

Though, it’s hard to tell at first whether the mirror is actually a mirror. You can see a faint outline of your reflection as you get closer (giving you time to adjust your frazzled hair), but the glass is dark like obsidian. It can barely reflect the rest of the room. Bringing your face up close to the giant thing, you can’t see any little patterns or anything staring back, aside from your own eye–

Bink

“Oh!” Your forehead tapped against the glass and you quickly pull back your body. Its surface was freezing cold, like a window during a blizzard.

You bring the front of your shirt up to rub against your forehead, attempting to warm it back up. Suppose it’s naturally going to be cold here, since he has all that fur and doesn’t need to worry about things all that much. With a huff of warm breath, you lower the cloth back down and consider grabbing that blanket from El Lobo’s bed--

Your eyes shoot wide. Your reflection is much clearer now.
Something is behind you.

Your heart spikes and instincts take hold immediately: you pivot on your back heel and SWING a fist at the new presence. Instead of feeling some sort of impact, a large paw catches your fist mid-flight. Claws scrape at your forearm.

Unamused red eyes stare down at your fist, then into your gaze. “If this is the greeting I get every time you see me, I think we may have problems.”

A less-than-graceful exhale bursts from your mouth and your body slumps. Great. He’s already back.

“Well maybe next time you don’t sneak up behind me for a cheap scare.” Both of your feet shift out of the fighting stance. You go to pull your hand back, but El Lobo keeps his grip tight.

“Maybe next time you can do as I asked, and don’t go around messing with things you don’t understand.” The wolf huffs.

“Like there was anything even here in the first place to poke at.” Another tug, nothing. “What, afraid that I was going to see your whole singular diary entry?”

The wolf’s eyes narrow down towards you.

…maybe you shouldn’t have said that out loud.

With a grunt El Lobo pushes your fist back towards your body (you stumble back a step from it) and he walks over to his desk near the window. Wordlessly he picks up the quill, taps it twice, then begins to inscribe something on the parchment. Likely the fate of whatever other soul he terrorized after you. Doesn’t use the chair though. Suppose he prefers to stand as he works.

You give a quick glance back at the mirror. Yeah, you can see your reflection much more clearly, along with the room and the wolf behind you. Was that one touch all it took?

The cut on your neck is finally clear for you to see. No blood, just as you suspected. But the scar on your neck… it could be a trick of the light, but it seems to be a strange shade of dark pink instead. Still stings when you touch it though.

“Hmm.”

You open your mouth and pull your cheeks apart. Nothing strange down your throat.
Push up your nostrils? Same up there too.
Anything in your eyes? Clearly not.
Look down your chest? Everything is as it should be–

“The form you’re in is exactly the same as it was before you died.” The wolf’s reflection gives a tired glance at yours. “Please stop doing that with my mirror.”

You pout at the reflection. It’s comforting to know that the curse marks from the amulet didn’t follow you here. But he could’ve told you that earlier.

El Lobo is unbothered as you walk up next to him and glance at the work he’s doing. He’s already finished most of the ‘Notable Qualities’ section and is close to the bottom of the page (barely any ink stains either). Apparently someone named Adrian Bloodshank brought a knife to a cannonball fight. Didn’t end well.

After signing something illegible on the bottom (if the gods invented cursive you officially hate them) the wolf places the quill on the desk, grabs both ends of the scroll, then flicks the bottom one up in the air. His fingers move dexterously to twirl the top pole and roll up the parchment in one go. When it’s all done, he snatches it out of the air, slides it into its respective container, then inscribes the same name on the front.

“Here.” He passes the sealed fate off to you. “If you’re gonna stand there and watch, you can at least do something useful.”

“I’m not your maid.” You grunt, taking the scroll anyways. Customer service instincts kicking in again. “Though this place can certainly use some more flowers to get rid of the dusty smell.”

“I already have everything I need, no point in making things more complicated.” He waves a paw to wave you away, then presses the thumb and middle finger together.

Snap! In a puff of dark clouds, another scroll appears with its respective container. You’re surprised, but not too much. It is his realm after all. He picks up his quill and starts scribbling away the fate of John Freu Johnson.

Your hands fiddle with the scroll’s handles as you wait. He writes surprisingly fast, about two to three words a second. But there’s only so much you can do and reading the fates past his flowing arm while he’s writing them gets tiring quickly.

Instead, you take a seat in the chair nearby and look around the attic. This wide, spacious, grey attic.

Just like the outside, you can feel a level of distance in the design. Save for the records room, none of this feels lazily done. The precise edges and cleanly hammered nails clearly show effort. But there is an overwhelming amount of empty space in every room. No fancy paintings lining the barren walls, no bookshelves with assorted knick knacks, no little boxes of knitting supplies off in the corner waiting to be touched. If it weren’t for the single bed and plaque to hold the sickles, you’d assume this was your personal prison cell.

He can seemingly create anything he wants, decorate as self-aggrandizing as he wants. Yet this is all he has?

Another sealed fate is passed your way. You take it in your hands as he prepares another scroll, but you glance up at the wolf while he prepares to write again.

In his eyes, staring at the paper, there’s that same distance.

El Lobo pauses his scribbling as he notices you staring. He sighs. “What is it?”

“Do you seriously live like this?” You ask.

“Like what?”

“Like a guy who acts like he just moved away from his parents last week but has actually been living alone for seven years.”

The wolf rolls his eyes and groans. “Ugh, great. Another one.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He goes back to writing, gesturing with his other paw as he talks. “I am perfectly satisfied with my realm as it is. I don’t need any abstract art on my walls or books to skim through or altars for offerings mortals make for me. Like anyone even does that anymore.”

“Even if you don’t need it, you can at least mount up something on the wall. Maybe some hanging potted plants, a painting of some history guy dying, or even a self portrait! I’d bet you’d love looking at yourself, with how hard you try to look cool.”

“Keep this up, Fuilana, and I’ll mount you on the wall.” El Lobo bares his fangs and growls in your direction.

“Bud. Again.” You smirk and rest your chin on your hand. “If you’re gonna talk like that at least treat me to dinner–”

Slap!

The third parchment is thrown against your face.

“Shut your mouth and just follow me.”

You snort and roll up the parchment while you walk, the other two fates under your arm. “Is this why you act so dark and brooding all the time? Because you can’t produce an ounce of feng shui to save your ass–”

“Shut!!”

Both of you make your way back downstairs. The wolf’s paws barely make a noise compared to the thump of your boots. He leads you to the archives room and motions for you to toss them in. All three clatter against the endless pile. He flicks the door closed fast.

Right after, he leads you over to the dining table, pulling out one of the chairs for you as he walks by. At least he has some manners.

“Now then.” He breeeaaathes in deep and rubs his snout while he sits down. “Let’s get this over with.

“Yes, let’s.” You say, straightening your back and clasping your hands together.

El Lobo glares at you with disdain. A cheek pressed against his fist and the other paw resting on the table.

You lean forward onto the table, your chin resting on the back of your hand.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“In the time I’ve been gone, you’ve successfully went against my orders and toured the entirety of my home. Happy?” His fingers extend out to you as he asks.

“Mmmmmno, I wouldn’t say so.” You shrug. “This place could really use a bathroom. I know you’ll probably say–”

“Spirits don’t need to use the bathroom.”

“–but I just think a shower would be nice. Or any place to wash up, really. Your fur could really use it.” You lazily point a finger in his direction.

“First of all, I don’t need it. Second of all, that’s not what I meant.” El Lobo taps a claw against the table. The disdain in his voice is palpable. “You’ve seen everything this place has to offer. All three tables, one mirror, two books, five chairs, and seven billion four hundred fifty six thousand two hundred eighty one scrolls.”

“Do you keep that close of a count of everything–?”

“You won your little coin game, you asked me to take you to the space in between life and afterlife. So I brought you here, and you saw everything. I’ve officially completed my end of the bargain. You got exactly what you wanted. Congratulations.” El Lobo gives you half-hearted jazz hands to celebrate.

“Mhmhm, you’re too kind Señor Lobo~” You bow your head. “Though, I am interested in exploring a bit more. Maybe I could pop by your sister’s place, see if the all black aesthetic runs in the family.”

“You can’t– Ugh, mortals and their stupid comprehension skills.” Death presses his paws into his face.

“Can’t what? Can’t tell your sister how you got outsmarted by ¿una perrita estupída? Or the fact that you were kicked in las globa–”

“There IS no ‘neighborhood’ mierdita!” The wolf’s hiss cuts through your words and you jump back a bit from his outburst.

Thankfully, El Lobo has enough self control to realize what he’s doing, leans back, then takes a looong deep breath in and out. Good, you were worried that you’d have to use a chair in self defense again.

“Look.” He gestures with his hands as he explains. “You seem to think that ‘my realm’ and ‘my home’ are two different things. That this is a general ‘god realm’ that you can explore and travel in. But the place you are in right now is specifically my realm. Whatever other deities you think exists, you can’t just take a right at the nearest stretch of nothingness and arrive at their house.

“This here? This home, and everything outside?” He waves to everything around you both. “That’s all there is.”

You pause. A few moments pass as you take in the scope of what you said, El Lobo watching as you do so. You look around at the grey walls, the blue flower, the five chairs and singular sofa.

There were days back at the tavern when you were waiting for any kind of business, counting the numbers of nails you could see from behind the counter. Despite how cramped it could feel from time to time, you still thought that one day you would have enough free time to explore, you just needed time.

But here, there isn’t even an outside to explore. The world is as large as this one singular cabin.

“…oh.”

“Yup.” El Lobo nods. “This is what you’ve bet your soul on. Congrats on getting a peek into my existence. Are you satisfied now?”

“…you know before I thought you were pathetic. Now I just think this is sad–”

“I will bury you in the archives room.”

You snort and pull a smile onto your face. It takes some effort, but your customer service look hasn’t left. “So then, what’re you going to do now? Suppose calling the family over for dinner is out of the question.”

“HAH! Absolutely not!” He shouts. “Nearly all of them have some sort of problem, and you are the last thing I want them to know about! No necesitan más adiciones en sus clubes de admiradoras para inflar sus cabezas.”

“Oh come on, they can’t all be that bad, right?”

“Depends. Would you rather be set on fire and be forced to run at the speed of light every day, or participate in luchador matches and be subject to piledrivers until the end of time?”

You make a face at the thought of eternal exercise. You jog on occasion, but out of necessity to stay healthy, and especially not for fun.

“That’s what I thought.”

“Alright, then what? You’re not gonna eat me after all, right? This conversation isn’t to just fill me with dread and use that as seasoning? Haha…” Your nervous chuckle isn’t fooling anyone.

Death stares at you. Really, thoroughly looks past whatever form you’re in now and into the social-anxiety ridden soul you have.
…man, he can go a long time without blinking, huh?
Teeth begin to creep past his lips, no duller than when you last saw them.
His breathing is the only sound that can be heard through the silence of this void.
The wolf reaches his hand down to his sickle–

You hop out of the chair and grip its back. “I swear to fucking god.”

“Pfahaha, no perrita, I’m not going to eat you. Not yet, at least.” Death pulls his paw back up, a little bundle of… something in his hand. “But this is something we need to talk about.”

No efforts are made to hide your frustration as you sit back down and cross your arms. Asshole.

“Now, although I’ve completed my end of the contract, I couldn’t take your soul for myself. Even if I wanted to.” El Lobo brings a claw up to his neck, scraping against his fur. When he tries to pull it away, the glowing white binding vow appears. “Contract’s still in effect, likely will be for a long while. That also means no going back to life, and no reincarnation either. So until this contract expires…”

“I’m stuck here.” You finish for him, groaning loudly in your hands. “I’m stuck in another god damn house. I just moved from one to another.”

“Yeah, a lot of good that coin flip did ya.” El Lobo chuckles. He brings his paw back down and unwraps the bundle, revealing an apple. Just a normal looking red apple. “A vow between deities can be nullified by whoever has more authority. Between deity and mortal, same rules apply.”

“That seems, very unfair. If a god can cancel the agreement at any time, what’s the point of the contract in the first place?”

“Most of los dioses don’t tend to break them willingly. It’d reflect poorly on their character if word spread, not to mention a blow against their egos.” The wolf rolls his eyes at the thought of the other gods as he picks up the apple. His hands are much bigger than yours, the apple looks tiny in his grasp. “But considering that the outcome of the coin flip was unorthodox, the specifications to release it are also hazy.”

“Let me guess, both of us would have to agree to what happens?” You ask. “You can’t toss me into the reincarnation cycle yourself, so you’re asking me to do it instead.”

“You’re quick on the draw, señora.” He points with a finger holding the apple. “So I’ll make this straightforward for you.”

El Lobo lifts the apple up to his maw. The rows of spikes are once again all for you to see. “You agree to annul the vow, I’ll send you off to the reincarnation cycle. I can even make sure that you get sent down to somewhere a bit more comfortable than what you got.”

Even if it wouldn’t be you anymore.

“And if I don’t agree, then what? You’ll torture me?” You make both of your brows press together. “You’ll rip me apart, but leave just enough of me alive to it can technically follow the rules?”

“I’ll agree, the thought was tempting. Especially with all of the wonderful company that you’ve given me so far.” He wraps the fingers of his free hand against the table. “But no, even I’m not that cruel. You’ll just stay here, in this cabin, with me.”

Snrrk. “Really? That’s the best threat you got? That’s–”

C R U N C H

Your body jolts. The wolf, in a single bite, tears through half of the apple in a single bite. It sounded more akin to a monster tearing through a wood barricade.

He closes his eyes with a satisfied smile while he chews, those fangs never fully dipping out of view. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. A river of juices dribbles down his chin as he savors each and every bite. Each one grating against your ears, making you wince.

Don’t wuss out now, Lana. He’s just doing this to intimidate you and you know it.

“I, I can get comfortable here. You think I haven’t slept on a couch before?” It’s getting a bit harder to keep this grin on your face. “I can stick it out until your sister comes around, I’m sure she’d love to meet me.”

G u l p. You can see the Adam’s Apple bob down and up. “Aah, you’re probably right. The question is if you’d be able to ‘stick it out’ through this for another millennia or so. She visits, yes, but we don’t keep in contact that often.”

Millennea?? “So? It’s still better than doing customer service until the end of time. And you clearly aren’t using your diary back there, so I can draw to pass the time.”

“Perhaps. But from the look on your face right now,”

C R U N C H

Your teeth bite on your lip.

“I’d say the pressure is already getting to you.”

“From what? You eating an apple? Why would”
Crunch
“something as minor as this make me crack? You’ve seen”
Crunch
“how patient I can be with”
Crunch
“Can you please stop doing that?”

“Stop what, perrita? I’m just having dinner~” He grins wide as he tosses the apple into the air. You want to grab that apple and throw it against, his…

The apple is purple.
The inside of the apple is purple.

You couldn’t see it while he was holding it, he was facing the bitten part away from you and against his chest. The outside looked completely normal but the inside is a deep violet why is it purple?

Death catches the thing in his paw, letting its inside be wide and clear for you to see. Amused, sadistic laughter fills the room as you stare for longer than you realize.

You look up to meet his gaze, the red pools reflecting your own eyes.

“That’s not an apple, is it?”

Death shakes his head, a teasing stare in his eyes. “Say hello to John Freu Johnson. Thirty seven years.”

A hand slap against your mouth.

“He worked as a debt collector for a loan shark company, lived alone so he could keep most of the paycheck for himself. But his motivation wasn’t on the money, no. It was for the excuse to hurt people.” He lets the apple hang by its step, twirling in the air like a music box dancer.

“Every new ‘client’ he had became a new test subject for his cruel fantasies. But his most recent job, he got sloppy. Pulled under the waves by his own ball and and chain. Barely lasted twelve seconds before the salt water filled his lungs, but he felt the water pressure crush his skull for at least a minute longer as he asphyxiated. He couldn’t even see the glow of the moonlight as he died, couldn’t keep his eyes open with the salt stinging them so much.”

This was his plan. The whole time he was here, maybe the moment he left, he was trying to scare you. Since he didn’t have anything stored in the pantry he actively went out looking for a soul he could use for this. Explaining how the realm works too, that had to be a part of the tactic. He’s threatening you with the exact same thing you were trying to escape in life with little chance of doing anything else.

He said before that he eats souls, you know this is something he said. Even still that is an entire person that he is eating. That very well could have been you. It COULD be you if the contract runs out. The thought of his jaws clasping around your head, only a single C R U N C H away from nothingness…

“From the look on your face, it seems like you understand the situation pretty well now, Fuilana~” The wolf wipes the juice of John Freu Johnson from his cheeks.

You try to swallow, but you can’t help imagining you swallowing a bite of the person as well. Nothing can hide your anxiety right now. “Yeah. I do.”

“So then, what’s it going to be?” El Lobo leans forward across the table, getting a close look at your trembling hands. “We could keep playing this game of back and forth until the stars fizzle out. But you’d have to live with this, day after day, every time I come back. All the while knowing that one day, when the contract eventually runs out–”

C R U N C H

You flinch. El Lobo lets all of the juice drip down his fur, not bothered to wipe it away.

“Reincarnation, or becoming a future meal.” He holds the apple out for you to get a close look. You lean as far back as you can. “The choice is yours~”

Your gaze drift between the dripping apple and his own eyes, as wide as gan be with his toothy smile revealing bits of purple between the fangs. Eventually, you settle on the apple for ‘least distracting of the two.’

As much as you’d hate to admit it, all of his tricks up until now have worked. When you sat down you were determined to see things through, stay long enough to see his sister and maybe hitch a ride out of this place or some other third option. But the thought of living in this crippling emptiness, bearing with Death doing this every single day? It’s starting to get to you.

He promised you a comfortable life, more comfortable than the one you had. Maybe one where you could have all the time in the world to work on the things you loved, never have to step foot into a customer service job again. But both of those are big maybe’s, there’s always the chance things could go wrong, and you don’t want to risk completely forgetting who you are.

So then, you’re stuck choosing between whichever is less terrifying. Wait around for who knows how long for a chance to see something new, at the risk of becoming a plate of turkey thighs; or let yourself drift into the reincarnation process and pray that you wake up someplace with all your memories intact. No way to increase your odds this time either.

Reincarnation or sticking around.
Dying now, or dying later.
Leave or stay.

“…alright.” You clench your fist. “Alright. I’ve decided.”

“Aaah~” El Lobo closes his eyes and lets out a sigh of relief. “I’m glad I could help you figure things out, pup.”

“Heh. Yeah, thanks. You really did.”

“…why did you say it like–”

You swipe the apple from his paw.

El Lobo’s eyes shoot open and he straightens up, but you’ve already backed away from the table. In your hand is the soul of John Freu Johnson, still dripping juice onto the floor. You’re partially thankful to the wolf, if you didn’t feel your heart beating so hard it would’ve felt much more strange.

“What are you doing.” Death seems much more shocked than angry, though you doubt that’ll last for long.

He probably thought, smelling all the dread steaming from your body, that you’d take the safe way out.

But you still want to see what’s in store.

You raise the apple up, staring at what remains of his soul. All of the rind has been bitten off, the only thing left is the core.

“…he was an asshole anyways.”

C  R  U  N  C  H

The hardened core grinds against your teeth. It’s wet and plenty juicy, yet it has the texture of a lemon left out in the sun for over a week and you need to force your teeth to chew with each bite. You drop the remaining pieces and press your jaws together to break down a large chunk.

But that’s nothing compared to the taste–oh GOD the taste! On some level you knew that it wouldn’t taste like the apples you knew, but with each crunch your mouth floods with saltwater! It feels less like you ate actual food and more like a wave flooded into your mouth and brought chunks of rotten fruit with it! Every second you need to gulp down a bucket’s worth and it tastes HORRIBLE!!

In order not to fall over from the overstimulation you lean against the wall, gripping your dress to keep steady. You’re torn between thinking that this is just a weird rotten fruit or reassuring yourself that this person was an asshole anyways. But whichever one you try, it doesn’t stop your eyes from watering and your hands from twitching each time you swallow.

So instead you focus on your host. Through teary eyes you can see El Lobo across the room. Completely dumbfounded, jaw open in shock as you choke down the last of the loan shark’s existence. If anything else, you can take comfort in catching him off guard three times in one night. You close your eyes, focusing on that fact, and keep on chewing.

Crunch. Gulp.
Crunch, crunch. Gulp.
c R U N C H!! Gulp, gulp.
Crunch, gullp, gulp, gulp.
G u l p.

“hhHOOoOoogh, hooh boy.” You wheeze and cough as you finally break surface, gulping down the last of the seawater. You wipe down a small waterfall of the juices from your chin using your sleeve. “Ooogh god, that was rancid… cough! I probably didn’t have to do that.”

“W–wh. What.” The wolf finally speaks. He hasn’t moved from his spot. “Why. What did you do why did you do that?”

There are a lot of things you want to say. You wanna point and laugh at his stupid face, who thought he had everything figured out. That you called his bluff, since he hasn’t actively tried to hurt you since you ran away at the tavern, and SAID that he wouldn’t torture you. Maybe also spit some of the seawater in his face, say his fear tactics don’t work on you anymore.

But the past twenty seconds of chewing have drained you in every way possible and you are fighting just to stay standing right now.

So instead, you heave an arm up and point a finger towards him, baring your own fangs and showing off the purple chunks stuck in between your teeth.

“I ain’t done living yet.”

For five whole seconds Death stands in place, registering what your answer turned out to be. That you’d be staying with him, day after day, enacting upon him his own personal hell.

You’re beginning to learn that, while El Lobo is really quick with his reactions, shock makes him far, far slower. You can see the realization and transformation across his body in real time.

His eyebrows raise up, his mouth opens wider. He blinks.
The claws on the table tense up, creating scratches.
The brows lower, shoot down as far as they can go. His pupils tighten until they’re basically invisible.
The growl creeps from his throat before the snarl appears.

And in a blink he’s across the room.

B A N G

Both of your wrists are SLAMMED against the wall, strangled in the wolf’s grasp. You were already wincing from the rancid apple, so thankfully you don’t need to put in much effort for the pain.

The shadow of Death towers over you, his maw inches away from your face. Up this close you can see into the back of his throat, watch it contract as snarls shake your entire body. His hot breath crawls down your neck and washes across your chest. Like a feral wolf, ready to separate bone from muscle in exchange for you stealing food from its den.

But he won’t. Even as you stare into his eyes and see that yearning for violence, you know he won’t.

Through the stinging discomfort, you shove out a dry chuckle. “Thanks for dinner, Lobo.”

“Ghhhhrrrrrrr!!!” Lobo shoves his face closer, his jaws closer. Your eyes are nearly pressed right into his. Streams of hot breath blanket your body like a sauna. Along your neck, some of his front fangs graze against yours. Desperate to rip and tear the person who humiliated him three times in one night.

“GhrrrRRRRAGH! ¡¡¡ME CAGO EN LA PUTA MADRE!!!”

Lobo shoves away from the wall and stomps into the living room, throwing his head backwards with face in hands. Not looking where he’s going, he bumps into one of the chairs. Another snarl comes with a swift KICK and it goes flying across the room, shattering against the wall. Not satisfied, he grabs his sickles and tears down the bigger chunks to size.

“¡MALDITA MI BOCA! ¡MALDITO ESTE CONTRATO! ¡¡MALDITA ESTA MIERDITA QUE ESTÁ ARRUNINANDO MI VIDA Y MALDITA MI ESTÚPIDA CUENTA!!”

You rub both of your wrists while leaning against the wall, watching your new host pick up the other chair and CRUSH it against the pile. Man, this is the God of Death so many people are scared of? Getting unreasonably angry at losing a bet?

“Careful you don’t use your sickles too much, you might get ‘em chipped!” You cup your hands together and yell. El Lobo snaps his head around and in a blur–

S H I N K

One of the sickles tears through the wall behind you like dry pasta. His forehead is pressed against yours, his growls reverb through your body.

"You're THIS insistent on spiting me? On walking down this path, spending your eternity devoted to nothing but petty revenge against someone you summoned due to your own foolish choices?!" El Lobo's fingers are squeezing the blades’ handles like a vice. "FINE!! But know this little dog, I gave you an out! I gave you the opportunity to leave!! But you just signed up for a hell of your own creation. No mortal can remain sane in this emptiness for long; it will fester and consume every last ounce of spirit within your meager form, and when the day comes you BEG for me to put that emptiness to an end? You will have wished you took my offer."

(Pushing aside you flinching a few seconds ago) you push up against him and press his fur against your skin. "Go ahead and growl all you want, wolfie. Every last snarl and growl makes up for years of customer service. And like I said, I have pleeeenty of time~"

Both of you pore into each other's eyes, baring teeth in your own unique ways. Then--

C R A C K

The wood explodes out from the walls as he yanks the sickles back.

"ENJOY your miserable existence!!" He stomps away from you, still muttering and grumping curses for your existence. He KICKS the front door open, nearly folding it in half, and storms out.

“Have fun Lobo! Try chopping down a few redwoods to let off the rest of that steam, I’ll clean up for when you get back~” You send him off with a dainty wave.

“SHUT IT!!!”

With a flick of his cloak and a puff of smoke, he disappears yet again. Hope whichever poor soul he runs into next doesn’t get treated too harshly. Well, unless they deserve it.

“Aaaaaaaahhhhh~” You let out a loooong breath, letting all that tension flood out your body. A strange sense of pride builds inside of you. The thought that you’re not only the first person to outsmart Death in potentially decades, but also one to make him this hopping mad. That’s something you can be proud of.

Yeah, this can sustain you for an eternity longer. Totally. Just gotta have a bit of fun with it.

As you lay against the wall and peek out the front door, something catches your eye. Feeling refreshed you walk out, back onto the ‘Welcome Home’ mat.

Last time you looked out, it was a complete void. Inky black. But now the void has changed, things have appeared. Or maybe they were always there in the first place.

The complete black has lightened into a soft grey, like the morning during overcast. Only this time the cloud surrounds you and the cabin; a light mist you can see the vague shapes of contrasted against denser clouds in the back. But here and there, little strips of mossy green and faded magenta swirl among the clouds, adding color to the grey.

The mist feels cool, brisk. Oddly comforting.

You move a foot forward to kneel down, then realize you stepped off the welcome mat. To your relief you don’t fall forever! Yay! It turns out the ground is the same in color to everything else, but reflects what’s above it all. It’s slick like ice, but feels as warm as water from the pump. An extremely thin layer of water(?) covers the top.

“It looks nice. Really nice.”

You let yourself fall back onto the scratchy welcome mat, let your legs spread out against the fog’s surface and just, watch the clouds roll by. Eventually El Lobo will come back, he’ll likely still be livid and be a pain to deal with. But you’ve made it this far, despite the insane odds stacked against you. You’re gonna try to play with the cards dealt to you.

So for now, you just take in the sights.

…

…

…

…

“Dear god I need some water to wash this taste out of my mouth.”

Chapter Text

[PREFACE: ahahaha. it keeps happening.

There are 33 total images in this chapter . A03 sometimes has a habit of eating them though, so if an image isn't present, too blurry or something feels out of place, click the associated link. The order should be IMAGE -> LINK -> IMAGE -> LINK etc.

IF NEITHER OF THOSE WORK, click the link to the google doc below this line.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1GgkpnnUuX4a8IumnIReDdZX4OGFjFoB7k832Gu1K1HA/edit?usp=sharing

Apologies for all of the troubles with updating. I wanted to do something fun but the internet is actively holding me back. I'm just as annoyed as you. Anyways, on with the actual story now.]

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“¡Ay Lobo!” You yell up the stairwell from the bottom step, hanging onto the doorframe while leaning in. “If you’re Death, why do you go to sleep?”

“Even I need to rest, Cortez.” He says with the tone of a teacher who was just asked why the sun is yellow instead of blue. As Lobo makes his way down the steps he carries an armfull of Sealed Fates, freshly transcribed. “Everything does, that’s a fact of life.”

“But you’re… I mean, I guess? Sure,” you sidestep as he reaches the bottom then follow after him, “but wouldn’t that mean people would stop dying? Since you aren’t able to take their souls anymore?”

“Oh, you don’t like the idea of eternal life?” The wolf glances your way, the contempt in his voice palpable as he opens the Archives. “Of a man lit ablaze burning for weeks, forced to feel his skin searing? Of yourself, forced to suffocate on the floor of your tavern throughout the night, being denied that release even as the sun comes up?”

Your face contorts into a grimace. “A simple yes or no would’ve worked.”

“Just wanted to provide a more vivid picture.” He turns back and dumps the scrolls into storage. “But if you’re that curious, I allow the flow of time to stop when I have personal matters to attend to. Resting, working, dealing with annoyances, so on. So you can rest easy, a man’s flesh will only sear for the standard amount of time while I’m here.”

“Huh.” You place your hand on your hip, peeking around the corner to The Mist outside. “All the time in the world, and you just work and… actually, no, nevermind. If I had those powers I’d use it to take naps too.”

“I don’t do it often, only when I’ve expended a lot of energy and need time to recover.” Lobo starts walking around you, likely towards the front door.

“Heh, what caused it then? Still a sore loser about our little game~?” You lean forward to get a good look at his muzzle.

“No.” The wolf grumbles, then–

Trip!

–sweeps your legs out from under with barely any movement or effort. Though you try to recover, you end up falling back into the Archives with a thump! Sprawled out across the pile of Sealed Fates.

“Just dealing with a headache.” The wolf looks down on you from the doorway, then sulks away. The sound of the front door opening and a distant fwoosh! is met with a pout. You pull the journal and quill from the waistband of your skirt and continue writing.

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“Sixteen.”

“Shut it.” You grunt, heaving your body up onto its feet again. “Just, this kinda stuff takes practice.”

“True, just like how an infant falls on its face a dozen times before it learns to walk.” El Lobo leans against the cabin while etching something into the surface of one of his sickles. You’ve caught a few times when you look to him and he looks back down.

“Yeah? Well, nothing’s wrong with that!” Both your legs stand rigid, arms shoved out to your sides. “Everyone has their own paces for leeEaAO–”

Your wool socks betray you again; one foot gives way from The Mist’s floor and you’re sent scrambling, sprinting in place while both arms windmill in a vain attempt to stay standing. But one more faulty step later–

BANG! You land hard on your shoulder, then tumbles further and leaves you staring up at the sky.

“Seventeen.”

“Shut it.”

It takes a few breaths for the stinging in your shoulder to fade, and your back feels like it’s been bruised. All of your limbs ache, just like when you were alive. But you’re a spirit now, you know don’t have an actual body. All of this is literally just in your head (in your soul?). Lobo is just keeping it on because he’s getting a chuckle out of your falls. Though you suppose that if the pain wasn’t there, it’d be even stranger.

Puffing your cheeks you push yourself up once again for the seventeenth time (thanks Lobo). You go up to your hands and knees, try to plant one of your feet but the toes slip away quick. And now you look like a mangy dog trying to do yoga.

Wearing the boots would make things easier, they have good friction and grip to the ground. You know this. But something you wrote on your bucket list when you were alive was that you wanted to learn how to ice skate. Way, WAY back when you were a kid you saw other people sliding around the iced over pond near your house, gliding across it with relative ease. One person in particular slid across it like a dance, their hair flowing in the wind behind them as they flew.

By sheer luck this place has the closest thing to ice without the threat of falling through, and your socks are the only things soft enough to help you cross off that list. So, socks it shall be.

One foot up onto the floor, then another, then taking about a minute or two to lift your body upright. Both of your arms are out to the sides keeping yourself balanced, like those fancy circus performers. One step at a time, Lana.

“Holding your arms out like that makes your balance worse, you know.” El Lobo calls, still skritch ing away at the serrated metal.

“Oh really? You beat people in skating contests too, oh bringer of blood and death? ” You call back over your shoulder, not daring to move your feet at such a critical point.

“Not a challenge most mortals tend to go for. Also, at least eight of your falls would’ve killed you if you were still alive.” The smirk on his face is audible, carried by his words. “The brainstem is a very fragile thing, you know.”

…you bring your arms back in against your sides. The shiver down your spine makes a very compelling argument.

You’ve been standing for about the longest you’ve been since starting this impromptu practice. Breeaaathe in, hoooooooo. With both elbows pressing into your sides, you angle one of your feet and push away.

Schffff . It’s only a small distance, but your body slides a bit across the mist! And you’re still keeping your balance!! A smile blooms across your face as you angle your foot to take another push.

“Theere, see?” The wolf pockets his sickles and claps, finally deciding to spare you a glance. “Look at all that progress, who would’ve thought listening to the immortal was a good idea?”

Aaaand the smile is gone. You turn where you are and point towards his stupid fluffy chest. “Hey. Just because one piece of advice worked, it doesn’t mean I didn’t put in the effooOEOUGH–”

The sudden movement throws your body out of wack and you’re sent windmilling once again! In your panic you start spinning around and you can feel your balance shifting backwards. It doesn’t take long before you’re going back with yet another meeting with the floor–

Catch! A paw clasps one of your wrists and a foot keeps your toes on the ground. Held in the air, suspended over the ground, you look up to find El Lobo holding you mid-fall. His poised stance, leaning forward with his other arm angled behind, is night and day compared to your graceless dangling.

His gaze, falling down to yours, isn’t filled with amusement, but pleasant surprise.

Then he lets you go.

Thump. The fall isn’t as bad as it could’ve been, just landing on your back. But you still reserve a huff for Lobo as he looks down at you with a mocking smirk.

“Eighteen.”

“Shut.”

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The attic floor is hard against your butt, even with Lobo’s dishrag of a blanket under your legs. One knee raised up against your chest, acting as an armrest. The other spread out in front of you, stretched out towards the wall and what hangs atop it: Lobo’s dark mirror.

You can see your silhouette on the other side of the glass; this is one of the few places you can see something resembling your own shadow in this lightless place. The only place you can really have company when Lobo is away too. And yes, you’re aware of how sad that sounds.

Reaching out a hand, you place your palm against the glass. The darkness coating the surface ripples out as if you broke the top of a lone pond. Just like the first time a bone-cold chill runs up your arm and dots it with goosebumps, though it fades with some time. After only a few more moments, all the shadows fade and a typical reflection of the room presents itself.

You stare into your own eyes, your own reflection. As usual your hair is all frizzled up (you wore a tight hairnet while working at the tavern) and your eyes are weighed down by a shopping trip’s worth of bags. Just like how it was on the last day you were alive. Lobo doesn’t have a comb of fork anywhere around here (and you vehemently denied his offer for a haircut) so you doubt that your appearance will be changing anytime soon. At least you died wearing your favorite skirt.

A quick stretch of the non-existent muscles later, extending your legs out and arms up, you reach over and grab the journal from nearby. Flipflipflip all the way to the back, past some assorted doodles and drawings. You then settle on a page full of your current notes.

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It’s safe to say you’ve hit a bit of a roadblock. You’ve been trying to figure this out for the past few days(?) but nothing has been clicking.

Lobo has been strangely tight lipped about this too, like why he has it in the first place. When you asked about the Archives and why he keeps records of everything, he said “Someone has to.” When you asked about this, though, he went silent for a few beats longer than he normally takes. Thinking. Then ending the conversation with a firm “none of your concern.”

So how could you not obsess over this a little bit?

You clear your throat and stare into the mirror. Time for another round of this, then.

‘Open sesame.’ ‘Knock knock.“ ‘Murder.’ ‘Stabbing’ ‘Swords’ ‘I love sickles’ ‘Life and death’ ‘Sickles’ ‘Perro’ ‘Perrita’ ‘Fear’ ‘I love the smell of fear.’ ‘Shit mis pantalones.’

Nothing.

You groan into your hands and flop onto your back. “Bluuuuuugh, friggin thing.”

The command word approach is starting to feel like a flop. Even still, you can’t think of alternative approaches for this that would make sense for Lobo to actually do. He won’t tell you what this does or how it works and tried to intimidate you into backing off. But this is the last thing in this cabin–this realm–that you haven’t fully understood yet! In a place like this, how can you not be interested?

“Damn it Lobo, why do you even have this thing in the first place?” The wood pounds from your hands slapping against it. Thankfully the god of death is out right now, but you know exactly what he’d say if he heard you.

“ Perrita ,” your throat feels scratchy from the deep voice, “stop interrupting my break time! I have to rest from torturing idiot mortals by sitting in my shitty bed and brooding for an hour. You’d never even understand my mirror in the first place, Lana, if you were alive your brain would explode from the lack of, comprehension…”

Hm. “ Perrita .” Your given nickname mumbles past your lips. “Perrita, Lana. Perrita, Per rita, Rita. Lana, Ritana, Fuilana. Fuilana…”

Hm.

You push your body back up and hunch forward towards the mirror. “Fuilana Cortez.” Nothing.
“Show me Fuilana Cortez. Show me El Lobo de la Muerte.” Nothing at all changes, even as you press the surface again.

After a brief bout of thought, you bring yourself up from the ground and stride towards the exit and down the stairs. This is just a hunch, a little inkling in the back of your mind. But with no other chickens to chase, you may as well go for the goose.

A hop off the final step and a brief walk later, the door to the Archives Room is flung open. After hanging from the doorframe to fish some out (and falling into the pit soon after) you walk back up the stairs with four Sealed Fates in your arms. Some of the most recent deaths that Lobo dealt with.

You plop back down in front of the mirror (embracing the chill again to wake it back up) and spread the fancy rolling pins out in front of you, still in their cases. You start with the closest one, spinning it around until the cursive script on the front is more or less legible. Then, you press your fingers against the glass.

“Eric Goldbloom.” You say. “Show me Eric Goldbloom.”

Nothing. You grab the other three and decipher the cursive, tapping one against the glass.

“Mallary Baleborough.” “Show me Tierson Bogart.” “Reveal to me Austin Flyder.”

No change at all. Your fingers rap against the wood, gears turning. ‘Maybe these ones don’t work because they reincarnated already? In that case…’

All four scrolls are scooped up in your arms and help upwards. Like always, the cases for each Fate slides off easily. One by one you look through the scrolls, skimming past names and deaths to scan through the ‘Additional Notes’ sections. If your hunch is right, then what you’re looking for has to be…

There! In Austin Flyder’s entry! ‘Frequently a victim of his own buffoonery during their heists, Austin tended to leave the brunt of his work for his partner…’

You press both your palm and the scroll against the mirror. “Emilda Johanson.”

The glass ripples out from your hand.

All the scrolls CLATTER across the floor from your body shooting up. You don’t dare to blink as the old and dusty shack’s reflection transforms. Rigid corners become elegant waves, grey walls are washed with a warm glow and the room you’re in unfolds into something much, much brighter…

“…sn’t using these anymore anyway.” An older, jaded woman’s voice passes through the glass. “I’m done with this venture. I’m moving onto something more secure.”

As the ripple fades, a woman in a lavish green satin robe is unveiled. She’s in what appears to be a restaurant with an elegant decor. A chandelier showers gilded light across its patrons, but that glow becomes obscured by a cloud of smoke, puffed from her wrinkled lips. Lowering her long varnished-wood cigarette holder her face is revealed, decorated with a lifetime of scars. A streak of her silver hair is shaved off the side of her head–a close shave from one of her jobs, no doubt. Even through the Looking Glass, she has the aura of a veteran who not just demands, but commands respect.

“Emilda Johanson.” You whisper.

“You sure ‘bout this, miss?” A man in an equally elegant white suit inquires from across the table. He lowers a pristinely cut purple gem down from a mechanical eyepiece, tiny clockwork cogs ticking away as it adjusts to his fellow customer. Click click click click click. “Dumpin’ all these just for me… I-I appreciate it, but you’d likely get a better deal from one of your other contacts-”

“Do you want the gems or not, EagleEye?” Emilda points across the table with her cigarette holder, forcing the speculator’s attention to remain on her. Some ash sprinkles onto the lace tablecloth, next to his class of champagne. “If not, I’ll take my business elsewhere. You know how I feel about wasting time.”

EageEye’s mouth creeps into a contemplative frown, the eyepiece shifting even more. Clickclickclickclick, his eyepieces keeps rhythm with the circulating gears within his mind. He returns his gaze to the small chest in front of him. No matter what his relationship is to Emilda, having this much riches would no doubt put a target on back. He spends several long agonizing seconds deliberating whether or not this once in a lifetime offer could end up cutting his life much shorter.

Clickclickclickclickclickclick , eyebrows press together with each turn. Stomach tightening.

Clickclickclick click click, click.

“Alright. You got a deal.” EagleEye exhales, placing the gem back into the small chest and closes it tight, sealing the deal with one final click of a key lock . “You’ll find the money in an alley two blocks west from the hideout.”

“Good. I can swing by there one last time to grab my old gear, too.” Emilda crosses her legs and looks out a window neighboring their table. She gazes down towards a large bustling town, slowly being consumed by dusk as the golden sun descends past a distant mountain. “It’s time I start living on my own terms, and stop being on his. You won’t have to worry about me sticking my fingers in the business anymore. After this payment, I’m gone.”

“It’ll be a shame to see you leave. Despite all the trouble you caused, I couldn’t help but admire your work.” EagleEye puts the chest in a personal bag hidden under the tablecloth. “Hey, how about I treat you to the caviar here? I finally have the funds to afford it now.”

“Heh, I was wondering how long it was going to take for you to ask.” She chuckles, knowingly, for a secret only she and her business partner will ever be privy to. “Now that we’re free from that fool breathing down our necks, I feel we both deserve something nice.”

EagleEye smiles, relieved. He raises his glass of bubbling gold. “To new horizons?”

Emilda leans in and raises her own glass to meet EagleEye’s. A look of contentment settling across her face. “To new horizons.”

Both patrons clink their glasses together, and once again a ripple pours across the scene. The light fades into a shadowless grey, the gilded decor of Emilda’s newfound retirement washing into familiar surroundings. And then you see yourself. Frizzled hair and shabby clothes, eyes wide. The final ripple once again emerging from your palm against the glass.

You realize you never left the attic.

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“What do you mean you put it away?!” You yell, hands out to your sides. Lobo just keeps walking, pushing you aside with his shoulder.

“As I said, I should’ve put it away sooner.” He kicks the Archives door open with one foot, then heaves a collection of Sealed Fates–ones you collected–back into the pile. “It isn’t a toy for children to play with.”

“Oh go fuck yourself!! ” You spew at him with much more vitriol than usual. “If you were going to do that in the first place why let me use it in the first place? Get my hopes up just to rip it away, is this just another tactic for you?”

“Stop being a self centered brat for once.” The wolf glowers as he shuts the door. “I left it out because I thought, at some point, I would need to use it to get insight for a particularly complicated soul. But I haven’t needed it. For thousands of years. You just gave me the incentive.” He brushes past you again, striding for the front door. “Not like you were using it for anything worthwhile in the first place.”

“I was still learning how it works, and I was excited because I finally found something to do in this pathetic, dreary place!” You keep on his heels, chasing after Death.

“My realm isn’t some luxury resort for you to be a layabout in, Fuilana. I don’t owe you anything.” Both of you storm out into the mist, neither bothering to close the door.

“You should stop being a sore loser, Lobo! You agreed to the bet and I won fair and square, the least you can do is treat me with some respect!”

S N A P

The Mist goes dark, color blinking out of existence. Once again both of you are suspended in the inky void. Lobo’s eyes seem particularly bloody in this space, poring down onto you.

“Is this some game for you? Do you still think of yourself as the hero of the story, do I need to remind you how you ended up in this situation in the first place?” His voice is cold, sharp. The quiet fury of a parent scolding their child for making a scene in public.

“This argument again?” You cross your arms, gripping the fabric of your sleeves.“I already know I fucked up, that it’s my fault for being here. Just let it go!”

“Yes, ‘this argument again,’ because you’re not getting it.“ The reaper hisses through his fangs. You notice he’s not bothering to blink anymore. ”Even after spending several days in my realm, endless time to reflect on your mistakes, you still haven’t gotten it.“

“All I wanted was to listen to musicians and see some people I liked. Stop making this into a big thing!”

“Alright. Fine.” Lobo crosses his arms. “Did you see what your parents were doing?”

. . . . .

“What?”

“You heard me.” He nods. “You, of all people, should know their true names. Have you checked on them? How about your friends back home?”

.....you turn your head away. “I, it slipped my mind.”

“Sure it did. Just like all that time you spent with basic autonomy slipping your mind.”

“What does it even matter to you? It’s not like I can send them a message while I’m stuck here. Like you’d let me.” You turn a little farther so the reaper is no longer in view.

“I wouldn’t. But the fact you haven’t even thought about them until now? I think that reveals a lot about you. And your own self pity.” El Lobo’s footsteps echo around you.

“What does that even–?” You shake your head and turn farther away. “Okay, I’m an asshole for not thinking about them while I’ve been here. Congrats, you made me feel worse! Want a cookie?”

“Did you think about your loved ones at all when you made that deal? When you abandoned your dreams for a chance for a lucky break, dreams they also believed in? Supported with their own work and care?” A foot comes into view. “Did you think about them at all when considering the risk?“

You turn further, keeping your eyes trained on the ground. "Of course I thought about them. Nearly every day while I was stuck there, wasting the potential and time they invested in me."

“Did you truly? Or are you still using their faces as an excuse for what you did?" He steps right up in front of you, inches away. You resist the urge to look up at his eyes, instead focusing on how tightly he's clenching a fist. "Do you remember how they actually talked, the kind words they said to your face? Or have you chosen to only hear them as the doubts in your head?"

"I didn't choose anything like that, why would I even-" You've heard Lobo be angrier than this, yell louder than this. But there's something in his voice, a scorn that lingers at the back of his throat. Something personal.

“How do you think they’ll really react when the truth comes out? That you took all their love and support, their hope for your well being, and tossed it in the gutter for luck? That you tossed away all your chances for the idea of something better? That now there will be a void where you once stood, and now they’ll think that they must have said something wrong for you to value your life so little? Do you even realize how much you hurt others with your own self pity?”

A dry, hollow chuckle escapes your strained throat. “God, you are such a prick.” You lift your head up to meet the wolf’s wide eyes and creeping snarl. “What do you want me to do about it then? I realize I hurt people because I was stupid and selfish. Then what? Just wallow in my misery for eons?“

“I want you to LEAVE!!” Both of the wolf’s paws extend forward, barely being held back from slapping the point across your face. “Take all your doom spiraling to the reincarnation cycle and save it for the next life! Your obsession with the mirror, with other people’s lives, it was just feeding your own guilt and it disgusts me! You’re soiling the gift of life that was given to you, just like so many other mortals do!”

“Well I’m trying to live now! But guess what? It’s hard to do that when I can’t even have a glass of water! You want me to be better? Then give me what I need to try and be human again!”

“You agreed to stay here, you knew what you were getting into! You had your chance and you wasted it–still wasting it! You signed your own prison warrant Fuilana, so you live with the consequences!” He jabs a claw into your chest, leaning down close so his snout is right in front of yours.

“Oh believe me, I’ve been living with them.” You glare back into his crimson eyes. “And now, so are you with yours.”

Both of you glare at each other, poring into each other’s souls. Then he lets out a long, exhausted sigh. Lobo stands back up to his full height.

“Self righteous, self pitying and self serving to a fault. You’re the pinnacle of all mortal life, Fuilana.”

Lobo steps away, turning and preparing to leave for his work once again. You just stare. You have nothing to say to him.

“You’ve spat on your loved ones’ care, Fuilana. And no amount of bravado or deduction will change that.”

With a flick of his cloak, Lobo fades into the dark. The Mist returns soon after, he took the void with him–no doubt to put in the place of other fools who would do as you did The Mist to return. Once again leaving you here in the nothingness.

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You close your journal after writing that final line, leaving the feather sticking out from the top. You don’t really have much energy left to write, and you’re starting to get sick of that quill anyways.

The journal is dropped onto the table right next to the cup. Ashen grey wood just like the rest of the cabin. Its edges are hard and straight, the cup a perfect cylinder. Not a single flaw or imperfection in its design. It’s half empty now.

Drinking it didn’t make you feel better, any more ‘alive’ than you did. A little refreshing, sure, but not much else. You don’t feel any thirstier or satisfied than before.

A light creak comes as you lean forward. Both elbows on the table, cheek pressing against your fist. Part of you wants to drink the rest, but you know you don’t really need any more of it. It’s highly unlikely that Lobo will keep giving you more after this, even if it was meant as a gift. May even be the last time you see water at all.

Your hand clasps the smooth dry cup and swirls the water around. Gift or not, water’s water. Feels disrespectful to just dump it outside.

As you stare blankly ahead, letting your vision blur a bit, some bits of color pop into view when the cup moves far enough away. Some blue, just across the room.

“Oh, right.” you mutter. “The flower.”

The hydrangea has been in the same spot since you first got here, not a petal out of place. Even with all of your poking around you never touched the plant. You considered once or twice digging it out of the pot but that felt pointlessly cruel. After a while the blue became something like background noise. You knew it was there, but rarely stopped to look at it.

The few times you did look, though, it always seemed a little dry. Even if the plant looked healthy, the dirt seemed to be cracking a bit.

“…yeah. Yeah, alright.”

You scooch away from the table and walk across the barren kitchen. The little pot of blue, as usual, seems pretty dry. Cupping the other side to make sure none of the water spills, you pour the water across the plant. You wave your hand around to making sure all the petals get their fill. Some dip a little from the pressure, carrying the sustenance down the stems and trickling it across the dirt.

“I feel you need this more than me.”

With the last few drops, a little petal catches your eye. A trickle of blue light floats from its surface, soon followed by a few more dotted across the flower’s surface. They hover like fireflies around the petals, a few drifting close to your hand along its side. Then it fades away. Back to how it’s always been. The dirt now a little healthier.

Almost like a thank you gift.

“…yeah. Thanks man.” You smile and give a little nod.

You place the cup next to the pot and turn away, back to the table to grab your journal. Maybe you should draw some flowers that you remember from the botanist neighbor who maintained the community garden outside the tavern. It was a nice little collection, and it’d be a shame if you ended up forgetting it while waiting here.

You start for the front door, thinking The Mist would provide some nice colors for–

Fwip

Both your ears perk up and you freeze mid-step. It was quiet, just silent enough you’d be convinced you misheard it, if you haven’t become acutely aware of the quiet surrounding you here. It sounded like something flicking through the air and taking a gust along with it.

You’re not even sure at first if you heard it right, imagined it or not. You turn around, looking just to confirm that whatever noise you heard was in your head.

But it wasn’t.
Because now there’s a card on top of the hydrangea.

It’s small, white, sticking up on its side and balanced on top of the petals. From where you’re standing you can see gold trim around the border of the card and the same blue hydrangea as a symbol on the front.

Your steps feel weighty and slow as you walk across the room. Is this another situation like the Looking Glass? It didn’t end well the first time, especially when Lobo found out. So should you even touch this, mess around with these things more if Lobo will just take it away again?

Despite how much your brain is running through potential ‘what-ifs,’ your curiosity overwhelms you. Sucking in a breath, you reach out and pluck the card from the top of the pot. High quality paper from the texture, similar to the type you’d find for watercolor paintings. You run your hand across its surface, feeling all the little bumps and grooves, until your curiosity finally makes you flip it open.

The text is in a delicate blue cursive script. Fancy but still legible enough for even you to read clearly.

Hello Lobo.

I hope you’ve been well, though I feel I already know the response you’d give.

I’d love to talk with you more, but I know you’re likely only contacting for business. Has a mortal beat you in a game? It’s been quite some time since the last one.

Just send over the soul, then I’ll do my business and get out of your fur, as usual. If anything, I appreciate the notice in advance this time.

With love,
–L

Chapter Text

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

One hand presses against your mouth, the other holding the card. Two fingers, far away from your body as if you were holding a bomb. Your eyes flicker over the words again, quadruple checking to make sure you aren’t hallucinating this paper or the words at all. But no, they’re all still there, and you can even feel the indents within the page from the quill.

This is it. This is what you’ve been waiting for–contact with someone outside of the void! You were tearing the house apart to find it and the answer was hiding right under your nose the entire time!

A smile breaks across your face and the bubbling of a forming laugh begins. But then you SLAP your mouth again and shut yourself up. You only heard the front door close. Lobo could still be here. He could be watching you right now.

You whip your head around over your shoulder. He’s not there.
Tiptoeing a bit further, straining your ears, peering around the corner.
Nope, not here either. The coast is clear. For now.

You turn your gaze back down to the card (it feels like it would explode if you dropped it), cursive still unchanged. A bubbling, trembling sensation surges through your phantom bloodstream and crackles across your face.

“Aahh hhaha hahaahAHA!!! YEEESSS!!!“ The energy explodes outwards and you leap into the air! You did it Lana, that stupid wolf thought that he could outlast you and tormented you the whole way through, and you made it!!

As much as you want to celebrate more (sprint and cheer into The Mist, maybe throw another chair) you should probably get started on that letter. L’s response was fast, you don’t want to keep them waiting.

“Sorry Lobo, it’s time for me to blow this joint!”

Stomp Stomp Stomp from your boots sprinting to the table to snatch your journal.
Skrrk! goes the chair as you pull it out and thWUMP into it.
Flipflipflipflipflip to an empty page within the journal, then,
rrRRRIIIPPP!!

A fresh page is torn out (messily) and folded (lopsidedly) in two to mimic L’s own card. Ink drops stain the sides of the letter and the first few letters you write are bloated and blotted, but you don’t bother matching their elegance. Cursive is stupid anyways.

Hello there L!

This isn’t Lobo, and you don’t know me, so sorry for how sudden this is. But my name is Lana. I was am a mortal who beat your brother lover associate wolf in a coin flip! Well, actually, we tied, funny story there, but that’s not the point! As a result I’ve been living in his realm for the past few weeks month? past while, I don’t know how much time has passed. This wolf has been keeping me here with nothing to do the whole time and I’ve been trying to find a way to contact you or someone else to get me out of here! If there is any way you could come and pick me up, maybe let me live in your realm rest and figure out what do next, I’d really appreciate it. Oh, we also have a vow we both made to accept the outcome, so that may be a little tricky to deal with. Any chance you can nullify that for us? Also also, sorry for reading your mail, I know this stuff tends to be private but the letter just kind of appeared and I didn’t know it was for him so I just read it, so I hope  that’s

…

Ink is starting to pool around the point of your quill.

This, you can’t send this. And not just because of all the ink splotches and crossed out words. You assumed, compared to Lobo, any other deity would be much friendlier towards you (aside those other wrestling/exercise deities, though you doubt this one is either). The way L’s letter is written gives that impression, if only slightly.

But you have no idea who this person is on the other end of the flower. If Lobo kept this (or was forced to keep it), are they friendly or familial? Merciful to mortals or no? More powerful than the Death god himself?

How would they feel about you reading a letter clearly intended only for Lobo’s eyes? Would they still listen to your plea? Would they go behind your back and report this to the wolf himself? Or would they take matters into their own hands?

Best case scenario? Even after reading all of this, L lets you come along to their realm and it’s some sort of paradise, whatever the people down below mistake for “the good place.” Artisanal food, the perfect temperature every day, and unlimited art supplies for you to create whatever you want.

And the worst case scenario? Well, the Vow that you and Lobo made only said that you two had to accept the outcome. The person on the other end has no obligation to do so.
And the moment they arrive to pick you up, a gaping maw could be waiting just for you.

A cold flash rips through your body from the thought and breaks you out of your thought spiral. Yeah, this may not be the best first impression to give. You crumble the paper between your hands and stuff it in your skirt’s waistband, then tear out another page.

Alright, fine, what now? Yes, getting the worst case scenario would be really bad. But how else are you supposed to gauge what they’re like? It’s not like you can just ask them ‘hi there what’s your stance on humanity and mortals who threw away their lives, but maybe not because they could have been destined to fail from the very start?’

“I mean. I could. Though probably only once.”

Tap tap tap tapping the quill against the table, fingers coursing through your hair to brush them off your face. More and more time is passing, staring at L’s letter, wracking your brain for potential covers. Making L wait. She still thinks you’re Lobo and with how fast she responded, you’re scared she might think something’s going on. You need to write something now.

There’s the option of writing to her as Lobo, of course, but there’s a problem with that. You’ve seen while watching him inscribe the Sealed Fates, his handwriting looks fairly formal. But the scribbles in your diary entries are giant and, well, Scribbles. You have no idea how he actually writes day to day, if either of these are his standard. It’s kind of like when you talk to each customer in the tavern differently, and rarely ever in your own voice. You’d need something to base the writing off of, and it’s not like he has a–

…

You flip to the first page of the diary. Those two lines from Lobo are still at the very center of the page, written much more loose than the Fates and way more casual than the scribbles in your entries.

“Mi hermana piensa que este ayudaráme a ‘procesar mis sentimientos.’ Yo pienso que este es un pérdida del tiempo.”

“…yeah that works.”

You put the quill to card and start forging, looking back at Lobo’s handwriting every few seconds as reference. There is, of course, that knotted feeling in your gut for potential ‘what ifs.’ If Lobo finds out about this then there will be hell to pay, no doubt. But that fear is balanced out by each passing second, the prospect of letting this chance to escape slip through your fingers, staying here for another eternity in this emptiness.

Lobo wanted you gone anyways, right? This would be a win-win for the both of you.

The quill rattles as it’s tossed against the table. Your handwriting isn’t exactly like his, but it appears close enough. If L mistook you for the wolf when watering the flower, they probably wouldn’t notice a few handwriting differences. Right?

Greetings, L.

No, I haven’t lost a game against a mortal. In fact, as of late barely anyone has stepped up to challenge me. It’s just the same routine; the crying, the color draining from faces, the pleading for another chance. Over and over and over again. The fear is exquisite, don’t get me wrong. I’m just hoping a particularly skilled challenger comes along soon, mix up the routine and make my day more interesting.

I’ve still been keeping myself entertained with my ‘grocery shopping,’ though. A few nights ago I had an absolutely delightful evening with some Filet Mignon, extra juicy. The struggle that he put up, while not too difficult, was pretty fun to watch. Would you like to hear the details?

-Lobo

It took a try or two, but this is probably the best that you’re going to get. As much as you want to do invite her over right away, you need information first. If L is annoyed by “Lobo’s“ offer for torture stories, then they’re probably safe to invite over. You can reveal yourself then, and hitch a ride on out.

Thankfully, sending the note back is as simple as you expected. Place the card on the top of the flower and then, fwip! It vanishes into specks of blue light. The same ones that appeared when you watered it.

Deep breath in, hoooooooo. That’s probably the best you’re going to be able to do for now, not much else here that could give you a good impression on what to say. All you need to do now is wait for a response. Judging by how quickly L responded the first time, it shouldn’t take too long. Any second now.

…

…

Aaaaaaaany second now.

…

…

…

…

…

Maybe you should get a chair.

You’ve spent about 30 minutes waiting for L to send another card.

You’re resting your head against the flowerpot’s counter, cushioning your head with your arms. All the stress you’ve been experiencing lately has been draining your energy, so you were in the process of taking a small nap. Of course, that led to you thinking whether to call it sleeping or meditation, debating which fit more than the other. And soon after pondering why so many people who do meditation preach for “clear and empty minds” when minds are literally made for thinking and wouldn’t it be much more effort to stop thinking than to let it wander? But then that would lead to–

Thwip!

Oh hey they responded.

Same type of card as before, blue hydrangea on front with gold trip. You pluck it from the top and flick it open, wiping the place where gunk would exist around your eyes.

You blink. And you wipe them again.

“Oh no.”

Seriously, Lobo? You’re talking to me with the act now, too?

No, I don’t want to hear about whatever torture methods you came up with. I am well aware of your stance about mortals, and I told you that I will respect it. You have a valid reason to be angry about everything. But now you’re using this ‘judge of darkness’ act on me too? After everything we’ve been through? Did I do something wrong?

You know I love you, Lobo. I told you that if you ever wanted to talk then I’d be there. You asked for space and I gave it to you. But if this is how our conversations are going to be from now on, if this is how uncomfortable I make you now, then maybe it really would be better for us to stop talking. I don’t want you to feel forced talk with me if this is how things will be from now on.

If you want your isolation so much, then just say the word.

-L

You grip your skirt, digging your thumbnail into the embroidered cat’s whiskers.

This is bad. Really, really bad.

‘An act? Why would L call this an act Lobo basically talks like this all the time!’

You don’t know, but it still seems like the letter royally pissed them off.

‘I thought that he talks like this to everyone! How was I supposed to know?!’

Well, it said ‘with love’ on the first letter, maybe that was a sign there.

‘Yeah, but that could be anything! Friends? Lovers? Family? All I have to go off of is this stupid card and blue flower, what else am I–’

Wait. Hold on.

Blue flowers.

You lean into the living room and peer up at the bookshelf.

Sitting on top, with the flowers on the front, is the blue self help book.

“Mi hermana…”

“Please remember, no matter what, I’ll always love you.“

‘Oh, Fuilana, girl… You fucked up big time.’

You force your eyes away and walk back to the table. Rubbing the cat’s whiskers isn’t easing the vice grip around your stomach, so you course a free hand through your hair, tugging on on the tangled clumps. Your head is starting to buzz.

‘It’s okay, I can fix this. I can fix this. I know that L is Lobo’s sister now, so I can course correct.’

But course correct how? You still don’t know anything about her, aside from her giving Lobo the self help book and her getting upset at your act.

‘I can use that! I can tell her that I’ve been– I mean, Lobo has been journaling. Using the self-help tips.’

Would she even believe that though? He only wrote two lines on his own.

‘Maybe?? I mean, what else am I supposed to say? There’s no way I can just tell her that I was impersonating her brother, ESPECIALLY after what I just sent!’

You stride back to the table before you start chewing on your own hair, tossing L’s ultimatum on the table. The quill’s feather flutters as you grasp it and tear the journal open to more blank pages

‘Okay, L took some time with that last letter, so I can too. I can write out a few different drafts, figuring out what Lobo can say. Maybe even cross reference the stuff he wrote in the self-help book and my journal, find the most casual or informal things he’s said. If I do that maybe I can figure out what exactly I should say to calm her down so she can come over and help get me out of here, I can’t fuck this up now–’

“No, stop.”

The quill hovers just above the page, a few ink drops slipping down the metal tip. Little indents from the grip press into your fingers as you hold it back.

“Stop, Lana.” You mutter. “We can’t do this again.”

‘Doing what? Spiraling? I do this all the time, WE do this all the time. But right now we don’t have the time at all–!’

“We’re doing what Lobo said we do.” You glance at L’s letter, lying face down on the grey and dusty table. “Doing stupid shit that’s hurting others.”

‘Girl we are already in too deep we need to dig ourselves out. Confessing does none of that, that just buries us. Game over, close the curtains!’

“Even still, this?” Crumpled paper digs against your hip. “We’re treating her like a gamble, a game where if we say the right words then we get to leave. But she’s really hurt by what we did. And we’re still focused on ourselves right now.”

‘.....’

You look down and shake your head. “We can’t keep doing this man.”

‘Alright. Alright.’ You can feel the buzz calming down. ‘Fine. But what do we do then?’

Yeah, even if you want to do make up for what you did, you still don’t want to confess quite yet. You don’t wanna get devoured.

Both eyes peek up. The quill still hangs in the air, ink still dripping down.

You pull it across the table and sit down. “How about this.”

Lo siento, mi hermana. I just Things have been stressful for me as of late. A lot has been on my mind. I never meant to offend you.

How

Blank space covers half the card.

are

The quill’s feather brushes your cheek.

you?

Your face is stretched into a wince dotting that question mark.

‘This doesn’t inspire much confidence either, you know.’

“Better than what we were doing before.”

Another long, dreary walk across the “kitchen” towards the flowerpot later, you lift your hand up and (after snapping yourself out of a ten minute flurry of what-ifs) you toss the card onto the plant and watch it Thwip away, before you can get a chance to talk yourself out of it.

“Welp.” Something between an and a laugh escapes your mouth. “No backing out now.”

‘…did we leave that large inkblot on the page?’

“Shut it.”

You’re not sure how long it takes for the second letter to arrive. If you had to guess, maybe somewhere between… twenty minutes and an hour.

After the first minutes of waiting, staring at the plant and waiting for a response, time both slipped through your fingers and dragged on second by second. Any time you tried to draw something in your journal, write, or even so much as leave the room, some worm in your brain tells you ‘Hey maybe that was the letter!’ And soon enough you’re back on the chair waiting for the other boot to drop. Most you were able to manage was to bring all of your materials from the dining table to where you’re sitting.

Maybe this is why you never sent many letters back home. This agonizing wait, second by second, was stretched out across weeks or even months. There were magical alternatives for transport and mail, but those came with a hefty cost. But no matter which option you picked, it would still be the equivalent of waiting for a bomb in the mailbox. Waiting months on end to read their sorrow at your slow, steady decline of the tavern. You couldn’t stand the anticipation for something like that.

‘Still. Maybe that would have been better compared to what I got now.’ Fabric brushes against your raised knees, sharing space with you on the dining chair. ‘Maybe an honest letter from Mom and Dad was what I really needed back then.’

Thwip!

Your body hops in the chair like scared little dog. Card’s here.

Same design as the rest, but reaching forward you can’t help but feel the gravity this one has. If you’ve committed the fuck-up beyond fuck-ups or salvaged this into a relationship you can try forming.

Paper is the exact same, yet the lines across the edge feel sharper and rough against your skin. The air in your stomach feels filled with mortar. Or is that the worm talking? Doesn’t make much a difference at this point, you suppose.

‘Just one flip. Just one flip, and we’ll see where things go from there.’

You clench your teeth tight, then flip the top up with your thumb.

I’ve been well enough, I suppose.

I apologize for snapping at you, Lobo. Even if your letter shook me, you were still the one who went through the effort of contacting first. Of all the people who get faulty first impressions of you, I should have been the last. Please forgive me.

I don’t know what has been stressing you recently–you needn’t share if you don’t want to–but I can feel a portion of that myself. Designing the banquet hall has been fairly overwhelming, as you had expected. That, combined with some trouble I’m having with my artisans, I’ve had quite a few things on my proverbial plate.

But that’s enough of me wasting ink on my problems. How have you been, brother? Is there anything you want? I realize that I never truly asked in the first place so I wanted to check just in case.

-L

Air explodes from your lungs as you lean back in the chair. Crisis averted.

“Alright. Cool.” You brush a few stray hairs away from your face as the stress drains from your body. “Going forward, let’s try to piss off gods less often.”

You lean back up and take another look at the card. Now that you have time to breathe and read this properly, the final lines catch your eye. L asking if you want seems like the perfect opportunity to invite her over. Once she’s here, you can properly apologize and then have a talk. Based on her reaction to the first letter she seems at least more sympathetic to mortals.

‘Then again, that might be a little too soon.’ You lean your cheek against your knuckles. ‘You just calmed her down after all.’

Besides, there are other things that pique your interest a bit. What’s the “banquet hall” she mentioned? Is there some sort party that she’s hosting? Would she be a party god then? Probably not, since she seems way too low energy for something like that, but it’s still an interesting thought.

Also, “artisans?” Is that the word she uses for her followers or workers? Is L an art god? Oh you really hope this is an art god you’re talking with. Though hopefully the beings of a higher plane support unions, or things could get nasty pretty quickly.

May as well go along with this. Just gotta be careful with how you phrase things.

I don’t have anything I need right now, and my own woes can be saved for another time. About the banquet hall, have any of your designs been sticking? Stuck between designs for the tablecloths? Have you considered a deep crimson?

-Lobo

Thwip! Another letter sent off.

“Hm. I wonder if they’d serve fries at a godly banquet.”

About twelve minutes later, as you’re in the middle of imagining yourself in a fancy ball gown (and chuckling at the idea of Lobo stuffing his fur into a three piece suit), another Thwip arrives.

Of course you’d suggest that specific color. While the idea of a blood moon banquet does still sound nice (and, might I say, quite appealing right now), I’m not sure if everyone else would enjoy that as much.

Turns out you were right about the ‘aesthetic sections’ idea I proposed. The meeting itself went much smoother this time, far less arguing, just as I hoped. But trying to put all of these ideas together, figuring out what order to have them in? It’s a nightmare. I could put up scent barriers to separate the paprika and sea foam, sure, but that won’t stop the assault on the senses as they walk through the room.

I know you’re probably shaking your head and saying “I told you so,” but you know how much I hate the arguing during the design vote. My proposal cut down a whole two weeks of debate! But now I have to solve the universe’s most elaborate puzzle with six people breathing down my neck.

At this point, I’m tempted to leave the design as it is and live through it.

Oh jeez, even without seeing what L’s working with you just felt your fight-or-flight response kicking in.

You’ve done the odd art commission here or there during your time as a waitress, and most of them went well. But there was always that one person who kept on asking for revisions, over and over, even after you fully colored a page and used up nearly an entire eraser. That multiplied by six, and all of them being gods? You certainly don’t envy L right now.

Still, even if it was suggested as a joke, the idea of a “blood moon banquet” sounds pretty cool. Dark red tablecloths, black and red suits and ballgowns, bathed in a red glow. Drinking… red drink. Maybe some piano or violin playing in the background. Even if it’s a little on the edgy side to your tastes, it still sounds like a pretty fun time. Maybe throw on a masquerade mask too for the hell of it.

But wait. L said it ‘Still sounds like a good idea.’ Does. Does that mean Lobo suggested this theme before–

Creeaak, Click!

The front door.

You L’s cards from the counter and CRAM them into the back of your journal, shoving the edges away from sight as the thumps grow closer. Right as they begin to round the corner, you flip the dog-eared page open to your most recent doodles.

Lobo stops at the entrance to the kitchen.

“…what are you doing now, Lana?” Lobo asks. There’s a hefty bit of annoyance and exhaustion in his voice.

A tiny prep breath out. You turn as casually as you can with an elbow on the back of the chair. “Hm? Just drawing.”

“Drawing.” His voice and eyes are flat, one paw against the wall.

You lift up the journal (squeezing the bottom tight so the cards don’t slip out), revealing the sketches of different flowers. The hydrangea is in progress.

Lobo blinks, only sparing your art a few moment’s glance. Then he just sneers, shakes his head, mumbles something along the lines of “just don’t bother…” and then turns away. Just like he always has, his steps upstairs follow a slow but weighty rhythm. Time for inscribing duty.

You exhale as quietly as you can. Ever since that argument, you and Lobo have wanted nothing to do with each other. Even if he did hear your scrambling earlier, he doesn’t want to even bother.

…Lobo in a dark crimson suit, huh?

“Heh, dork.”

Placing the journal back on the counter, you get to writing your response as Lobo begins scribbling in his scrolls.

As much as I do want to say ‘I told you so,’ I feel you’ve already felt enough of that yourself.

Look. Even if everyone already agreed on the ‘divvied up’ plan, you’re still the one in charge of actually making the layout. You shouldn’t let esos idiotas pressure you into making something you don’t want. Just pick a design you actually enjoy so you can stop needlessly stressing over this.

If they complain about you changing it last minute? Well, they can do what they want when its their turn.

A little harsh, yes, but with how L expects him to respond you feel this fits how he’d talk. You place it on the flower and Thwip it away.

Upstairs there’s a beat of silence. With no other sound in this realm, it’s easy to tell when he stops writing. But after three or four seconds, the quill scratching continues.

You should probably be a bit more careful.

About ten minutes later, you begin to wonder if L is also sitting at the flower, waiting for your response. There’s yet another Thwip, but you took the time to stretch while that was happening, so the sound of wood creaking hopefully covered the noise.

It’s nice to see that you haven’t changed your style of advice, Lobo. I can trust you to always give it to me straight.

While you make a good point, I’ve already put about a dozen months into piecing this together, so I don’t want to give it up quite yet. But I’ll keep your words in mind.

If I may ask, though, what’s the occasion to you wanting to talk? It’s rare for you to reach out for anything other than business, even to me. Besides, I’ve talked about my own woes plenty now, and yours are just as important.

Mmm. That’s something you haven’t really thought of.

L mentioned that she “gave Lobo space” for something. The banquet too; the way L describes the meeting and how it went down, it doesn’t seem like her brother went to it. Does that mean all of this is self-inflicted?

Lobo said that his sister only visits once in a millennia (though you doubt how much of that is true or just to scare), and you’ve seen little evidence of other gods here. The flower and the book are from L which he still keeps around, but nothing else is here (if there is, he’s good at hiding it from you). And all across the realm, there’s that same professional distance. All function, no form.

This very well could just be you. But after living here for three or four weeks, with only the God of Death as company, it’s hard to imagine anyone living happy here by themselves.

Upstairs, the sound of inscribing scrolls marches on.

…you scoot the chair close and begin writing.

'Your guess is as good as mine. If you’re forcing my hand, I suppose I missed talking to you.

The solitude here felt nice for a while, and I appreciated you giving me space. But you can only read the same self-help book so many times before you get tired of it. I don’t think my self-isolation is doing myself any favors now.

You focus on the paper, the empty space for the next line.

How did you feel when I decided to be alone?'

You send the letter away. Above, the wolf continues to work.

She responds after about fifteen minutes.

I was, hurt. I won’t mince words there. But not that I was offended by your choice. Even now I still respect it. A part of me was scared that I was to blame, that something I said was the nail in the coffin for you suddenly deciding to leave. That, until the point you asked, you were merely tolerating me.

But mostly, I was scared for you. That you didn’t remember, didn’t realize that I still love you. Even now. Maybe I said it too much? I don’t know. But you’re still family to me, Lobo. You always have been.

I love you, Lobo. I’m sorry if I did something that made you forget that.

…

I’m sorry too.

Thwip!

 

It’s okay. I can tell we’ve both been through a lot. You don’t have to say more if you don’t want to.

If you ever want to talk, I’m only one flower away.

You sit with both of your legs on the chair, knees against your chest. Staring at the card for a long, long while. Thinking about… well, about a lot of things. Mostly the same pit of things inside your gut, but also the one in front of you.

“…this has gone on long enough.” You sigh, and put the quill to the paper.

Listen, L. I’m really sorry about what I said. When you get the chance, can you come by here so we can talk? There are some things I need to say in perso

A clawed paw lifts the quill out of your hands.

.......

The weight of his presence is suffocating.

.......

“What have you been saying to her?”

You lunge forward towards the flower with card in hand–

SLAM

“GHAHK!!”

A paw crashes into your back and crushes your chest against the counter, the other strangles the wrist with the card. Your journal is blown to the side from the impact, along with the air from your crumpled lungs.

In the haze of pain you can feel a shift along your back, a change from a hand to a knee. Then the wolf yanks your wrist up. He’s reaching for the letter.

‘Please let this work!’

Squeezing your eyes shut, you flick the card out of your grasp, in what you hope is the general direction of the flower. Immediately after, you shove your free arm up to block the paw reaching.

Lobo catches on in an instant, releasing your hand and grasping for the card with both paws, grinding your chest deeper into the wood. You can feel fur brush against both arms. Then,

Thwip!

Lobo’s body halts, arms suspended in midair. His body weighing down onto you, embedding wood into your chest. The deed is done. No matter how fast he is, nobody can unsend a letter.

The growls begin, a jackhammer to your shoulder blades. Both of your arms are free, but your crushed wrist isn’t helping much with pushing yourself away. Of course, soon enough you don’t need to worry about that issue. Because a claw digs through the cloth around your chest, turns you around, and–

S L A M

“HhrUk!”

Welp, there goes your back too. Both of his paws strangle your forearms, keeping them locked in place, shoving you against the counter.

You peek open your eyes, and– oh look, through the fuzziness in your eyes, it’s that familiar abyss of red and gnarled teeth. You feel at this point, after having at least four close encounters with this combo, it wouldn’t bother you anymore. Even being forced against a wall, restrained while snapping fangs dangle inches away, you’ve gone through the motions twice before.

But no. Something is absolutely different this time. The vibrating in his paws, you chalked that up to him shaking you, but he isn’t pulling up. They’re shaking on their own. And his eyes, staring into your own, are stretched open larger than you’ve seen them. Filled with… desperation?

He shoves your body harder against the counter and you grit your teeth to not cry out. For some reason, his claws start .

“What did you say to–”

The wolf stops again. While staring at you, something behind you caught his eye.

You watch as his expression shifts, gradually, into something else. His eyebrows raise. Snarled lips slacken. Teeth are unclenched.

He lets go of an arm and reaches behind you, pulling back with one of L’s notes. He brings it close, covering his face. As he reads further, his other hand slackens.

You know exactly which one he’s reading.

While he’s still in shock, you slip out from the side–but need to have a hand on the counter to stay steady. Even when you try to keep yourself completely straight, your chest and shoulder blades are gnarled from the impact and it hurts to even stand on your own. In this time you’re able to finally wring a breath past your throat, watching the wolf. He’s turned away from you. Staring at the paper.

“L-Lobo? Lobo, listen,” you sputter out, hand raised, “that was just one of the first card I got. Our conversation wasn’t all that.”

He doesn’t move. Reading his sister yelling at you, in his own name.

“She thought I was you, and I didn’t know how how she’d react to me being there so– so I just thought–”

He reads L’s grief over whether or not she was a good sister.

“The card I just sent was to explain what just happened, I invited her over so I can explain, and then I can leave!”

He reads L suggesting that maybe they shouldn’t talk anymore.

“I-- you wanted me gone, right? So did I, we both benefit from this! I can leave you alone, like you wanted!”

He reads it. Again, and again, and again. Completely unmoving.

You glance at the flowerpot. No response.

The wolf lowers his hand to his side. Gravity tugs the card out from his loose fingertips. It flutters face down to the floor. He keeps staring in the space in front of him.

The Grim Reaper is a statue. No breathing, no vibrating from a growl, no twitching of his fingers. Nothing. In all the times when you two argued previously, he always had a certain demeanor and air around him. Rage just a second ago, annoyance, disgust, even superiority.

But right now? You feel nothing coming from him. And that thought is horrifying.

“Lobo?” You step backwards.

.....

“Lobo, please.” You plead.

“I’m done.”

You grip the countertop. “W-what?”

The wolf lifts his chin upwards, breathing in along with its slow ascent. Then, a tired exhale outwards. His body is slack. You still can’t see his face.

“Second chance, after second chance, after second chance, after second chance.” His voice is hollow, verging on a whisper, as he stares up into nothingness. “I keep hoping you change. Keep hoping you learn. But you never do.”

Something catches in your throat. You take another step back.

“I’m done. I’ve had enough of hoping that things will get better. That it’ll change. You’ll change. But nothing will.” His head shakes weakly. “Nothing will.”

His head rolls to the side. You can finally see his eyes. His wide, dull-red, hollow eyes. “And I’m tired of dealing with you.”

Lobo turns and steps towards you.

You want to see your mom again.

Your legs feel glued to the ground, locked in place as if they were caked in concrete. Each step back you make, Death makes two forward.

“You all label me the villain. Call me cruel, for enforcing the consequences of your actions.” He doesn’t care to blink or breathe anymore, pupils digging into your chest. “Call me sadistic, for returning pain given by the truly depraved.”

Something slips past your legs, misty and freezing cold. You look down, finding a black fog pouring outward from Death’s cloak. The same that whipped around you both as he brought you to this place for the first time.

“I’ve seen what you all are capable of. Every drop of blood spilled, every body ravaged by starvation, every last gurgled breath pleading for a loved one.” His head lulls forward, hanging overhead like a noose. “I’ve seen it all. And you cannot comprehend the horrors humanity has created.”

You keep struggling backwards, fighting against frozen legs and aching chest. Eventually the counter space runs out, and with nothing to support your escape, you fall backwards and lean against the dining table.

“You all call me a monster? The villain of this story?” Dark mist collects around the reaper’s right hand. “Do as you want. But if you wish to judge me as such?”

Death presses a paw against your chest, keeping you rooted where you stand. The other rises, the clouds following with it, towards you. Staring into it, you see nothing. Not his paw, not shadows, nothing. A vast emptiness so tangible, you could fall inside.

But as you crane your neck back, pushing against the pain and against the table, you can hear it. Oh so distant, but painfully clear in their echoes. The gurgled cries and tearing throats of the ravaged’s screams. Lobo’s empty stare sinks into yours.

“Allow me to show you what I have seen.”

chi-click

Crreeeaaaak

Both you and Death turn your heads to the right. Towards the entrance of the cabin. A light, snappy click came from the front door which you’ve never heard once since your time here in the void.

You watch, still leaning against the table and pushing yourself away from the vastness of the reaper’s hand, as the front door opens. The iron handle now a bronze knob, turning as the result of of a hand. A soft blue, furred hand.

The same color as L’s hydrangea.

Lobo’s pressure on your chest lightens.

Stepping through the door, draped in a light hazelnut smock smattered with dark brown splotches, enters a deer. Her fur is light, a few centimeters longer than the average doe, a few tiny globs of brown dotting her arms. She stands at a height about equal to Lobo’s, maybe a tiny bit taller, and a small circlet of ivy vines rests atop her head, mingling with tiny sprouts of antlers.

The deer blinks with her emerald eyes, observing the scene across the cabin with a hand against her chest, fingers curled. She looks at Lobo, his paw lowering and darkness beginning to dissipate. He’s just in shock as her.

Then she looks at you, leaning back across the table, far away from her brother’s hand. She sees the leftover terror lingering in your trembling breaths and wide eyes.

And she gasps, then gives the most radiant smile you have ever seen. That smile grows bigger, wider–no, wait. It’s not getting wider at all, it’s getting bigger! Getting closer–!!

You watch, gaping with partial horror, as L’s neck stretches across the room from the doorway, elongating until she finally reaches you, face to face. Still wearing that bubbly smile, and then says in the most eager and delighted tone you can imagine:

“So YOU’RE the one who was impersonating my brother!”

Chapter Text

“So YOU’RE the one who was impersonating my brother!”

You lay across Lobo’s table, arms trembling and breath shaking, as you stare at the blue furred deer. The darkness surrounding The Reaper’s paw is starting to dissipate, sinking down and washing across your torso. The screams of the damned fade along with it, but it still doesn’t get rid of the terror coursing through your body though.

She’s still standing there. Still staring as you shaking in terror. Smile on her face.

“…h-huh?” You squeak out, voice crack on full display.

“You know, I gotta say…” The rest of the deer’s body starts walking forward to catch up with her head, one hand (paw? did it have pawpads before?) on her hip and the other gesturing in the air. Her neck cranes around to get a better look at you as her neck retracts into the space between her shoulders. “I’ve been around to see a lot of different tricks played on a lot of different gods. But stealing my brother’s mail? And pretending to be him while talking to me?”

The last of her neck sinks back into its socket with a shump as she stands before you both. She raises a blue furred paw (hand? The pawpads are gone) up to her mouth and giggles a bit. “That’s definitely a new one. You got me good.”

“You’re here.” A whisper slips past The Grim Reaper’s lips. He’s staring at the deer with his mouth agape, eyes wide in, awe? Some sort of admiration? You’ve never seen him look at anything like this before. “You didn’t…”

“Hm? Didn’t what– oh my.” She turns to the wolf, somehow only now noticing the lingering fear in his eyes, then steps closer. Did she think that Lobo attempting to send you to hell was normal for him? (Deep down, you know the answer). “Lobo, I haven’t seen you this frazzled in eons. Did something happen?”

Lobo is too shocked to speak. He slowly turns his head to the scattered letters across the kitchen. She follows his gaze to the one on the floor, the one containing her initial rant and ultimatum.

After scanning the rest of the scene she spins her head (as if on a swivel) around back to you on the table. Lobo’s hands have just about retracted, but a wisp of darkness is still there. Her ears flatten back as she pieces the rest together.

“Ah. I take it you didn’t read the rest of it then?” The deer tilts her head gently towards the wolf.

Lobo looks back to the deer. He still hasn’t moved from his spot, as if doing so would cause her to vanish. She sighs and shakes her head, but smiles.

“Still as impulsive as ever.” The deer leans forward a tad and places a paw on Lobo’s forearm, giving it a light squeeze. “It’s nice to see you again too, hermanito.”

The wolf takes in the words, feeling the grip on his arm. Blinks.

And then promptly slumps into the nearby chair.

“Hhhhooooooooooggggghhhhh.” With those few words, a torrent of tension releases all at once. El Lobo heaves forward with a paw on the table, letting it all pour out in one long exhale. Likely one held before your great grandma was born. L just smiles and pats Lobo’s paw with her own, letting herself be there for him.

You can’t help but let yourself breathe a little bit along with him (after slipping far enough away of course). It’s only after a few breaths that it doesn’t hurt to do so, and by extension, you notice that you can actually stand again. The pain from being slammed against the counter is gone. There’s a twinge of pain that lingers, but by and large you’ve recovered. Is this Lobo’s doing, because of the darkness sweeping across your chest as the new guest came in?

Intentional or not, you’re definitely not looking this gift horse in the mouth. After sweeping off a few wood flecks, you step up close to the tall hydrangea blue deer

“Sooo…” You cough a bit to catch her attention. “You’re ‘L’, I’m assuming? Lobo’s sister?”

Her emerald eyes move to yours and she returns your question with a smile. Upon closer inspection she’s about as tall as Lobo, not counting her dusk blue antlers. Your eye level matches her shoulders so (similar to the wolf) you need to look up a bit to make eye contact. Though L sounds more cheerful than her counterpart, there’s a certain tiredness around her eyes not unlike yours.

But also, wow she looks fluffy. Her petal blue fur and hair (mane?) looks well taken care of and soft, especially in comparison to Lobo’s scruffiness. How many bottles of shampoo and conditioner would that take, how often does she bathe? Lobo should definitely take a hint from his sister.

“Yup, that’s me!” She holds out a hand and you watch in seconds the pawpads sink back into the blue fur, now resembling a human hand. Her arm is littered with little brown flecks. “Life is at your service.”

“Ah, yeah. I should’ve figured.” You nod and return her handshake (gentle squeeze and letting you control the movement) as nonchalant as possible. No time to think about how the hand you’re currently shaking likely formed the very body that you’ve spent over twenty years living in. Nope. You can save that bout of existentialism prodding at the back of your brain for later. “Ivy for antlers, Death’s sister, ‘mother’ nature, hydrangea for the card. L. Honestly I don’t know why I didn’t recognize it sooner.”

“Could it be because you were too focused on keeping your story straight?” Life narrows her eyes with a smirk.

You fight to keep your expression straight.

“They’re not just ‘Mother Nature.’” Lobo pipes up from the table, now sitting up with the usual annoyance he reserves for you. Back to usual, snarky, asshole self “And not just ‘Life’ either.”

The deer’s eyebrows tense with the corners of her mouth, and she and swivels her neck around to look at her brother (complete with a shwish). “Lobo, you don’t have to…”

“I’m just making sure you get the respect you deserve.”
“I already get plenty from my Artisans.”
“A lot of whom refuse to change their perception of you even after decades.”
“I said before, this is simpler to talk to people with.”
“You shouldn’t have to stop being yourself just for convenience sake.”
“Yeah well ‘La Escultora de Mil Manos’ doesn’t roll off the tongue as well so…”

Both siblings whisper-argue back and forth between each other (Life’s other arm reverses so she can gesture to him properly). The rhythm of their conversation is light and quick, ping-ponging the moment one is done talking. You can’t help but get the sense this conversation has happened a hundred times before.

“The Sculptor of a Thousand Hands…” You mutter the translation. Her brown stained smock is stocked with the various sculpting tools poking out of the pockets. There’s your answer to what all the flecks in her fur are. “So then, ‘Life?’ Yes, no?”

Both brother and sister seem to remember you exist and turn back (you’re very thankful there aren’t any cracking noises whenever Life changes like that). L lets go of your hand.

“Yes and no, technically.” She presses her fingertips together. “I am what a lot of people consider to be ‘Life’ and ‘Mother Nature,’ yes. When they think of those names, they think of me. Just like how people think of my brother when they hear ‘The Grim Reaper.’”

“Alright…” You cross your arms.

“Buuuut, I’m also known as,” she counts on her fingers, “Gaia, Artio, Hathor, Amaterasu, Panthoibi, Pan, Brigid, four of the Muses, Leshy, Rhok’zan, Freja, Brahma, Sylvain, Lugh…”

The goddess keeps counting, sprouting a finger for each name or title past the tenth until they all just become words. You recognize a few of the names but way too many of them go over your head and it’s hard to keep up. Around name twenty three you get more mesmerized at the sprouting fingers as her hands turn into blue boney flowers.

Somewhere after number thirty she seems to notice as well. Once she looks back at you and notices your fixation on her fingers, she flicks her wrists up and all of the extra fingers merge together, popopopping back into five. “And that is why I stick to Life.”

“But if you were all those different gods,” You tilt your head, “did all of those things actually happen or not?”

“There’s a bit of truth to everything. None of the people who follow those religions are wrong per-se. My brother is still Death and collects souls, as you know.” She gestures to her brother, who raises some fingers in response. “It’s just been a long time since those actual stories happened, and you can imagine how much little parts can change after thousands of translations and millions of years.”

“As I’ve said before, perrita. Mortals make up stories and overcomplicate things, implanting their own beliefs onto beings that already exist.” Lobo smirks. “Though mortals fearing Death and darkness is fairly universal, so that makes my job easier.”

‘Suppose that makes sense,’ you think as you cross your arms. It sounds frustrating to deal with, but it makes sense. Kind of like how patrons to Stubbs’ tavern refused to learn your name and just called you “waitress” or “señorita.” Still, the fact that a literal goddess has the same experiences as you, even down to signing her letters with just L, it feels strangely disheartening.

“…hey wait a minute, the letters!” You point a finger to the God of Creation. “You said you knew it was me sending those notes? The whole time?”

“I mean, it was kind of obvious…” She looks away from you both and presses her hooves together. Neck sinking into her shoulders.

“You were trying to deceive my sister, a being who created the land you mortals all walk on.” Lobo crosses his arms, chin held high. “Of course he would–”

“…after the fifth letter.”

“What.”

“I had my suspicions here and there,” she explains “but I thought it was just Lobo being Lobo. The fifth one kind of gave it away though, you seemed like you had some personal stuff going on there.”

You count on your fingers, third, fourth. Right, the fifth one was you asking how Life felt about her brother leaving. Yeah you did just kinda get a little personal with that, huh?

“How did you not realize it wasn’t me for five whole letters?!” Lobo leans forward, clearly offended.

“The banquet is in a few months and I’m still getting requests to have sections changed, I have a lot going on too hermano!” She turns to defend herself

“How about the fact that I wasn’t using my own cards, but scraps of paper messily torn off and folded?” Lobo flicks his fingers up and materializes his own card. It’s black with blood red outlines and his two signature sickles on the front and… wait, are those little Lobos in the corners? Oh gods that’s adorable.

“I-I didn’t know if you were workshopping the design or not! Don’t you still have those markings on your sickles?”

“Even still Vida,” he flicks the card back into mist, “you know that I don’t talk to you with ‘the act’ as you call it. Why would I suddenly start doing it now?”

“’Suddenly?’” The deer looks incredulously at her brother. “Lobo, it’s been millennia since we last talked outside of anything involving our work. How was I supposed to know how you acted now?”

The wolf raises a finger ready to retort, but after a beat of silence he moves back into his chair and looks away. He still looks angry, but he’s digging his claws into his poncho instead of onto the table now.

Life breathes out a small huff and extends her neck back to normal, turning back to you and away from Lobo. Judging by how tightly she folds her hands together, she doesn’t seem too happy for winning that argument either.

"You asked for your space and I gave it to you."

"I was hurt, I won’t mince words there."

On a normal day you’d ask for more details, but even you can see that you should back off. If Lobo simply asking his sister how she felt was enough of a surprise to give you away, there’s likely a lot more going on here than you know. Best not to poke the bear here.

“So if you knew it was me, then why did you keep acting like you didn’t?” You ask. “You still called me Lobo after figuring it out, on the last card you sent me.”

“You’re right, I did know there was someone else on the other end.” Life places a tired smile back on her face. “I went along with it to try and get a sense for who you were, what you wanted. Danger or not, it still would be a breach of privacy to barge into my brother’s home uninvited.”

Lobo exhales.

“I was still cautious of course. As I said, many mortals have played tricks on gods to get what they want, including me. But not many of those mortals took the time to ask how my day was. Or crack jokes with me.” She flicks her fingers up, materializing one of your cards. “Or be one of the few people who actually listens when I vent.”

“I mean, you sounded like you were going through some stuff too.” You shrug. “From one artist to another? I know how rough commissions can be.”

“The point still stands.” Life flicks the card away then holds her arms below her chest. “I don’t appreciate the deception, don’t get me wrong. But I had a feeling that you weren’t as bad as I first thought. I appreciate your consideration, Miss…?”

“Fuilana Cortez. Just Lana is good though.” You smile back, stretching both elbows up and letting yourself relax a bit.

“Lana it is then. A pleasure.” She does a curtsy without a skirt. You chuckle. Dork.

Man, with Lobo as your only company you’ve nearly forgotten what a normal conversation felt like. Life has this aura about her (not a literal one) that puts you at ease, one where you don’t need to worry about sarcasm or judgement. Like she wouldn’t mind listening to you talk for an hour on the history of magic in art and how they influence one another.

Maybe that ‘godly couch surfing’ plan can work out after all.

“Now then.” She nods. “Now that I’m here and can see your face, I suppose it would be more efficient for both of us to know who I’m talking with. If I may…”

Life lifts up a hand in the air and snaps her fingers. But nothing seems to happen. The goddess raises an eyebrow, as confused as you are, and snaps a few more times to no effect.

“Lobo, did you not write a scroll for this one yet?” She turns to ask.

The Grim Reaper has stepped away and is in the process of cleaning up the aftermath of your scuffle. Picking up letters and the journal off the floor and placing them on the counter.

“I haven’t gotten around to it yet, no.” He says, turned away and stacking the letters in a pile. With a free hand towards the damaged counter, he channels some dark energy into the cracks, filling them back up. You can’t see his face from this angle, but his voice sounds neutral. No traces of the usual snark he carries.

Hmm.

“Oh, did you just collect her then?” His sister asks, turning back to you with an impressed nod. “You must be quite the sneaky one to slip by while he wasn’t looking. Not many mortals are able to slip one by my brother.”

“No, that’s not–”

“She’s been a real pain to deal with, that’s for sure.” Lobo cuts you off with quite a bit of insistence. You still can’t see his face. “But hopefully she’ll be leaving soon.”

“I suppose this must be a lot for you to process then, huh?” The deer continues, leaning forward with hooves behind her back. “Having just died and met Life and Death themselves. I can understand your panic, even if I still don’t appreciate the impersonation.”

“Wait, no that’s wrong I didn’t just–”

Past the deer’s blue fur, a blood red glare is shot your way. You immediately slam your mouth shut out of self-preservation, the fear from a few minutes ago still fresh in your mind.

Life catches wind quickly, following your sudden petrified gaze back to her brother. He’s back to cleaning up, sweeping wood chips off the counter into his paw.

The goddess turns back to you, suspicion sneaking onto her face. As soon as she looks away, Lobo raises up a single clawed finger. Shush.

“........I’VE BEEN LIVING HERE WITH–”

SLAP

“Shut it!!” A grey paw slaps against your mouth, the gust from Lobo’s movement only now waving your skirt.

“Mmbh, mmgrph–!” You dig your fingers into the gaps between his fingers. “’V BNN KMMPNG MM ‘RRE!!”

“I have been doing NO such thing!” His other arm grapples you back.

“’VV BRR!! Rghh, schrllp!”

“Bah–did you just lick my paw?!” Lobo pulls said paw back in disgust.

“I beat him in a game and he’s been absolutely– blehk!” You raise up a hand towards Life, then are immediately blindsided by the same spit-covered paw slapping back against your face.

“You act like a child, you get treated like a child!”

You continue struggling valiantly against your captor, trying to wriggle free and kick in the air and yank his fur while yelling as much of the story as possible to his sister. He’s a strong opponent, but strength is no match for the power of wiggles!

Life, with giant eyes, watches in awe as her brother is about to put the helpless mortal into a headlock. Right as you’re rearing up to start including teeth, she grabs two of her flat tools and splits you both apart.

“Both of you behave yourselves!” Life presses a spatula against her brother’s chest. “You especially hermano, what’s gotten into you? Even with all the mortals you’ve dealt with, I’ve never seen you act like this before.”

“Vida, if you have been forced to deal with this nuisance as long as I have” he snarls in your direction, “you would know that that’s the least I can do!”

“Hold on. ’As long as I have?’ You mean you didn’t just collect her?” She presses further.

Lobo tightens his jaw, realizing his mistake.

“Hm. Alright then.” The deer sheaths her sculpting supplies and turns back to you, squatting down to meet eye to eye. There’s a certain look on her face, like she’s searching for a specific answer. “Fuilana, is what you said true?”

You finish wiping away the mess on your face with your sleeves. “Yeah. And he’s a terrible host too. Blugh, I gotta wash my face with something.”

“Lana, look at me.” Life’s eyes stare into you, suddenly looking quite inquisitive. “You’ve been living here with my brother? As in, ‘sleeping on those chairs over there’ living? My brother knew you were here the whole time?”

“Um, yeah.” You state. “I’ve been living here for about three weeks, though it’s hard to keep track. I challenged him to a game–”
“Coin flip.”
“–but we had a tie, so as a result of contract weirdness–”
“Which you invoked.”
“–I’ve been staying here.”

“And, just to clarify,” Life points both of her index fingers down at the ground, “my brother brought you here. To his realm. That was a choice that he made?”

“Um, yeah? This place sucks, but it made sense why he brought me here.” You roll your sleeves back up. “Heads was life, tails was death, so the in-between is like purgatory. He had to, right?”

Lobo steps away into the kitchen preemptively and sucks in a breath. Not staying to watch as his sister’s fur bristles. Her eyes sparkle and, slowly turning to his brother…

“Gaaaaaaasssp!” Whatever answer Life was looking for, that seemed to be it.

One moment she’s tapping your shoulders in excitement, and the next she’s right behind her brother bouncing up and down with kangaroo legs.

“You have one of your own now!”

“It wasn’t voluntary.”

“You could’ve sent her to one of us!” She steps in front.

“You know my relationship with them.” He turns away, flicking his hood up.

“After all this time scolding us about the ‘natural order’!” She hops around with both paws flapping in front.

“And it still does.” He starts walking away.

“But now you have her!!” She can’t help but let loose a giggle. “Did you, hehehe, did you come up with a name for yours yet? The Reapers, perhaps~?”

“Hermana I swear on myself.”

“Don’t act like you haven’t thought about it! Come on, Little Flames?”
“No.”
“Remnants?”
“No.”
“Disciples of the Night~?”
“I’m not picking a name because I hate the concept.”
“Well if you’re so certain, maybe I could get some help and call over D–”

“Do. Not.” Lobo whips around and shoves a finger in Life’s face. He bares his teeth against her giggling, but soon after squeezes his eyes shut with a sigh.

“....please don’t tell them.”

And then Life’s nose becomes an elephant truck.

“PPPHRRPHPRHPRRRHeeeheeheeheee!!!” Life doubles over, desperately clutching her smock as she giggles and wheezes in hysterical laughter. She snorts, and the trunk turns into a dolphin snout. Snrrk, her fur becomes scales. Snnk, she sprouts a monkey tail. It isn’t long before mismatched legs cause her to lose balance and she flops onto the floor, holding tight to her stomach as she devolves into a mess.

“Ehehehe– snRRK– hheehehehe– snRk– eehahahaaha– snrK– ahha– snrK– ahah– sNNK– aheheheheheheeee– sNRRK–”

Despite the initial surprise (and how unsettling this is to watch in motion), Life’s giggling is infectious. It’s pure and bubbly and the type of laugh that many people back in your realm would work to suppress out of fear of being judged. Before you know it, you’re giggling a bit alongside her with a hand to your mouth.

Lobo isn’t taking this so well. He watches as his sister, now with an otter tail and capybara snout, slowly shrinks and her giggles rise in pitch. It looks like he’s really making an effort to look mad, but his paws wringing a clump of his poncho doesn’t help his case. He spots you laughing in his direction, and he pulls his hood down further.

“Heeehehehee, ehahahaa, haaahaha, hooooooh, oh mi estomago…” Life sucks in and out long breaths, concentrating on reverting back to something consistent. The bumps smooth out into feathers, her eye shape matches again and she regains the shape of a little round bird. The little ivy circlet and smock have shrunk to match her size, along with the brown flecks in her wings. “Lo siento, lo siento. I’m sorry, this is too perfect.”

“What is, exactly?” You ask, a smile still creeping your cheeks upwards. “I get the feeling I’m missing some context here.”

“Oh Lana, you have no idea.” Life flutters up and rests on your shoulder, waving her little wings. “This is something that Lobo has been getting angry about for as long as we’ve existed!”

“But it doesn’t count because I didn’t ask for this.” Lobo grumbles into his poncho.

“Doesn’t matter Lobo! Like it or not,” she crosses her wings right back with a confident smile, “you have a Mortem now, just like the rest of us!”

“A Mortem?” You offer your hand to the little bird so you don’t have to crane your neck so much.

“Lana, you’ve lived with my brother for a bit, so I assume you’re familiar with the life cycle at this point, right?” She hops onto your fingers. “A living being dies, they get reincarnated into something new, etcetera etcetera?”

“Or your brother eats them.” The soul apple taste comes back to haunt your mouth.

“Or that, yes.” For that response there’s a twinge of disappointment as if she just remembered that was an option. “But that’s not all. Since mortals came into existence, we’ve thought ‘you know? Their lives are so short compared to ours, it’s almost a shame to let them die and reincarnate so quickly, having their skills and progress be reset.’ So, why not give them more time with what they have?”

“Ooh, so that’s where afterlives come from.” You plant a hand on your hip. Religion was never something you were super into, but imagining an afterlife where you could sleep eight hours and feel well rested sounded nice. “There aren’t any, you know, side effects to that sort of thing, right?”

“Nope! We’ve been picking up Mortems for a long while. There hasn’t been any signs of their next incarnation’s soul experiencing any wear or tear.”

“Alright, that’s good.” Couch surfing is still a go. “But if this is such a widespread idea and it doesn’t really hurt anyone, why does Lobo think it’s bad?”

“Because mortals should stop wasting their lives on problems they caused themselves.” Lobo pipes up. Both of you turn your gaze towards the wolf, crossing his arms while leaning against the wall. “So many of them obsess over their trivial hangups and pipe dreams that they rarely look at what’s in front of them.” He frowns and shuts his eyes. “They were given their time and they chose to waste it.”

…ah. You see.

“Mortals have infinite opportunities to change, but never do. So instead of whining about not having enough time, they should’ve just did it and stop wasting everyone else’s. And if they don’t, they should save it for the reincarnation cycle. As things are intended to be.”

You look back to Life, who’s glancing at you with a playful grin. “We’ve been dealing with that for millennia.”

“Yeah okay this is pretty good.” You cover your mouth with your other hand, peeking back at the wolf. “That scared of the others laughing at you too, wolfie~?”

“I don’t owe you a response to that.”

“Hey, there’s no shame in not wanting your feelings hurt, Mr. Tall, Dusty and… hey, hey wait a minute!”

Realization slaps you across the face. You stomp up to Lobo (Life flying off your hand) and lean in with a hand on the table. “If the other gods do this too, then ALL of their realms are ‘between life and death!’ You could’ve sent me to one of the others’ realms from the start!”

Lobo throws you a side-eye, unbothered and unconcerned by your (very justified) frustration. “And why would I have ever wanted that?”

“Uuuuugggghhhhh, I can’t believe this…” You bury your face in your hands and groan. “This whole time. This whole time. We never had to deal with each other in the first place and you kept me around just to prove a point, to spite me?”

“Sounds familiar, doesn’t it perrita?” Lobo leans in.

“You know what I mean!” Both hands are thrown to their sides. “You put both us through all of this, and for what? To keep your dark and brooding wolf image from getting tarnished? Why do you get to complain about this, but I can’t?”

“Because, even if though I loathe the concept, I’ve seen how you died and the stunt you just pulled. I can say with confidence that you don’t deserve to have extra time.”

“Oh come now Lobo, you say that about every other Mortem outside of my Artisans.” Life steps up beside you, growing the last few inches to return to her former height. Her little antlers sprout and mature before your eyes . “I’m sure it’s not that bad, whatever it is. Right Lana?”

...

You look away. “We don’t have to talk about that.”

“Lana…?” Life asks. You feel like a dog who was caught with something bad in her mouth.

“You can leave her be hermana. After all, there’s no shame in not wanting your feelings hurt~” Lobo hums.

“Shut it.”

You can feel the goddess’s eyes on your back, trying to figure out your deal. Look, just because you’re making an active effort to change, it doesn’t mean you have to tell people what you’re changing from.

“Hm. Well if I don’t have a scroll and neither of you will tell me, then… ah, that can work.” You hear the sound of a leaf pile sifting around and then watch Life’s arm stretch over your shoulder and into the kitchen. Then, picking it up by the spine, Life reels her arm back in while holding your diary.

“Hey–no, wait!” You try to swipe it out of the goddess’s paw, but Lobo helps her sister by pushing it up and out of your reach. Next time you get water, you’re going to splash it on that stupid grin of his.

“Lana, watch yourself.” She speaks tightly, intentionally adding a hint of sharpness to her words. “I’m deliberately choosing to ignore the thought of you reading through my brothers journal in order to properly trick me. Impersonation is one thing, invasion of privacy is another. Even I have my limits.”

“But that isn’t–”

“If you called me here for the reason I’m thinking of, I need a good image of your life and who you are outside of our talk.” The deer stands straight up, journal against her chest. “If you don’t want this, then I could very easily access your memories and look into your mind directly. Would that be preferable to you?”

Your neck shrinks into your shoulders at the proposition. Whether she’d magically know everything or she’d observe your memories through your own eyes, the thought does not feel pleasant at all. You bite your tongue and shake your head.

Life seems to relax at your response. Seems she didn’t want to do that either.

“Lobo, you’ve been writing in this since I’ve given it to you, yes? Would it be okay if I looked through this?” Life raises the book to her brother.

You look over to the wolf and silently plead for him to say no, even explain it himself if he must. To your wide eyes and clasped hands, he flashes you a toothy grin, then gives a thumbs up. “It’s all yours.”

The goddess smiles, nods for thanks, then walks into the living room space to flip through the pages. Four more eyes blink open around her temples and cheeks as she sits down to read.

It takes a good few seconds of deep breathing to not run up to the God of Death and slap him in the face. Instead, you walk slowly with both hands fidgeting with your skirt to keep them busy. Lobo has decided to take another look at his sickles, sitting down and drawing a finger along his marked blade and test if it needs sharpening.

“Lobo, look.” You whisper to not interrupt Life’s reading. “I know we haven’t been on the best of terms with each other–”

“That’s putting it charitably.” The wolf says, not whispering but not intentionally speaking loud either.

“–but this could be a chance for both of us to get what you wanted. A chance to be left alone.”

“Wait… is this…?” All six of Life’s eyes blink from left to right. She flips through some more pages, reading fairly quickly with her extra eyesight.

“Maybe you don’t think I deserve to be an Artisan, fine. But if you put in a good word for me, even one that resembles a compliment, then your sister can take me away and I can leave your realm for good.”

“Oh I know.” The wolf taps a claw on the blade’s point. He idly nods without sparing you a look.

“…you what?”

“I know she’d probably take you, no matter what I say.” He examines his paw, seemingly satisfied at the new scratch left behind.

“Then why did you try to convince her that I wasn’t–” You grumble as quietly as you can. “This can help me get out of your fur right now, you know. Isn’t that what you want?”

Life shortens her arms to bring the journal closer to her face, drawing a finger along one of the sketch pages.

“You misunderstand, perrita. Both me and mi hermana.” The grip wrappings are up next. He folds both blades inwards, testing if any fabric is beginning to get loose. “No matter what I say, she’ll give you exactly what you’re looking for.”

“You were just messing with me, weren’t you?” You slump and deadpan at him.

“Wouldn’t dream of it~ But that’s my sister for you.” He glides his pawpads along the sickle, across the five scratched out cat heads. “She sees the best in everyone, even when it’s a grain of salt in a haystack. Even when the choices frustrate me to no end.”

Edges of Lobo’s smile dips, his eyes droop low. He breathes out through his nose. “Even when those choices keep chipping away at her.”

Inside the sickles, Lobo’s reflection looks back at him through cloudy metal. Rubbing a thumb along the blade’s point, feeling the sharp edge. He stares in contemplation, only looking up to watch his sister. She’s reading rather intently, all of her eyes flickering along the pages with a paw at her chin.

You wonder, fiddling with your skirt, if once you both leave they’ll return to their limited communication once again. Whatever caused them to fall out of touch may have been messy, but after dissuading the wolf’s fears, Life went back to a familiar banter in a matter of minutes. Even with that strain still there, they love each other. But that may just be due to them talking in the same room. You’re all too familiar of what happens when conversation devolves into just writing platitudes to one another, instant transmission or not. How easily that anxiety creeps into your head.

Maybe while you’re working as an Artisan, you can encourage Life to send some mail more often. You feel like it’d be healthy, would help a bit.
…help Life, you mean. It’d be a bummer to see her down on herself. Yeah.

All that contemplation is brought to a close when you feel the tip of a sickle tapping under your chin.

“I’ll accept defeat this time. Congratulations Fuilana Cortez, you’re officially in the top ten of mortals that piss me off the most.” He says wryly. “You’d be wise to not take my sister’s love for granted. If you grace the top five, I may have to pay you a visit. Remind you of just how lucky you got~”

There’s an odd feeling you get after he says your name, one you can’t exactly describe. It flashes through your body in less than a second like a static shock, and suddenly you feel exposed standing in front of the gods of Life and Death. But it passes as quickly as it came, and just like that, you’re back to normal.

“…I’ll keep that in mind.” You raise a hand and gently push down on Lobo’s sickle. This one time, you’ll heed the Grim Reaper’s warning. Life seems to be a nice person anyways, you wouldn’t want to come off as ungrateful.

Fwump! Life shuts the cover of your journal. Her four extra eyes shut and fade back into her fur as she walks back (her footsteps much more quiet).

“I’m, um…” She forces out an apologetic smile. “Sorry that I didn’t listen to you.”

“It’s alright. Better than the alternative, right?” You shrug and try to look nonchalant, despite pressing your thumb into your skirt.

“Very true. I shall hold off on voicing my opinions on other matters regarding this journal for now,” the side-eye to her brother is telling enough, “as there’s something I’m still curious about.”

“If you’re wondering about the bit with the mirror, I’m not thinking about thinking about it anymore. It, or the really cool heist woman I was watching.”

“No Lana, not that.” The deer goes down on one knee, matching your eye level, holding the journal in one hand. “It’s about your fear of reincarnation.”

The goddess flips your journal open to a pair of passages. One being on your first page of the first entry, saying that you haven’t been ‘devoured or reset.’ The other is when you were describing your argument about the mirror with Lobo. You haven’t devoted a chunk of time to writing about it, but it seems a few parts still slip through regardless.

“You described the reason for your being here as my brother ‘keeping you here.’ But Lobo said that you were staying by choice due to a vow you both made during your coin flip. Whatever your grudge against him may be, I know my brother. And he doesn’t lie.” Life dips her head down. “May I ask why you’re afraid of reincarnating?”

“That’s…” You try to look away, but feel like if you don’t look then you’ll get in trouble. It’s so easy to forget that the two standing in front of you are immortals, and remembering that fact makes you feel oh so small. “I still want to be me, I don’t want to forget who I am.”

“But it would still be you, even if you may not remember everything.” She holds a hand out. “Your personality, your essence; none of that would change as you are reborn. If you believe that losing memories means losing yourself? A vast majority of mortals don’t remember their time as a newborn. Yet those experiences still shaped them into who they became.

“What you go through in reincarnation is similar. Though you may not remember this conversation, once you grow up and reach the same age, there would exist the same amount of ‘you’ as there is now. Even moreso, because of your cumulative experience. In your mind you may see it as no different from death, but it is merely another day.”

The cat’s whiskers are putting in work today. This is the first time you’re really learning about the cycle, you realize. Lobo has mentioned it several times, but now is the only point you’re really learning about how it works. Her explanation works well, pulling the abstract into something you can grasp. Plus, she makes a good point that you don’t remember your time as a baby–you can barely remember what you had for breakfast on your last day alive.

“I understand your fear, Lana. I really do. You’re not the first one to be scared of the process. As the one who is responsible for forming every living creature’s bodies, I have overseen every single soul that has died and been reborn. Many others share your fear. In fact, the same soul often experiences this fear across every incarnation. You’re not alone here.” The deer places a furred hand on your shoulder, thumb brushing your neck.

Lobo pulls a leg up to the chair and rests his arm on top, letting his sickle hang as he watches, intrigued. One way or another you’ll likely be leaving, so he’s more interested in what your response is here rather than hoping for a certain choice.

The Goddess of Life wouldn’t have a reason to lie about this. Reincarnation wouldn’t mean oblivion, you would still be you. You have no reason to doubt her.

But still, the idea doesn’t quite sit right with you.

“In your entries, you frequently lament on how you miss eating meals and drinking water. If you wish, I can help you reincarnate into a life where you can freely continue your artistic passion. That way you can experience these simple pleasures again, and make friends with people living the same life as you.” She gives a gentle squeeze and a comforting smile. “Is that what you want?”

Life’s proposition sounds nice. More than nice, actually, it sounds wonderful. The idea of being alive, feeling a breeze, eating a normal sandwich. You miss all of those a lot. But even still…

“…I really appreciate the offer miss,” you place your hand on hers, “but I don’t want to reincarnate just yet.”  

“And why might that be, florita?” Life asks.

“You read my journal, so you know about my family and friends back home, right?” You wait for her to nod. “They mean a lot to me. They helped me through a lot of struggles, helped me realize that I wanted to do art in the first place. And then I, well. You know.”

You pull up some of your long skirt to your stomach so you can wrap your fingers in the fabric. “I’ll admit that I’ve been scared of losing my memories. Still am, even after what you said. But it’s more than that. They all worked their butts off to get me where I was, supported me so I could pursue my dreams. And while you’re right that reincarnating would get me what I want, I feel I still owe them after what I did.”

You breathe. “They all supported Fuilana so she she could keep doing art. So I wanna stay as Fuilana for a little bit longer.”

Life observes the tired yet content smile you wear. Feeling your hand resting on top of her own. The tone of your voice doesn’t come off as fully satisfied, but it’s accurate at least. Yeah, it’s good enough.

The goddess looks up to her brother, and there on his face is something familiar. You saw it back in the tavern when you had proposed the coin flip nearly a month ago. Though that fascinated and playful expression isn’t here this time around, his little, barely perceptible nods reveals a degree of satisfaction in your response. Maybe even a bit of respect?

Life turns back to you, her smile washing away a level of professionalism you didn’t notice until now. She stands back up with a hoof on her hip. Proud. “That’s good enough for me.”

Both your shoulders slump forward and you let out the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding in. Sure, Lobo said that Life would very likely accept you no matter what. But the past few minutes and the questions you answered made you feel really close to something like a job interview.

That was it. You got your wish. It was a rough trek to get here, but you finally made it and you never have to step foot in this void again.

With hands clasped behind your back you hop in front of El Lobo, beaming with pride. “Well Lobo, I certainly can’t say it’s been a pleasure.”

“Yeah, yeah, save it.” The wolf stands up to his full height and sheaths his blades, crossing his arms. He still has his own amused smile though. “Just don’t push your luck while you’re there.”

“Not planing on it. Certainly don’t wanna see your ugly mug again.” You rock back and forth and hold out a hand to shake.

“Likewise.” He reaches out his own. “Good riddance, perrita–”

“Fuilana, you’ll be staying here with my brother.”

.....

You and the wolf creak your heads in unison towards Life.

“What?”
“What?”

“You heard me correctly.” Life stands with the journal held against her chest. “Hermano, you’ll continue providing residence for our little guest here.”

And suddenly, you feel like you’ve been choke slammed through the wall.

“Vida.” Lobo puts his paws together up against his snout. He walks to his sister oh so calmly. “Vida. Vida. Mi querida hermana a quien amo mucho.”

He points both his clasped hands downwards. “What do you mean?”

“Hermanito, I know that sounds bad. But I think this would be good for the both of you.” She sounds utterly delighted. “I’ve only been here for about, twenty minutes? And I can already see you both have something good going here!”

“And does that ‘something good’ involves living by myself in complete nothingness??” You march up alongside The Reaper, desperately trying to change her mind. She just doesn’t know the full story, right? Right??

“I’ll admit, both of you have definitely had some rocky moments.” She looks away and nods, but doesn’t step back.

“Rocky?!”
“That is an understatement.”

“But that’s just because both of you haven’t gotten off on the right foot! If the circumstances were different, then–”

“Vida do I already need to remind you that this little nuisance has lied and manipulated you in order to get what she wants? She is nothing like me!”

“For once I agree with him!” You chuckle in disbelief. “I’m not a sociopath who enjoys torturing people for fun, just because he’s bored!”

“Don’t act like you’re any better, Fuilana. You ate a man’s soul just to prove a point and spite me.” He scoffs.

“You already ate most of it, he was gone anyways. And then afterwards you taunted me, egging me on to eat more!”

“Once again, you invoked the contract. You knew what you were getting yourself into when you decided not to reincarnate.”

“How about you reincarnate? Huh?”

“What does that even mean–”

C L O N G

Both of you flinch from the loud noise, metal clanking against metal. Life had enlarged her spatula tool and ballpoint stylus, using it like a gong (the journal under her armpit). Once both of you are quiet and to attention, she shrinks both back down and slots them away.

“Perhaps it would be better to nip this in the bud.” The deer looks to you, prepared to be the adult to her little brother and littler mortal.

“Fuilana, my brother is right. While your reason to not reincarnate is respectable, and I can understand your fear, much of what you’ve done throughout your stay has been purely to spite him. You did not have to eat that man’s soul, you did not need to mock him with your victory, and you certainly did not have to say what you did during your argument with him. Fear is understandable, revenge for a perceived slight is not.”

There’s a raring in your gut to snap back, still bitter from Life stringing you along with the idea that you could be an Artisan. Also because of Lobo’s taunting look, bathing in that vindication for all his critiques of you. But you’re struggling to find the words for a comeback to what she just said. “W-well he started it.”

“You’re right.” The goddess turns to her brother, who immediately shuts off the cockiness. “He did.”

“Vida, with how much she’s done just to spite me I feel I’m allowed to not want her presence here.” He crosses his arms in an attempt to look staunch.

“Maybe so, but you’ve had your moments of instigation too.” Life stands firm too. Up close to one another, the deer does seem to have an inch or two against him. “You didn’t need to taunt her with food she couldn’t have and constantly try to scare her away. Hiding your mirror I can get behind, but a good portion of your back and forth has come from you dealing the first punch.

“Also, out of all the people to try and devour. Her?” She gestures to you incredulously. “Lobo, that’s something you only save for the worst of humanity. Serial killers, I get it. Loan sharks? Landlords? CEO’s? I don’t enjoy the practice, but completely understandable. But Lana? She made an impulsive and stupid decision out of fear. Sure it’s not the best, but how does that warrant devouring her soul?”

“I have no sympathy for those who disrespect their gift from you.” He tenses his eyebrows more.

“Well you certainly did so for the stunt you pulled.” She huffs. “Lana may have made that mistake, but you were the one who pulled her into that game. All of this could have been avoided if you simply let her reincarnate.”

Both brother and sister have a brief staring contest, trying to not be swayed by the other. Lobo gives first, looking to the side silently.

“Now. Both of you have made mistakes and have done some things that were hurtful to one another. But if you look past that, you have a lot alike as well.”

“Literally how?”
“In what way?”

Life seems to wait for you both to realize something after talking in unison. But nothing happens. She rubs her face with a human palm.

“Forget that point. Lobo, you don’t enjoy Lana’s presence at all?”

“No.” He doesn’t hesitate.

“Not even a little bit?”
“No.”
“Not even the mocking parts?”
“No.”
“Not even when you gave her water?”
“Is there a point to this hermana?”

“This!” She holds up your journal. “You honestly mean to say that you don’t feel her presence helps you at all?”

“Helps??” You ask. “How am I helping him? The guy hates me.”

The goddess starts to flip the journal open to more pages. “Lana, why do you think I gave this to my brother?”

“Because he’s a stuck up asshole who can only express his feelings by making it other peoples’ problem?” An eyebrow is raised.

“While I don’t appreciate the phrasing, you’re not too far off. Even back when the two of us were on regular speaking terms, my brother rarely ever spoke to other gods. Even during important meetings, he was dead quiet. I was the only person he felt comfortable confiding in.” She marks ever notable page with an extra thumb. “But both of us are extremely busy, the world slows down for nobody.

“So I gave him this,” she knocks on the leather cover, “so he could process his feelings in a healthier manner.”

“And then only he wrote two lines in it.” You observe.

“Because I had more important things to do with my time.” He comments.

“And yet,” She points the book at both of you, “you always had enough time for her. Look at this.”

She opens the book to several passages, all of them containing a comment or doodle from the wolf. Nearly a dozen bits of back and forth’s, little quips aimed at your own contemplation. Your drawing of him as he released souls into the reincarnation cycle flips open and she gestures at his addition of the tail.

“They’re small, I know they are. But this is the most I’ve ever seen him express himself outside of his job.” Despite the small size of the doodles, the goddess sounds astounded by what she claims to be ‘your work.’

“Why not just make him journal more then? Or, I dunno, have him get into scrapbooking?” You shrug, full on rejecting the idea that the wolf wanted you around. Ew.

“Believe me, I’ve tried.” She says frankly. “Painting, music, creative writing, weaving, therapy–everything I could try.”

“As I have just said, I don’t have the time for those things.” Lobo insists, emphasizing each word individually to make his sister understand. “Also, I’m not a child just because I formed a few seconds after you did.”

Life waves off his brother’s comment (a bemused “wow thanks” in response) and hands the journal back to you. “Lana. I know this isn’t what you were hoping for, I’m genuinely sorry for that. But intentionally or not, you’re able to do something that I, a god, was never able to do.”

“But I want to just draw again.” You moan, stuffing the journal back into the waistband of your skirt. “I wanna create things with my hands that isn’t just the same quill I always use and not only talk to Lobo every day. I can’t do that here if I’m stuck with him! No offense.”

“None taken.”

The deer puts up a finger, ‘wait,’ then reaches into the little chest pouch of her poncho. Her arm goes much, much deeper than you’d expect it to go at that high an angle (shapeshifting must be extremely useful practically). When she pulls it out you hear a familiar rattling, light wood against wood. It tickles against your ears and your pupils widen like a cat.

Emerging along with her arm is a seafoam green sketchbook, a fresh pencil and a wooden box full of colored pencils. Professional grade. Much more than you could ever afford.

“You realize you could get the same as an Artisan, correct?” Lobo leans down to get your attention. Trembling shakes your hands, desperate to grab the drawing supplies and run your fingers along the pages and feel the edges of the pencils and rub graphite on your fingers again… he has a point.

You hold tight to your wrist and pull it back against your gut.

“…alright, very well.” Light frustration and resignation once again peeks through, but she shakes it away. Life can see neither of you are cooperating with the plan she has in mind, so she nods to herself and mutters in preparation.

“One week.” She holds up a finger. “All I ask is that both of you try to get along for one week. If I’m wrong in that you can’t get along, or that neither of you truly want this, then I will take Lana as my Artisan. And once again Lobo, you can have the space you desire.”

You catch Lobo’s quiet exhale.

“But if you two are able to get along, and decide collectively you want to try, we can go along with my original plan.” The goddess sounds confident in her proposal. “Lana, I can provide you with all of the resources I give my Artisans, from foundry to felt. I’ll even throw in some bonuses to make it worth your while.”

“Like a magic brush?” You grip your skirt.

“Maybe not that big. We’ll see.”

“Aww.”

“I fail to see how I would want this in any way.” The wolf taps a paw against his forearm. Life looks a tiny bit annoyed, her patience is running low.

“Well, aside from this being something that would genuinely help you and your mental health? And doing something kind for your sister?” She places the art supplies on the table behind him, then puts a paw to her chest. “I would personally come here, at least once a week, in order to provide Lana with another person to talk with and give advice for creative projects. That would act as a better way for us to stay in touch, don’t you think?”

Lobo stops tapping on his sleeve and instead presses his paw pad against it. Neither of them explained why exactly they fell out of touch, even if it was something emotional. Whatever it was though, it’s clear to all three of you that time apart was NOT what they needed. Maybe having an opportunity to talk things out could properly help both.

He still doesn’t seem fully convinced though, pulling his poncho tighter around his body. Perhaps he wants to feel something against his back?

“It's your own choice, brother. Lana. I won't force you to do anything you don't want. All I ask is that you both try."

Both you and El Lobo turn to each other, no words spoken, gauging each other through your expressions. It doesn’t take a social genius to figure out that neither of you want to stay with each other for another day. But there wouldn’t be a point in rejecting Life’s offer for a test trial either, unless both of you want to go back to how things were for who knows how long. Her offer sounds appealing enough, whether you get along or not.

Best case scenario, neither of you have to see each other again. It’s one more week in this void looking at his stupid snout, but it’s also only one more week. You’ve both already suffered through three, one more couldn’t hurt. Right?

“…yeah alright fine.”
“…one week isn’t too bad.”

Life’s snout bursts into a grin and Claps her hooves together. “Perfect!! Thank you both so much for giving this a shot!”

The deer pulls something out of the lower central pouch of her poncho, rifling around until she comes up with a little ivy green notebook (it could fit in your palm) and a pencil. She quickly jots something down but you can’t see from this angle. In the tiny glimpse you get it’s full of bullet points and crossed out lines. Then she stuffs it back into the pouch and away it goes.

“Lana, as thanks for hearing me out, you can keep these art supplies to use in your own time. Deal or no deal, only living off of a quill for drawing is something I wouldn’t wish on my greatest enemy.” She pats the top of the pencil case. That rattlerattle of your new utensils makes accepting this deal worth everything.

You brush your hand across the surface of the pencil case, feeling the polished grooves in the wood. After nearly a month in this realm with the same old and rough ashen wood, feeling a new texture makes you slip a shaky breath. “Thank you so much ma’am. Seriously.”

“Oh, no need to be so formal with me florita. Helping people like you get the time they need is what makes me happy.” She waves a hand semi-bashfully. “I do need to get going now, unfortunately. This visit was nice but I still have quite the backlog of souls that I have to go through, not to mention preparing for the poetry circle later tonight. You know how these things go, always something to do.” She circles a hoof in the air, spinning her wrist around and around.

“…it was,” Lobo rubs the back of his head, struggling to spit the words out, “nice to see you again, hermana. I’m glad you came.”

Life smiles and takes one of her brother’s paws in her own. “I’m glad I did too. Though, maybe next time you can mail me first so we don’t have a repeat of this, alright?”

Lobo smiles softly and mutters a quiet ‘yeah. Sure thing.’

“Now both of you play nice, alright?” She narrows her gaze sternly (but keeps her smile). She points at both you and Lobo’s eyes, then points back to four of her own. “When I come back there better not be another mess. You’re paying for anything you break!”

“Yeah yeah whatever you say, Mom.” You snort and roll your eyes. Then you think…

“Don’t forget to eat something yourself.” Lobo points casually with his reminder. “And don’t let the others push you around for the design, okay?”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She says. Then after a brief ‘see you both soon!’ Life starts walking back to the front door, reaching for the handle–

“Life, hold up!” You shout. She turns her whole body back. “I know you said you prefer to stick to just ‘Life,’ but is there something else I can use? Something less formal, something you like?”

The deer brings a hoof up to her chin to think for a moment, then looks back with a smile. “’Vida’ works, if you wish.”

You nod, then give her a two fingered wave. “See you later then, Vida.”

And with that, Vida turns the bronze knob with their hoof, walks out the door and shuts it behind them. The knob shifts back into an iron handle, and she’s gone. You and Lobo stare at the door together for a moment.

“They seem really nice.” You say, hand on your hip

“No better person for his role.” He adds.

A few beats later, both of you turn to look at each other.

“…sssoooooo–”

“I’m going to take a nap.” The wolf walks past you and over to their room. He at least closes the door a little softer this time, instead of a slam…? Better or worse, he leaves you standing there. Clicking your tongue.

“Alright then.” You turn and pull out a chair, settling down at the table and flipping open the new sketchbook. Its pages are thick enough so if you were to use that pen, not a single drop of ink would seep through. High grade material.

“Just one more week of waiting, right?” You twirl the pencil in your fingers. “How hard could that be?”

Chapter Text

DAY ONE

It’s normal to cry about colored pencils, right?

Once you were finally left alone with Vida’s gift, you immediately began sketching out a drawing to experiment with the new supplies. Nothing too complex, just a big red rose. You’ve drawn these things a dozen times before, staring out the window of the tavern to the garden next door for reference.

The process is second nature to you at this point. Start with the center bud then create more folds going outwards, larger each time. A little tedious, yes, but they always manage to bring you to a strange zen, helping you relax after a long day of work.

About midway through the sketch you decide to take out both the red and green pencils, test them on a separate page to see how they’d fare, see if either needed to have black or white added to them.

You draw a little red square. You pause.
You draw another square. Then a circle. A zigzag. A broad scribble.
You only notice the stinging in your eyes after filling up half the page with red.

“It’s…” A trembling hand covers your mouth. “It’s beautiful…!”

Lobo’s eyes and Sealed Fates are a deep crimson, always reminding you of the color of your own blood. Nearly every color in this realm is some level of dull and empty. Even The Mist, with its wisps of green and magenta, is dominated by the grey fog.

But the red splashed across the page from your hand, it’s so bright, so vibrant! It’s a freshly painted sign on the marketplace; it’s a tomato that’s just ripe enough to be cooked, an apple–a PROPER apple, crisp and juicy enough to eat. Against everything else in your desaturated purgatory, this red feels alive!!

Just color isn’t enough to satisfy your cravings. You throw the cover off of the colored pencils and grab fistfuls to continue your spree, the wood clitticlacking together is a siren’s song to your ears.

Grassy green sprouts along the edges of the page, watermelon pink pops across the paper, lavender purple swooshes and swirls! When the colors overlap they fizzle and and mix and create new hues with your artistic alchemy and reminding you of home!

Page after page you tear through, splashing bright hues across every last one. No lines or borders, no rhyme or reason, just unrelenting creativity and passion overflowing the sketchbook and sweeping you off the dusty floor! Swirls and streams at your fingertips coated with rainbows and it feels like you’re a kid discovering how to draw again and bits of water drop onto the pages and you’ve missed all these colors and missed all this drawing so, so much–!!!

Creeaak

The sound of movement fishes you out of your euphoric hue testing and over your shoulder.

Lobo is standing across the room, watching you with wide eyes. He wasn’t sure what to expect after his nap, but you sprawled across the table, sobbing over six pages of rainbow vomit sure isn’t one of them.

You stare back. A few tears still streaking down your cheek, mixing with purple dust on your cheeks. He looks down and places a paw on his forehead.

“…I was only one day away from seeing you crack, wasn’t I?”
“Shut.”

The wolf’s ears flatten and he walks past you to the pantry box. “At this point, do whatever you feel like. I don’t care. Draw on the walls of this place if you wish. Once the week is up, you can have as many canvases and pencils as you want. Far, far away from here.”

“You know, I may take you up on that offer.” You wipe your cheeks, adding to your sleeve smears, and point with a pink pencil. “Putting up a few pieces along the wall would really help for the decor.”

“They’ll work well as kindling for some fire too.” He grabs a black pepper, stuffed with some sort of orange gunk inside.

“Hah! Fuck you too Lobo.” You raise your hand with a ‘cheers’ motion. “Get your insults out now, or you may just start missing me~”

As he walks by, bundling the pepper in a similar cloth, he doesn’t say a word. He glares, simmering with contempt, but no higher than a simmer. Then he walks to the front door and leaves. With the typical Fwoosh, he vanishes. The door is pulled by the air pressure, closing behind him.

…huh.

“Whatever, you big grump.” You shrug and turn back to your sketchbook. “Makes things easier for me.”

DAY 2

Shrkkk, Shrkk, Shrkk.

Wood shavings sprinkle onto the living room table as the carving knife glides along the pencil tips. Bit by bit, pressing gently against the surface, you dig the dark blue out from the wood and form it into a fine tip. One quick puff of air to blow off flecks, then with a satisfied smile, you set it to the side.

You might have gone overboard yesterday with your little drawing frenzy yesterday. At around page seven you must have entered some kind of fugue state, because you have zero memory of the hours following that. When you finally snapped out of it, you woke up and found your face covered in pink, all the colored pencils worn down a whole inch and not a single clean spot left on your beige shirt. Including the back.

And, lucky you, Lobo was there to witness your rainbow hangover.

Vida has given you a very dangerous and empowering gift. You must use it responsibly.

Thump, thump, thump. Lobo descends the stairs from yet another round of inscribing Sealed Fates. Skulking around the corners, you hear the pantry box open and close, then he sits at the dinner table to eat a sandwich, facing your direction.

A turkey sandwich. With white bread. Green lettuce. And yellow cheddar cheese.

Lobo catches you squinting at the sandwich’s detail for a bit too long and you turn away.

You don’t dwell on it. Even as you flinch when he takes a bite, expecting some sort of unholy sound, but nothing comes out. You don’t dwell on it. Just pick up the white pencil and continue your work.

Shrrk, Shrrk. More wood shavings fall.

Munch, munch. The sandwich goes down quietly, without a crunch or grind or squirt.

Shrrk, Shrk.

Munch, munch.

Shk.

Munch, munch.

…okay this sandwich is far too normal.

“Ay, Lobo.” You place the tools on the table and lean back to get a better view of him. He gives you the barest of glances. “What guy did you get that sandwich from?”

He continues chewing to break down his previous chunk of bread. Swallows. Then looks down and takes another bite.

“Souls form into food on their own, right? Like the apple? Who pissed you off just to become a regular sandwich?”

Munch, munch, munch.

“Was he like, a tax collector or something? A landlord? I could understand if that was the case, but…”

Munch, munch. He swallows and bites off another chunk.

“…c’mon dude, give me something to work with here.” You slouch.

Lobo huffs, then jams the rest of the sandwich into his maw. The wrapping cloth is unceremoniously stuffed into his cloak and Lobo starts towards the front door.

“Really Lobo? Not even a word?” You hold your arms wide in disbelief. “Fine. Whatever. Just go back to moping again. I don’t need to know about your latest torture victim anyways.”

Lobo has a paw on the doorknob and was mid-turn, but after hearing those words he stops. Once again a mask of contempt peers into you, but this time exhaustion hangs around him like a haze, not too unlike a burnt out student.

He sneers at you, in your pile of wood shavings and colored paper. Then he looks away, shakes his head, and leaves.

You grumble, returning to your pencils and carving knife. No matter how much you try to get along with him, he still eats people’s souls. For fun. Of course there would be a disconnect there.

The aqua blue one is next. This sort of slow and methodical work helps you calm down. Soon enough you’ll be seeing this color all the time. Just a few more days until Vida shows up and makes you an Artisan. Once you’re surrounded by people just like you, it’ll be much easier to make new friends.

‘...easier, huh?’

…shrrk. Shrrk. Shrrk.

DAY 3

“Come on now…” Your lungs tighten and hands cramp. Face is mere centimeters away from the paper as you check every last microscopic detail, no doubt getting more green and orange on your face in the process. With a steady hand you drag the green down along the thick line, gifting chlorophyll to the flower’s stem and thorns. With that final stroke…

“Done!!”

A blast of air explodes from your mouth, propelling you away from the coffee table and flopping against the couch’s front (you dragged them closer together so you could feel something against your back while sitting down). With both arms sprawled across the sofa and legs stretched forwards, a familiar fatigue sets into your limbs. Your body feels light, but limbs heavy as if they were pressed down by a dozen blankets. The equivalent of a runner’s high experienced after a long workout. Not exactly a good feeling, but not unwelcome either.

Your whole body sinks down into the floor and couch, falling through the floor as your buzzing brain recovers. There, sitting among your empire of wood shavings and pages, lies the first drawing of your afterlife.

It’s a rose, the exact same one you started the moment you got the sketchbook. But each petal is a different color: dark blue folded over sunset gold folded over purple. It’s darkest at the edges, colors blended together with black and deep blue, but becomes brighter and more vibrant the further in you go. You give each petal a thick outline with a dark version of its respective color to really make each one pop, standing out on its own. All of it acting as the crown of a green thorned stem.

It contrasts this realm’s very existence, a dab of paint on a fresh canvas. But that makes you all the more proud, creating an entire world within a single rose. For once, you don’t stress about things you could have done differently. You’re happy with this. Once Vida gets back, you can show them all your hard work too!

‘Vida...’

Creeaak! The door of Lobo’s room opens and the reaper follows through. A double take hits your head from his emerging; you don’t remember him coming back from his reaping duties. But then again you have had your face pressed against a piece of paper the past few hours.

His frown of contempt has evolved into a sneer of disdain, a few back teeth revealed from his grimace. Yet he doesn’t so much as look your way. Odd, that. The disgust and annoyance typically comes after he’s done with his nap and remembers you exist. It’s rare to see him mad without your interference for once.

Lobo sits down at the table, facing away from you, then pulls out his sickles. He places one onto the table then uses the other’s tip to carve something into the surface.

Sccrkk, sccrkk, sccrkk! The grinding metal grinds your teeth– the wolf is leaning forward and carving with a good amount of force. As in, could likely split another table if he slips amount of force.

‘Do whatever you want, Lobo.’ You shake your head and flip to a new page in the sketchbook, fresh and blank. The rose was just the beginning, up next are the plants and flowers from the plaza garden. It was always a good sight whenever you were coming in for work, made the grueling mornings just a bit better.

With a twirl of your pencil you scooch back in and ready the paper–

“One week.” Their words echo, tugging on your arm.

The pencil hovers above the page, a weight in your gut.

“All I ask…“ The deer’s burnt out and tired expression flashes in your head once again. ”…is that both of you try.“

“..... god damn it.”

You plant both dusty hands onto the table, cracking through your soreness and force yourself up from the floor. After leaning against the couch for days, the open air against your back is heavy. Your fingers tangle in skirt fabric without pencils to hold between them.

Lobo looks up with a glare as you walk around the table, pull out a chair opposite from him, then sit down. The weight under his eyes seems to triple.

You plant your arms above a splotch of blue and brown and sit completely straight.

...

...

...

“So.” You ask. “How’s the weather out there?”

The wolf stares unimpressed, with a long, slow blink.

“Not here, I mean.” You clarify with a hand wave. “Out there. Back in alive world.”

“…I collect souls from every living being across the land.” He says flatly. “’The weather’ is something I walk through, not experience–”

“Why are you like this.”

“Is there a purpose to what you’re doing here?” Lobo straightens his back and plants his sickles on the dinner table. An outline for a newly scratched out cat rests on the surface, totaling six. “Because if not, I’ll gladly do my business elsewhere.”

“The ‘purpose’ of this,” you air quote with both hands, “is to do what Vida said. To try ‘getting along.’”

“Yeah, well you’re doing an ‘excellent’ job so far.” He air quotes with one paw.

“I’m still ‘initiating conversation’ least.” Both arms cross and press onto the table while you return his glare. “Vida asked us to at least try talking, and I’d feel like a piece of crap if I didn’t.”

“A child can act cute and polite and still make a mess on the couch.”

“You know what?!” You slam both hands on the table, his sickles rattling from impact. The wolf doesn’t show any pride from that insult. “If you’re just gonna difficult then I’m–!!”

CLACK. Your teeth slam shut so hard your jaw rattles. No, Lana. No. Not this time.

Fingernails dig into your palms until they cut. It takes every last drop of willpower to squeeze your eyes shut, lean back into your chair, and take a deeeeeeeeeeeeeeep breath. Squashing your instincts with this wolf down as far as they can go.

“Okay. Okay.” You whisper, nod, and strangle your hands together to keep your last ounce of patience from slipping away. Lobo is only bothered to raise an eyebrow.

“Lobo. I am…” You dig past your lips and wrangle your teeth into something approximating a smile. “Sssorreeyy.“

“Mhm.” The reaper waits.

“I am, sorry, for sending those letters to Vida without permission. Under your name. No matter how much of an, unbridled pig’s ass you are, that was out of line for me.”

“And…?” He crosses his arms.

“…and I am, sorry, for constantly calling you names and being annoying you while you were trying to do your job.”

“And?” He leans down to meet you, eye to eye.

“.....andIamsorryforkickingyouintheballs.”

The God of Death stays silent, taking your apology into consideration as his eyes look you up and down. He doesn’t seem amused or surprised or anything noteworthy after you’ve done the equivalent of shearing off your hair, rolling around in bacon fat and giving him a fork to savor the moment.

“So, what then?” He asks, leaning back. “You suddenly want to stay with me? After all the waffling on about how sad and pathetic my home is?”

“Oh dear GOD no!!” You reel back in repulsion (then realize that might be an instinct to suppress in the future). “I just thought that, when Vida gets back, we should at least have a little bit to talk with her about. Show that we gave it at least a little effort?”

Lobo glances at the front door. Its doorknob is still an iron handle.

“Well, you’ve shown a great deal of effort in mustering up that basic apology.” He says, unimpressed. “I can confirm that for her, at least.”

“You could say it back too, you know.” You say flatly.

“’I’m sorry.’ There, now you have yours too.” He shifts around and leans forward once again, grabbing his sickles. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get this done before getting back to work.”

“We could talk while you’re carving your cats, or whatever they are. I could even bring my sketchbook over.” You gesture in the direction of the couch.

“I didn’t interrupt you while you did your flowering drawing, did I?” He looks up as the sickle point is pressed down onto the steel.

“…yeah, fair enough.” You concede, scooching out of the chair.

“Thank you.” Lobo says, satisfied. No smile appears, but he’s not scowling anymore either at least.

Once again the scraping sound of metal fills the cabin, grinding against your ears. So instead of sitting back down and drawing some more, you exit through the front door and close it behind you.

A walk through The Mist would be good for you after the past few days of work.

DAY 4

“Why a wolf, anyway?”

“Hm?” One of Lobo’s ears perk up in your direction, though he continues inscribing the Sealed Fate at his desk.

“Out of all the forms you could’ve picked for yourself, why a grey wolf?” You rest the sketchbook and pencil against a raised knee, the other hanging off the chair. You draw circles in the space surrounding the wolf’s legs. “And a bipedal one at that?”

“Is this leading to some sort of punchline?” Lobo pauses his writing and shifts his gaze to you.

“Nah, I’m good.” You raise up both hands in defense, no weapons up your dirty sleeves. “I’m genuinely curious this time.”

“…the fear of wolves and wild animals is fairly common in mortals throughout the years.” He turns back to the desk. The inscribing resumes.

“Wouldn’t something like, say,” you waggle your arms ahead of you, “a giant octopus with a dozen eyes made of pure darkness be scarier than a wolf in a poncho?”

“For once, your imagination is lacking.” The edges of Lobo’s lips creep up a tiny bit. “Fear of the unknown is frightening, that is true. But the fear of people is universal. So much anxiety is wrapped up in strangers they’ve never met, what they could do, that they scare themselves into circles. Often times the familiar can be much more fruitful than the unrecognizable.”

‘Hm.’ Looking back to your sketch page, with rough and hazy lines, the tavern sits there. Your last memory of it sitting on the page. Across the crosshatched corners and shaded shadows, stands a man. Not a wolf with a poncho and sickles, but a human standing in Lobo’s place. Ragged and messy clothes, knife in hand. The shadows removing all detail from his scribbled face. The only details being his hollow, empty white eyes.

You shut the sketchbook.

“I can understand that, I suppose.” You pull both legs up to sit cross legged on the chair. “But if that’s the case then why don’t you shapeshift all the time like Vida? Why stick with the wolf thing?”

“Eh. This form works well enough already. You’ve already experienced that yourself, I’m sure you remember that, at least.”

You rub the space on your neck where he slammed you against the well. All too familiar.

“Unless I have a reason to not be this way, I don’t feel the need to change as often as she does.”

“What counts as an exception?”

“Oh, just the occasional mortal.”

Lobo grabs the sides of the scroll with his grey scales and flicks it upwards to roll the parchment tight. Then, he places the scroll in a small pile to the side.

…wait a minute.

Lobo smirks at you as he scoops up the pile of Sealed Fates in his paws. “As for the ‘wolf thing,’ it’s what we’ve had for millennia. We see no reason to change it. It’s the same reason you wear a skirt and refuse to stitch up the ripped sides.”

“Hey, these rips are intentional.” You pull your skirt and show off said tears, along with the wider leg room it provides. “Compared to how tight it was in the store, I’m much more comfortable with it this way.”

“So are me and Vida with the bodies we chose.” He shrugs with a smile. “If you’re going to keep asking why I’m not doing my job ‘properly,’ then maybe you should consider getting an unripped skirt.”

With that, Lobo turns on lower paws, turns around the corner and descends down the stairs to deposit the scrolls.

You stare at where his ears vanished, still feeling the texture of the yarn under your fingers. Wondering if there was supposed to be a “together” in that second to last sentence.

Then you flip open the sketchbook again and start drawing the details of fur around the man’s head.

DAY 5

“Wrestling?”

“Quite a few times.”

“Chess boxing?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“How about statue sculpting?”

“These sickles can do much more than cleaving souls.”

“Are you sure you’re telling me the truth here?” You adjust from lying on your back to lounging on your side, one arm supporting your balance. “There’s no way you won at all of these games.”

“Would you like to read their respective scrolls, perrita?” He responds from the kitchen. The trickling of water can be heard.

“But how could you have the time to learn all of those skills??” You yell back, free hand gesturing in the air. “I haven’t seen you play a single instrument or do a round of solitaire in the past month!”

“I’ve been around for aeons upon aeons, since the conception of the universe. I’ve had plenty of time to practice.” The trickling stops, and Lobo walks into view with quite the proud look on his face. “At a certain point, it’s impossible to get better when people can’t challenge you anymore.”

“But what about newer games? Chess and Jacks haven’t been around forever–”

“Technically Chess HAS been around…”

“–so what happens if someone challenges you? Do you just, magically know how to play a game you’ve never touched before?”

“It’s called ‘applying skills’ Perrita.” Lobo leans against the living room wall, smiling . “I take it you didn’t learn that either while running your business?”

“That’s–hrmmph.” Your ‘insultus wolfus’ muscle flares up, but you quickly retract a pointing finger and settle back down. It’s not worth the anger.

“...it often takes a round or two to properly learn a new game. Preexisting skills can only take me so far.” He lifts up a paw as he explains. “But that’s only if I haven’t already found a loophole.”

“A loophole?”

“Quite a few times, mortals who challenge me try to invent a challenge on the spot. A game with shoddy rules cobbled together within the moment. They rarely amount to anything more than ‘I win, you lose.’” He waves off the notion with a roll of the eyes. “I remember one woman in particular, lived on a ranch. Challenged me for extra time, saying that if I couldn’t guess what was in her pockets without looking inside or taking anything out, then she could go free.”

“And you agreed to that?” You chuckle. “Weren’t you the one who laughed at me being so confident in a coin flip?”

“We had already formed the Vow at that time. I couldn’t back out if I wanted to. Besides, I could see she was desperate. And a house built in a day has plenty of holes.”

“So, what happened then?” For the occasion you sit up properly, resting an arm on a raised knee. “Did you say one thing she had, since you didn’t have to list them all?”

“A fair guess.” He nods. “But I opted for the more straightforward approach.”

Lobo taps a claw against his temple with a devilish smirk. “She only said I couldn’t look inside her pockets, but let me feel them to try and guess. Taking things out myself was also against the rules, of course. Though, nothing was said in regards to the items, say, falling out on their own.”

“Oh my god.” You gape. A chill of dread crawls into your spine.

“You can only imagine the look on her face when I finished searching, looked her in the eyes and said ‘nothing was in her pockets.’ Then, after a quick search across her person she froze. And found the holes cut in the bottoms of each~”

“That. That is evil.” A shiver blooms inside of you, but an amused smile creeps on your face. You’re not quite sure if you’re amused or terrified or both.

Lobo gives a proud grin at your reaction. All of a sudden you feel extremely thankful you chose the coin flip as your bet instead of literally anything else.

“It’s a shame, really. Despite her foolish gamble, she was a rather impressive glass smith. The workshop I found her in was lined with stained glass, intricate patterns made using pigments she grew on her farm. Paired well with the moonlight that night.” The wolf shakes his head, looking down at the ground. “I’ve met plenty of artists, obsessed over their work to the point of isolation. But she had a pleasant life, quite sociable with her family. She was one of the few good ones.”

“But, you still ate her.” You say. “You say all that, but you still ate her.”

“What? No, no I didn’t.” Lobo cocks an eyebrow up, thrown off by the question.

“But she challenged you to a game, didn’t she? Like I did.” You point to yourself. “And she lost. So doesn’t that mean you ate her soul?”

“Perrita, just because I eat souls it doesn’t mean I’m trying to eat everone’s.” The eyebrow falls deeper. He sounds offended.

“Hey, what are you getting mad at me for?” You back into the couch defensively. “I don’t know the rules to this stuff. And you said that it’s okay for some souls to go missing, didn’t you?”

Lobo’s frown deepens and he starts opening his mouth, but the words gets caught in his throat. He huffs, turns away, then shuts his mouth. He walks away from the wall. Both arms hide under his poncho.

You watch, silently, as he opens the front door and leaves. Not with a door slam or a huff, but with a firm click.

A new feeling forms in the pit of your stomach, watching the reaper not say something in a witty retort to you. Most of your emotions towards him have either been frustration or fear. But this one is new. Like you said something that you probably shouldn’t have.

The silence weighs heavy on your shoulders.

You grab your sketchbook.

DAY 6

‘Just one more day.’ You remind yourself again, scrunched up against the couch. ‘One more day, Lana. You’re almost there.’

To your relief, the past week had passed by fairly quickly. Maybe it was your rainbow blackout state with the sketchbook, maybe it was you actually managing conversation with the wolf for a time. There was a lingering fear that these past few days would drag on until infinity, but a majority of it’s now done and dusted.

Though, after how your conversation ended yesterday that “time stands still” trope is fitting well. A particular stillness has tainted the air, and now the act of being in the room with the wolf makes you feel, out of every emotion, awkward. Like something is refusing to digest and is digging into the bottom of your stomach. And the worst part is that you don’t know how to get it out. You could apologize again, but what for? “I’m sorry for hurting your feelings?” That’d just make you sound like even more of a dick!

So instead you’ve just been counting down the seconds. The long, agonizing seconds. Once you know that there isn’t much time left, it’s hard to focus on anything else. The most you’ve been able to muster in the meanwhile are some small doodles and scribbles. All contained on a single page.

Lobo isn’t helping, eating at the dinner table again. His back is towards you, munching on something you haven’t been able to see. Probably more Soul Food, maybe an empanada with bones. Or steamed spinach. You gag, but the jury’s out on if it came from the food or the awkwardness.

Maybe you should take a nap as you wait, your energy is running low at this point. No sleep/meditation and non-stop drawing isn’t the best for the soul. You sigh.

Out of the corner of your eye there’s a bit of motion, coming from the dinner table. But when you move to check, nothing has changed. The wolf is still munching away at some more Soul Food. He’s been muttering something underneath his breath and tapping a claw against the wood since he’s shown up, but he hasn’t moved to leave either.

It’s weird to watch, but after the past week–after yesterday–you’re perfectly content to wait out the clock. You gave it your best for Vida, at least.

You pull your knees up closer and scribble blue out of a raincloud. You’ve been missing wind lately.

“.......mushrooms.”

“Huh?” You look up.

“...mushrooms.” Lobo says again, looking behind him. Like an answer to a question nobody said. “What do you, think of them?”

...you peer past him, as if someone had prompted this topic. Nope, nobody.

“…as in, to eat? To cook, as a concept?”

“No. I mean, yes, those, but–ugh.” He covers his face with a paw and huffs. The other paw circles in the air. “Mushrooms. In general. What do you think?”

You blink. Forget being hit out of left field, you’re getting blindsided by carriage powered clothesline. Especially because it’s coming from Lobo of all people. Where is this coming from??

“I, guess I think they’re cool???” You squeeze out the reply. “Some have neat colors, I guess? I haven’t really seen many in person, aside from ones I used in the tavern.”

“Good colors, yeah.” He nods, still glancing over his shoulder to you. “The evolution they’ve undergone produces, neat looking color combinations.”

“As in, red and spotted white?”

“That’s one of them, but… ugh.” He squeezes his mouth shut and looks away, digging a claw into a colorful spot of the table. “Forget it. Go back to your drawing.”

He takes a bite out of something crunchy, leaving the conversation hanging in the air.

…that’s it? An entire day of silence, then he pops in a question about mushrooms out of the blue? What was the point of any of that?? You almost want to laugh from its absurdity, but you’re absolutely stumped on how to respond to any of this.

Lobo said to put it out of your mind, so you turn back to the paper. Sprinkling in a bit more raindrops below…

“Nah. Nope.”

You slam the notebook shut and stand up, striding over to the table.

“Hm?” The wolf freezes, a chunk of food in his mouth.

“You’re just going to drop a question like that, completely out of nowhere, then just dismiss it like it’s nothing?” You chuckle with a hand on your hip. “Then expect me to drop it??”

This is the first time you’ve stared at Lobo all day and he looks as blindsided as you. His eyes are wide, the remains of a grey tamale in his mouth. There are a few indents in the table from where he was tapping a claw as well.

“Nuh-uh. You’re not leaving me hanging like that.” You pull out a chair and plant your ass down. “Finish what you were saying. What’s going on about mushroom colors?”

El Lobo blinks at you. Gulping down the chunk of Soul Food in his mouth. Putting the rest down on the plate.

“...well, many mortals know about the mushroom you described: red with spotted white. Amanita muscaria. Deadly to eat for many, since its psychoactive properties can induce intense hallucinations and seizures.” He explains, looking off to the side as he does so. “Certain mushrooms can be so potent that the brain can imagine you drowning in an ocean, as you choke on foam bubbling in your throat.”

“Uh huh.” You listen, hand on your chin, trying to not look disturbed.

“But they’re not entirely poisonous. Many are able to walk away, albeit after fighting against their own bodies for days on end. Many, many more have that potential, even causing one’s skin to peel off~” Lobo flashes a grin at that fact, but less to intimidate and more at the mere fact itself. “Plus, in potionology, their hallucinogenic nature can be neutralized by pacifying ingredients as a sleep remedy. Not to mention they’re fairly good for gnomes and smaller wood sprites to use for their amenities, since its properties can protect them from predators.”

“Yeah, yeah I know they’re used in potions and stuff.” You nod, immensely curious to know where this is going. “A bunch of vegetables are.”

The wolf’s ears perk up a tad, and he meets your eyes. “You see, that’s the thing. Mushrooms aren’t technically a vegetable, at least as they’re defined today. Mortals can debate on and on about whether certain things are fruits or vegetables based on where the seeds grow. But for fungus, it’s neither. Yes, through magical means they may be implanted on a living being, but they spread through spores and don’t need any chlorophyll to survive. They survive purely off of other living beings’ nutrients, both alive and dead. Fungus is a completely separate entity.”

“’Entity.’” You smirk a bit. “The way you talk about it makes it sound like they’re sentient.”

“Sentience. That’s a rather touchy subject among mortals I’ve noticed.” He nods and waves a paw. “There are talking mushrooms, given a sufficient amount of magic by a benefactor to produce intelligence. A few mana-mutated hiveminds as well. They are well and good on their own, living their lives as they see fit. But what I’m referring to are mushrooms that don’t have that level of intelligence. Ones that mortals don’t consider to be their level of ‘sentient.’”

Oh from the way he spat out that word you can tell that he has some Thoughts about that. Then again, it makes sense for the God of Death to have thoughts on matters regarding souls. But you stay quiet on that point, make a note of it for later.

“Yes, mushrooms can be poisonous. Yes, they can be used for medicinal and magical purposes. Mortals love to categorize things in relation to themselves.” Lobo rolls his eyes. “But mushrooms, as they exist by themselves, are fascinating in their own right. They’ve undergone tens of thousands of mutations in the past 500 years, and each is entirely unique. They simultaneously decompose waste and provide nutrients, giving both life and death–”

“Snrrk! Pfehehe.” A snicker spurts out as you continue listening to the wolf, needing to cover your mouth to keep them from coming out. The wolf stops mid-sentence, lowering his paws and closing his mouth. little smile that had been growing on his face is now crawling back into the crevice it came from.

“What?” He asks flatly. His expression begins to sour again.

“No, no I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you.” You lower your hand to reveal your smile. “I mean, I kind of am? I’ve just never heard someone so enthusiastic about mushrooms before.”

His ears flick down and brows press together, but the scorn isn’t as strong as it usually is (after seeing it thrown your way so many times it’s hard to not notice). He starts reaching for the empanada.

“I meant it in a good way I swear!” Both hands shoot up to ease him down. “All of this is really interesting, I didn’t know about the mutations thing! Really.”

“…really?” He asks suspicious, hand resting on the Soul Food.

“Really.” You cross one leg over the other, an arm on the back rest. “C’mon, hit me with some more fungus facts. I’m all ears.”

The wolf’s crimson eyes search you up and down, investigating for any sort of hidden punchline or trickery. Both of his crimson moons squint for a while, what feels like several minutes. But, seeing that you’re completely serious, he retracts his hand and lets his arm relax.

“…well, a majority of traditional plants consist of their main ‘body’ being above ground, while its roots nestle into the soil for nutrients. But for fungus, its structure is actually reversed. The bit you see is its considered the ‘head,’ while the vein-like roots underground are the main body, akin to a nervous system. And yes, many do feel ‘pain’ and have defense mechanisms in response.”

Well. The thought of a mushroom feeling pain is a tad unsettling, so you’ll immediately forget that information!

“But those veins beneath the dirt can stretch farther. Much, much farther than mortals can see. If a mushroom is big enough or it connects with other compatible species, they can form a mycorrhizal network–a large web of veins that doesn’t just connect to other fungi, but to other plant life as well.” He holds up a finger as he explains, a content smile resting on his face. “The largest network can even span an entire forest, over two square miles.”

“Miles??” You lean in a bit in disbelief. There’s yet another twinge of terror, but it’s not from him this time. It’s unsettling, but in an odd, comforting way? Weird. “Why would it need to grow that big? Was a drought going on and it needed nutrients?”

“You’d think that, but those networks are frequently used to share nutrients with other plant life. Parasitic networks exist as well, sapping the nutrients out of other living things, and magically infused they can be a force to be reckoned with. But if you want to hear about parasitic fungus? Cordyceps is quite a devil in of itself. It influences its host to get itself eaten… ”

DAY 7

A full week had came and went.

As promised, Vida returned. The handle of the front door morphed into a bronze knob, and through the creaking door stepped through the blue furred deer. She was holding a picnic basket with a few things clinking around inside. Seeing your complete mess of an outfit was a shock (you honestly forgot about it after a while), though her biggest surprise was finding you both waiting for her together. Not at the front door, desperate to be separated, but in the living room. You on the sofa, him in the furthest chair.

They could notice the difference in air quality immediately; the hostility she had left you both with had vanished into a comfortable neutrality. Her little tail fluttered in the back at this realization, but she quickly tried to hide it.

Brief greetings and hello’s later, she sprouted three extra arms and rifled through her basket, setting the table with a cloth, a small collection of treats, and a porcelain tea set. The teapot and cups were white with dark blue markings and a sprinkle of gold lining the rim. On your teacup was a marking of a blue bird, on Lobo’s a snail. Vida’s deer form stood in the center of the teapot, circled by many others.

“Everything here is a gift from one of my artisans, they made it for us after learning about this meeting of ours!” Vida claps her hands together while recounting the story. Lobo seems less than enthusiastic than they are.

You’ve never been much of a tea person unless it comes as a side dish to a cup of sugar. Though somehow, despite not having a scroll to look at, she seems to already know what kind you like. She put a cup of sweet lemon tea next to a plate of blueberry muffins and cookies. The crumble on top made it look downright delicious.

It takes a few dozen minutes for you to stop crying, tears streaming down after the first bite of muffin–of real food. Lobo earns a disapproving glare from his sister as you add salt to the soft and flaky bread.

Once you’re able to take a steady breath (and scarf down two extra muffins and cookies), you begin detailing what’s happened in the past week.

You show her your flower drawing and how much you appreciated your gift (and Lobo bringing your 3 AM rainbow disaster, getting a laugh out of the deer).

Vida appears relieved at hearing you both apologized to each other (she doesn’t need to know it took three days to do so).

Lobo keeps quiet about certain details regarding how your conversation ended on a sour two days ago (Vida seems suspicious, but doesn’t say a word).

Most notably, when the topic of mushrooms is brought up, Vida’s eyes perk open mid-sip. She listens rather intently as you lightly jab at Lobo for his mushroom fascination. “With how passionately he talked about them, it felt like he wanted to be a mushroom himself.”

“It’s a fairly pleasant experience, if a bit limiting.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He nibbles on a peanut butter cookie, leg resting on the other knee.

Vida smiles at the sight of your banter–for once, your hands not aiming at each other’s throats–and looks incredibly relieved. At least, you think they are. Deer antlers sagging as she exhales could also be a natural thing that happens, you’ve never watched one for long periods of time.

She corrects herself soon enough though and takes another sip from her cup.

A fair deal of talking and an entire plate of cookies later, your stomach feels full for the first time in a month. While it may be true that spirits don’t need to eat, dear god you’ve missed having something to chew on and taste. You’re not sure if that amazing taste comes from it being really good (likely) or because you haven’t tasted anything like it in a while (also likely).

“So then.” Vida takes one last sip of her tea then rests it atop the table. “From the sound of it this little experiment came along swimmingly.”

“…eeeh.”
“It had some slow moments.”

“Don’t flatter yourselves! It’s a rare treat to listen to my brother discuss fungus again.” She smiles and waves a paw, but then it sombers and she rests both in her lap. “Still, I understand having a few conversations doesn’t mean you’re automatically friends.”

Here it comes, the final decision. Admittedly it slipped your mind during tea time, devouring an entire bakery’s worth of sweets. But this is the moment you’ve been waiting for.

“You’ve both done an amazing job this past week. What I’ve heard is much more than I ever could have expected from you two.” She smiles so sweetly, though you can’t help but feel a bit of a sting. Her brother glances away too. “And I do think that, if you gave it more time, you would realize that you both have so much more in common.”

“I mean, maybe?”
“Wouldn’t go that far.”
“Still the whole, Grim Reaper thing, you know?”
“She’s pretty, well, you know.”

Vida deadpans at the both of you, and yet again you feel like you’re missing something. She breathes, then her smile returns.

“I won’t force either of you to do anything you don’t want. Unless the both of you agree to stay together here, I’ll take in Fuilana as my Artisan. But I do hope, after the past week you both have had,” she wrings her hands together, “you’ve at least considered the possibility a bit?”

The answer should be easy. It is easy. Just because you’ve had a few good conversations, it doesn’t mean you’re friends now–doesn’t change the fact that he’s still an ass. It doesn’t change the fact that you’re still subjected to this void with barely any company or things to do. Even if the rock in your stomach digs deeper at the thought of rejecting Vida’s offer, it doesn’t change that fact. Besides, Lobo absolutely wants you gone, and there wouldn’t be a point in staying here if he–

“I can survive.” Lobo says.

What.

You and Vida snap your gazes to him. He’s lounging back, holding up the remains of his cookie to his eye. Inspecting the fine details. “Don’t get me wrong, I would love nothing more than to have this realm to myself again, get some peace and quiet. Maybe not wake up to find my living room a complete mess.”

“Hey. You didn’t have anything I could use to clean up in the first place, what was I supposed to do?” You lean on your knees.

“But, after dealing with these things for over a month? I can live with the extra noise. I’ll survive.” He tosses the cookie remains in his maw and chews, eyes closed. “I can tell that this means a lot to you, hermana. If it makes you happy, I’ll go along with it.”

Both human and god watch the wolf chew. He’s fine with you staying? ‘Well, no. He’s indifferent to you staying, that’s not the same.’

Still, compared to a week ago this feels like a gigantic shift! The man who said he didn’t need or want a Mortem–or anyone for that matter–to stay with him, now saying that ‘he can live with the noise?’ You’d be less shocked if he suddenly ripped off his cloak and started shaving off all his fur right then and there! What on earth changed between then and now??

A gentle thmpthmpthmpthmp draws you back to reality. Vida, with both hands clasped together tight, is bouncing a newly formed rabbit leg on the ground.

“That’s, very nice to hear hermanito. I really, appreciate your consideration.” They squeak out, desperately trying to suppress a giant smile and (literally) sparkling, hopeful eyes. Out of the two of you, Lobo was likely pegged as hardest to convince.

“As I said, I know it means a lot to you.” He shrugs, nonchalantly. “But before you get excited, there’s one more person you should ask.”

He points a thumb over to you and oop now those wide sparkling eyes are on you. Vida tries to cough and shrink them back down, dismissing the rabbit’s foot. But with how tightly she’s clasping her hands in her lap, alongside a lingering glint in her pupils.

Well. Now this is a conundrum isn’t it?

Vida’s bluebird teacup is still in your hands, a bit of fluid still swirling around inside. The porcelain feels smooth, refined. As if it came from a master craftsman. A few crumbs of muffin are still stuck in your teeth, tongue still dabbed with blueberry.

People made these–people you can go and meet, ask what recipes they used. How they cooked the And you can go there right now. You don’t have to stay here–heck, you could live in Vida’s realm and pop by whenever Vida comes to visit. Maybe even write letters to him. Sure, there’s a risk of them falling out of touch again, of the both of you getting caught up in your work to not remember.

But you don’t have to be here. So…

Vida’s practically vibrating with anticipation. You pinch the sides of the cup, and take a breath.

“.....I, suppose,” you shrug, “I could try staying here a bit longer.”

Lobo’s brows raise. Vida’s hands squeeze and mold like clay, but she still stays silent for you to speak.

“I don’t know if I fully wanna commit to this yet.” You clarify quickly. “You promised to give me some stuff to use here, things Artisans don’t even get, and I’m really interested in those! But I also really, really wanna see other people again. And I get the feeling that inviting anyone else to room here probably isn’t something on Lobo’s ‘To Do’ list.”

“Absolutely not.” The reaper grunts at the mere thought. “I already have my hands full with one of you, I don’t need another running around.”

“Yeah, thought so.” The bluebird teacup rests on the table with a clink. “Like Lobo said, I wouldn’t mind staying here for a little bit longer. Test things out, see how we feel. But if becoming a Mortem is an official process, like I need to make a Vow of Allegiance or something along those lines? I think I’d rather hold off.”

The deer seems to have dialed back their giddiness at your wariness. Pupils revert to their original size and her hands regain their proper, non-squeezed shape. But her smile has not left.

“That is, understandable. Completely understandable. Any mortal would get lonely if they don’t have sufficient access to friends.” She nods, fingers locking together. “I can provide you with the materials we discussed, and we can keep checking in to see how you both feel. Does that sound alright?”

In all honesty? Not the best. There’s a loud voice in your head saying to follow Vida back to their home. There’s a very high chance you just prolonged your stay here for nothing. Lobo’s just as stunned as you are right now that you’re not hopping at the chance to leave.

But it won’t be permanent. You can stay a bit longer, test the waters with Lobo and the tools you were given, then go from there. You’re still quite interested in whatever those ‘extras thrown in’ may entail, after all.

Plus, all things considered, you are interested in hearing more mushroom facts.

“Well then, in that case.” Vida sprouts up from the chair and claps her hands together. “Fuilana, you are now officially my brother’s unofficial Mortem! We’ll hold off on the Vow that comes with it for the time being.”

Woof. Definitely made a good call there.

“The Vow we already made should be sufficient enough.” Lobo says. “It requires both of us to agree to ending it, so functionally it serves the same purpose. Minus the fancy wording the others use.”

“Its fun!” Vida pouts. “Also, bold words Mr. Smell of Fear.”

“That is functional. It quite literally acts as a spice. All the fancy wording you use for official Mortem ceremonies is just fluff.”

“Mhm, mhm. Sure.” She smirks with a paw on her hip. “Remind me next time to introduce my presence with an ominous whistle.”

“Hey.”

“Pfft–!” You snort, covering your mouth. The wolf shoots a glare your way.

Vida giggles alongside you, but squeezes her snout shut to cut herself off. Lobo just pouts at the both of you. After a brief breath, Vida takes out her pocket notepad and flips through some pages.

“Well, I shouldn’t keep you waiting any longer. If I’m going to get you those supplies, I’m going to have to finally call in those favors I’m owed~” Vida smirks, scribbling down new notes.

“Favors?” You tilt your head.
“Favors?” Lobo leans in. “Hermana, please tell me you’re not–”

“Sorry hermano, gotta run!!” Vida cuts him off and starts to skip off towards the door. But for a moment she stalls, then turns around to spring across the room to you and–arms growing in size–she pulls you into a tight hug. The sensation is quick, but strong and oh boy wow you haven’t had physical contact like this in a long time she’s really soft.

One whispered ‘thank you’ later, she transforms into a bluebird and flies over to the door. With a click! the knob turns, and she exits out the front to run her errands. Leaving both you and the God of Death in silence, once again.

There’s still that little seed of doubt wriggling in your chest. But you push it down. This could end up being fun. There’s only one way to find out.

“Ugh. I swear,” the wolf grumbles, “if she tells them about this…”

“Tell who?” You ask.

“Nothing. It’s nothing.” He grabs a muffin and chomps into it, tearing off the whole top. “It shouldn’t be anything.”

Well. That’s not ominous at all.

“...ominous whistle, huh?”
“Amulet chant, huh?”
“Go fuck yourself, Lobo.” You pull out your journal.
“Fuck you too, Lana.” He smirks, then takes another bite.

Chapter Text

IN CASE FOR SOME REASON THE IMAGES WON'T LOAD IN PAGE AND THE LINKS DON'T WORK, USE THIS LINK TO READ ON GOOGLE DOCS

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This is the worst thing you’ve ever eaten.And that’s saying something, considering the soul apple you chomped on your first day here.

You want to grab the closest thing that resembles a sponge and scrape off the culinary atrocities from your taste buds, but that would require you to stand up. In just one bite, this accursed meal has completely sapped every last drop of will from your body. Even as you sit in this dinner chair, holding your hands to your hair and clenching tight, the tugging feeling is drowned out by the horrors in your food hole.

Somewhere far behind you, you can hear Lobo bursting out in laughter. He watched every second, amused as you made mistake after mistake after mistake until you were using a liberal definition of “making food.” And he savored every last second, all up to when the hope drained from your face from just one bite.

‘This isn’t purgatory. This is true hell.’

“Wh-h hhhahaha, what made you think that using lemon juice instead of olive oil was a good idea hahahehehe!” Lobo’s snicker fades in as your senses return. His laugh starts with a slight wheeze and a paw to his snout, then forming into a hardy rhythmic chuckle to the tempo of a man’s sprinting steps across pavement.

“ Shut up…” You groan.

“I mean, after all that time you spent as a cook, you’d think that you would have at least learned something from all that instead of making–”

“Can you stop rubbing salt in the wound please?!” You snap back to the wolf, one eye blinked open as he tries to catch his breath. “You’re practically pouring in the entire shaker at this point.”

“I don’t think I needed to, considering just how much you dumped onto it yourself.” He points to the moat of salt surrounding the lump of indescribable brown mass on your plate. “Also are those crushed olives around the side? Is that meant to be a sort of garnish??”

“You know, you’ve done a whole lot of nothing just standing there! If you’re gonna keep laughing in my face,” you grab the Corpse of Culinary Arts and shove it towards him, fork under thumb, “how about you take a bite yourself?!”

Lobo holds up both of his paws in a mock surrender as the plate is offered to him, teeth still bared from his giggle session. But, after meeting your gaze, he takes the fork and plate from your grip. You watch in a mixture of anticipation and dread as he plucks the silverware, digs it into the chicken thigh and (unable to cut off a chunk) lifts it all up to his mouth for one large chomp!

You don’t want to think about the audible crunch as he chews through the abundant fat. His eyes look up and away as he fully takes in the flavor profile, all the lemon juice and garlic cloves and olive mush and charred chicken meat. His face never shifting away from that entertained grin.

He swallows. Shifts his weight. Taps the plate.

“Yeah.” He looks back at you and nods. “This is terrible.”

You press your face into the table and groan. Specifically in a spot where you can’t smell the meat juices that had spilled earlier.

“You aren’t gonna get anywhere by taking these kinds of shortcuts, perrita. You should be grateful that I’m not allowing you to get food poisoning while you’re here. ” Lobo places the platter of yuck back in front of you. “Just do the recipe as it’s listed and stop being impatient. There’s no threat of you starving to death, and you certainly don’t have anywhere to be.”

“ Uuughh…” You know he’s right. But you really don’t want to admit it. “Yeah, fine. Whatever. Aren’t you late to your 3 AM soul collecting or whatever?”

“Oh don’t you worry, I made sure I had this penciled in. I wouldn’t miss that look on your face for the world.” At this point he may as well bash your head in with that sarcasm. Footsteps move away from you. “Enjoy your lunch, perrita! Make sure to clean the plate, waste not want not!”

“Shut!”

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“Vida. Mi hermana.¿De dónde sacaste esos regalos para Fuílana?” Lobo whisper-hisses at his sister in the kitchen, away from you and the basket of gifts.

It’s giant, the basket handle reaching up a few feet above the gifts and nearing your head. The only way for you to carry this would be to grab the sides or wrap the handle around your neck and carry it like a mule. Or, in Vida’s case, grow a few extra arms.

“Lo dije hace un momento, la cesta de regalo es de El Nueve–” Vida whispers back, a twinge of anxiousness in her response.

You decide to start with the biggest item on the pile: a large blanket. It’s made of thick wool, heavy to pick up though not scratchy at all. A dark brown and golden stitching decorates the surface, but not all of the stitching is perfect, there’s two or three loose threads across the whole surface. Hand made.

“No. Los artefactos– el libro, el sol, la nube. Tu los hiciste para Fuílana, ¿no?”

You wrap the blanket around yourself to feel the weight, then fwoomf. A warmness suddenly spreads across your body. Much more gentle than when you touched the sun, like walking into a warm house with the fireplace active. There’s even a faint smell of a campfire in the air now too.

It feels delightful, cozy. A warm reprieve from the constant slight chill that Lobo’s realm usually is. The siren song of a cozy nap is very tempting, but there are plenty more gifts to go. You keep it wrapped around your shoulders though. Feels nice.

“.....”

Second largest gift coming up: a large, cylindrical crimson… bag? It’s the size of your torso and requires both legs to lift up and out. The surface is leathery and smooth and it feels like something’s inside and oop it’s slipping from your fingers!

Crunch.

“Vida.”

You blink. Then kneel down next to it, feeling the contents inside. The bag has a tiny amount of give to it and when you press down– crunch. Like leaves being crushed beneath your foot. Crunch. Like biting into your favorite fried foods. The sound tingles against your ears.

Magic punching bag. Neat.

“…puede que haya… tenido algunos favores que quise usar–”

Next on the docket: a large parchment of paper. Rolled up pretty tight and tied with a thread. After trying and failing to untie it, you settle on biting the thread off to let it loose. You plop it on the ground and roll it outwards to find–

A giant portrait of a seaside cliff in a sunrise, and a man on top of that cliff with both arms raised. On the bottom there’s some cursive script. ‘ Belief in yourself will take you far!’

You roll up the motivational poster and toss it across the room.

“Ugh. Maldita sea. Todos saben ahora– ¿por qué les dijiste sobre ella?”

Nearing the bottom now. There’s a small collection of books at the bottom, really thick ones with rather fancy gold leafing around the page edges. In (cursive) script, their titles are written. ‘The Secrets of the Crystal Cove.’ ‘A Throne of Blood and Bone.’ ‘Requiem for an Earthen Heart.’ Quite a diverse collection of stories, from adventure to political thriller to forbidden romance.

The bottoms of each don’t have an author, though according to some titles they’re ‘weaved by’ different people. Directly below that, there’s also a notation of ‘experienced by…’ The names on each book are different there too. Maybe that means they’re based off of real events?

Either way, books are still something to do so you’ll gladly accept these.

“¡No les dije! No les dije una palabra. Pero, está la posibilidad de que dijera los artefactos fueron para una Mortem nueva y el resto del Nueve les hablaron…”

All that remains in the basket, aside from the fabric blanketing the bottom, is a small orb. It’s a dark blue hue and a bit of light reflects off the surface. Reminds you of a marble. You reach down to pick it up and–

FWOOOOOM–

You drop it and jolt away.

“Olvídalo. Olvídalo, no importa. No quiero pensar sobre ellos viniendo aquí. Necesito asegurarme de que mi reino es seguro, no quiero que el niño haga un desorden en mi casa.”

You look towards the kitchen where Life and Death are whisper-hissing family matters to one another. Neither of them heard that? The sudden howl of a thunderstorm rushing past your ears and tearing through the silence of cabin?

Curiously, like a cat inspecting some strange new addition to its home, you creep your hand toward the marble once again. With a tap of your finger, once again, FWOO . It cuts off when you let go. FWO. FWOO. FWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMM!! The roaring wind crashes against your ears and all around you there’s the pounding of rain against wood like cannon fire hammering against your body. Yet your surroundings don’t shift an inch, and you don’t feel a single hair bristle from the breeze.

“…lo siento, Lobo.”

After a brief breath you let the storm marble go. There’s a strange tension in your chest, getting that small glimpse of nature outside of this bubble. Your new little raincloud has helped you feel the rain, but never something this strong.

…maybe you could tear off a piece of the fabric along the bottom to carry it. It’s neat, but constantly hearing that whenever you touch it doesn’t sound the most appealing.

“…No te preocupes, lo puedo manejar. ¿Los regalos no son peligrosos?”

Dragging the basket forward is much easier now without the excess. You don’t have any scissors, but a knife could always work for–

Hang on. The visible part of the fabric is all black, but when you pulled it close a sliver of deep, dark purple flashed from the underside. You start to lift it out, but you realize with each pull just how long this thing is. All attached to a long wooden pole on the top with a string.

You have to stand up to view the design in full. With the sound of footsteps and hoofsteps behind you, flipping the fabric around, you, see…

“No, todos los regalos son–”

Vida stops talking once she gets close enough to you, both of them stop walking. They likely can both see the full design from this angle, too. You turn, eyes still wide and stomach dropped low, towards both of the gods. Vida’s fingers are up against their mouth and Lobo is frozen in place. Just as surprised as wide-eyed as you are.

“Guys?” You ask, gesturing to the tapestry. “What the hell is this?”

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“She… gave her something?” Vida mutters to herself. Neither are exactly scared, but it seems that they’re more shocked by the existence of the tapestry than the design itself. “But they never give gifts, why would…”

“Who?” You press, looking back at your own face on the tapestry, your neck circled by Lobo’s blades. “Who made this? Were they watching what was going on that night? Why the hell would they send me this as a gift–”

Lobo brushes past you and power walks out the front door. The rush of wind follows soon after. Both you and the Goddess of Creation are left there standing in his absence.

Vida said earlier that none of the gifts are dangerous, yet holding this monument to your greatest mistake fills you with a very particular flavor of dread. Like right now, some sort of far off deity is watching you stare at the gift they made for you.

Or maybe they already knew it was going to happen.

…you drop the tapestry into the basket.

“Ahem.” Vida coughs, drawing your attention away. He seems to have recomposed themselves. After brushing her hands down the fluffy sides of their neck to smooth them down, Vida reaches into a pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. In purple and distinctively non-cursive ink, your name is written. “I was also told to give this to you.”

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“Two ones.” Lobo taps a claw on the table.

“Two fours .” You lean in.

“Three fours.” He hums.

“Liar.”

With a teasing smirk, Lobo lifts his paw. Five different dice, black with red numbers, are revealed: a three, a six, a wolf skull (one), and two fours.

For the fifth time today, you suppress your urge to flip the table.

“Well, perrita?” Lobo rests his chin on the back of his paw.

Head in your hand, you lift up and reveal your own dice. Two skulls and a four. He wins again.

“It’s astonishing how bad you are at this. It’s just simple probability.” Lobo shakes his head as he takes away another one of your dice.

“Shut.“ You puff your cheeks, taking your two dice back up in your hand and rattling them around. ”I just have bad luck when it comes to these types of games.“

“It may be primarily luck, but it’s also about measuring that probability.” Clattataclackat . His smile is gentle as he examines his dice. “This game has been played for centuries by civilizations old and new, and even in its earliest forms that factor was apparent. Many mortals today view older societies as barbaric, but certain schools of thought and battalion formations originated from those ancestors. They’re smarter than a lot of people give them credit for.“

“Just because this has been played for a while it doesn’t mean I don’t have bad luck.” Clattataclackat . “If you’re as old as dice, then you should know that bad luck negates any sort of strategy.”

“For this game, perhaps. But bad luck can also bring plenty of advantages. Two threes.”

“Literally how? Three threes.”

“What if you got something so ludicrously bad, the players realize something they thought was impossible? Three fours.”

“I fail to see how this applies to me. Four threes.”

“Liar.”

Your body wilts. You lift up your hand to reveal your dice. A six and a skull.

Lobo looks quite satisfied with himself as he lifts up his paw. Five, four, three, two, skull. The table’s two threes short.

“Luck will always be an influencer,” Lobo plucks a die away, “but the best minds are able to take that into account.”

“I regret asking to play with you.”

Lobo snrrk’s as his dice are swept back up. “The more I get to know you, the more surprised I am that you managed to get me with that coin flip loophole. Are you sure you’re the same girl I caught back then?”

“Yes I am,” you pick up your singular die and fiddle with it between your fingers, poking out your tongue, “and I’m also the same girl that reached the top ten of your most annoying mortals list.”

“I got sloppy, I won’t deny that.” Lobo shakes his dice in his paws, gaze downwards. “But that was just one mistake. I underestimated you. Far more unfortunate souls have tried to fight or challenge me for another chance at life and lost. It gets repetitive at times.” Clacklaclittilack.

“And yet you still jumped at the chance for a game when I offered it back then.” Clink . “I saw it this time too. Made you look like a rabbit, heh .”

“Two threes. Also, what?” Lobo’s eyebrow raises.

“Your ears.” You point above his head with your other hand while closely analyzing the details of the red skull you rolled. “Both times when I offered to play something with you, your ears perked upright. Two fours.”

“…I, what?”

“Two fours, dude.” You glance up at the wolf. He’s looking at you, a bit of surprise on his cheek. Both ears perked up as well. It fades the second you look his way, his ears flicking backwards. But even as he puts on a smirk you’ve already catalogued that expression into your memory. You caught him off guard.

“Well, aren’t you the one with all these materials? And you’re still paying this close attention to me? I’d much rather you focus on your own issues, considering how much of a pain you were to get them in the first place.” He closes his eyes and waves away the shock that had overtaken him. “Two sixes.”

“Liar.”

Lobo’s ears and eyebrows fall flat. You both lift up your hands. In total, there is one two, three skulls and one six.

You beam brighter than the sun as you pluck a die from his pile and drop it to the side.

“Just one win and that royal arrogance returns.” Lobo shakes his head with a soft snort. “I’m still at four dice, you know.”

“Four dice or six, it won’t save you from the reckoning!” Both of your arms rise up and you point down at your singular die. “The comeback starts now, gray boy!”

...

You lose two rounds later, then begin for the sixth rematch of the day.

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Deep breath in, deep breath out. Left foot, right foot. In, out, left, right.

You feel like you need to manually command yourself to take each step as you approach Lobo’s cabin. One plate in each hand and one balanced along your forearm (those years waiting tables haven’t left you yet). Two long weeks of work, manifested into three plates of food.

You haven’t taken a bite yet. It would be rude to eat before your guests. And besides, with how tightly your stomach is twisting, you doubt you could take a bite now even if you wanted to.

Tapping the door open with your boot, you step in. There’s a whiff of idle talk that leaks through the door (something about cats?), but as you walk in the chatter quiets down. Across the room, sitting at the dinner table, the Gods of Creation and Destruction sit patiently. Waiting to try your home cooked Chicken Adobo.

Vida smiles excitedly and reassuringly, hands clasped in their lap.
Lobo grins and follows suit, resting his snout on his palm.
You grimace, wishing for your stomach to stop twisting up in knots.

“Well,” you say, placing the plates in front of the gods, “bon appetite.”

“Ooh, it looks quite nice for a first dish.” Vida scoots in closer and picks up her fork. “You know, a few of my Artisans cook this from time to time when they’re feeling peckish, though it’s been a while since I tried some myself. I’m interested to see your spin on it Lana!”

“Me too.” Lobo twirls the fork, keeping eye contact as you sit in your chair. “Especially after unique take for the first attempt.”

“Oh? Did you already cook this before?” Vida tilts her head.

“Nope, absolutely not! This is totally my first time, haha!” You laugh and hold your hands up, then flash a threatening glare to the wolf when his sister looks away. He looks at his plate, pretending he didn’t see you.

“Well, in any case…” Vida puts a paw on her chest and bows his head. “Thank you for the food.”

“Mhm. Thanks.” Lobo says, analyzing his plate.

“No problem.” You swallow, then pick up your fork.

…even as the two gods scoop up a portion of rice and chicken, your fork hovers. To someone who doesn’t cook as much it looks like Chicken Adobo, everything looks fine. But as the girl who cooked the dish, you can see all the little imperfections. The chicken isn’t so much glazed with the soy sauce but soaked in it. Some of the green onion is cut a little too thick. The white rice looks a bit undercooked too.

“…hm.” Vida makes a noise. It’s… neutral? Disappointment?

Lobo takes his own bite, chewing quite loudly. An eyebrow raises.

But that’s all needless anxieties. Right? You won’t know unless you try it yourself. Steel your nerves hermana. You scoop up a bit of rice and chicken, raise it to your mouth and (unable to keep your eyes open) chomp down.

…the chicken is edible, but more tender than it should be. The soy sauce holds a faint bitterness that isn’t meant to be there. But the rice is chewy, and the addition of the veggies balances out the

Crunch.

..... You forgot to de-bone the meat.

“Well. This is… an admirable first try.” Vida swallows her bite. But you spot her other cheek opening and discreetly ejecting a tiny bone. “The rice and the soy sauce are still quite good! You should be proud of yourself for that–”

“Please don’t, Vida.” You groan into your hands. “Just tell me that it wasn’t good and get it over with.”

Lobo takes another bite.

“Lana, don’t get caught up in the mistakes.” Vida puts her fork down and stretches her arm to pat your back. “I’ve seen this hundreds of times from thousands of Artisans. All you need to do is keep these lessons in mind for next time.”

“But next time is so far away though. It took me so long to make all this, and Adobo is one of the simplest dishes I could make!” You gesture at the food. “I put two whole weeks of effort making one meal–a simple meal that barely takes an hour–just forget one of the most important steps.”

Lobo takes another bite.

“I know it’s just one thing. I know it’s nothing. But god, I don’t want to have to go through all that time again.” You hold your elbows close. “I just want it to taste like it did back then.”

“…well you’re right about one thing.”

Both you and Vida turn Lobo’s way. He just finished swallowing another bite, licking his lips to get the extra sauce. The fork is still in his paw. He shifts his gaze over to you.

“This is pretty bad.”

“…gee thanks.” You deadpan. His bluntness feels like a bucket of ice water was dunked onto your head.

“The bones are an obvious factor. I can still taste some of the olives that you used for the oil in the vegetables, and your soy sauce could use a bit more time to ferment too.” Lobo takes another bite. “But I’ve had worse.”

“You know that’s not exactly flattering coming from the dog that likes to eat Grass Clipping Perogis, right?” You cross your arms.

“And who said I was trying to flatter you? I’m just sharing my opinion.” He holds the fork between his middle and pointer paws, pointing it your way. “Though, this likely would taste better than Spicy Chicken Thighs.”

“Snrrk, jesus you are awful, shut up.” You roll your eyes, unable to keep a straight face. Hard to stay mad at yourself when he’s being such an ass. It doesn’t last forever though. Season bad food with good sauce and it’ll still shine through.

“…Look. If you’re trying to make it taste exactly like you remember, then you’re a fool.” Lobo puts down the fork and crosses his arms. “Trying to chase after an idea of something will lead you running in circles like a chicken without its head. I can imagine you already know that, of course”

“Can we stop with the chicken allegories please?”

“But. As my sister put it, you need to keep this place in mind. You’re not at the local market anymore.” He points at the table, leaning forward ever so slightly. “Even if you knew how to do something well in real life, it will take more time here, both to learn and prepare. You need to be prepared for that. And that may mean spending a day breaking rock salt again.”

“Yeah, right exactly!” Vida seems thankful for the tee-up. “You’re doing the same thing in an entirely new way. That messes up a lot of new Artisans, and even new Mortems in general. But the more you practice, the less time it’ll take. Once you settle into a rhythm, you’ll be amazed at all the new things you can do. It’ll take time, but you’ve already gone through a lot to get this chance. What’s a little more?”

“And, if you decide to stick around…” You both turn to Lobo, who has swallowed his last bite and wipes his mouth with a napkin. Clean plate. “It’d be nice to spice up my usual Grass Clipping Perogi dinners with your unique blend of terrible.”

“ Lobo.” Vida stamps a hoof and crosses her arms (both her ears and antlers flatten to the sides).

“Nah, nah don’t worry about it Vida. It’s alright.” You chuckle. “I probably won’t get any rave reviews from him. He’s been around since the invention of sliced bread, I can’t compete with that. But if I can’t make the best meal he’s had…”

You push your plate across the table with one finger, leaning forward. “Maybe I can try to make the worst.”

“Oho? Is that so~?” Lobo leans down to your eye level, pulling your plate closer. “Now that is something I’m excited to see, perrita.”

“Hope you enjoy eating my cooking scraps, Lobito. You have a lot coming ~”

Both of you laugh ominously under your breaths while making direct eye contact. A little spark of excitement flickers across the room like static electricity. Off to the side, you can see Vida breathe, smiling contently.

Lobo eats up both of your plates and you eat some of Vida’s pastries instead.

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Dotting the last period, you place the quill in between the pages and close the journal with one hand. It makes a satisfying fwump sound.

The feather’s sticking out the top, but quite far through the journal compared to last time. You’re starting to run out of pages. The book was never that big to begin with, though you can’t help but feel surprised. Who would’ve thought there was that much to write about in a place like this?

You lean back against the garden’s borders, letting yourself breathe in the slightly chilled air of The Mist. Thanks to the raincloud, there’s a bit of wind blowing through that you can see and feel. A light whisper of air against your ears pairs well with the swirling grey, pinks and greens.

Barely holding onto the black book with two fingers, you let yourself zone out. You already dried off with one of the hand rags that was given for cleaning the stations. Inconvenient, yes, but you work with what you got.

You still miss the vibrancy of the living world. Blue sky, purple flowers, dull brown trousers. The idle chatter is still something you’re getting used to living without. But then again, you felt the same way when leaving home. Swapping out the sounds of nature with the sounds of hustle and bustle. Bit by bit, you’re getting used to this place.

Maybe it won’t fully feel like home or how it was. But right now, it still feels ni–

KRACKOOOOOOOMMMMM

A single massive quake flings you a few feet in the air! It was so powerful, like a giant flicked the ground you stood on!! And that sound, was that lightning?

A sickening smell suddenly slaps you across the face. It’s iron, but it’s also a disgustingly strong sanatized stench– as if rubbing alcohol has invaded your lungs! You can’t help but cough and cover your nose with your shirt–

“Aaahahahaha. At laaaast!”

A new voice echoes through The Mist. Shock overtakes your nerves… but fades just as quickly. The voice sounds, oddly normal? Almost aggressively normal, a person trying to put on a deep gravely tone. It’s coming from the opposite side of the cabin.

Sneaking up to your feet, you creep forwards and around. The smell gets even more foul, but your curiosity is stronger than your disgust. Does Lobo feel any of this happening?

“After so long… collecting the materials for the ritual… paying for those pesky do-gooders to leave me alone…”

You creep around the cabin’s side until finally, your new guest comes into view.

You just. Have to stand there for a few seconds. Taking it all in.

Gigantic black and dark purple cloak, sleeves and bottoms torn into loose hanging shreds. On each shoulder there’s a skull of some sort of animal with three nostrils and a sharp pair of entwined antlers. Purple and gold plated platform boots. A dark ruby scepter with a skull carved on top.

All of that draped over a painfully average looking man with dark purple residue messily painted under his eyes and cheeks.

“My time has finally come… a new era of Death shall begin!! Even the Reaper Himself will tremble before my mighty boots! The boots of none other than…”

The walking mid-life crisis flips his cloak dramatically and spins to face the cabin, as if rehearsing for an audience. “PROFIMANCER, ILLDREAD LORD OF GUNGNAP!!!”

...

.....

.......

“Pfft.”

Chapter Text

“PROFIMANCER, ILLDREAD LORD OF GUNGNAP!!!”

“.....pfft!”

You hastily stifle a laugh and fight to keep your nose from snorting, but it’s no use! It’s like trying to keep a bouncing frog from jumping out of your throat! What kind of outfit is that?!

“WHO GOES THERE?!” The Profimancer~ whips around and you slip back behind the wall. “WHO DARES T– oh. Is that a, cabinwHO GOES THERE?!”

Oh dear lord, oh christ, he’s actually trying to put on a voice! When he got caught off guard he sounded just like a normal middle-aged man and he course corrected mid sentence! You can’t stop giggling, you gotta slip back away before he spots you!

Biting your inner lip to stifle yourself you creep back around the corner behind you. Despite how ridiculous he looks, this is the first time someone showed up unsolicited in The Mist, not counting Vida. That must mean he’s powerful, right? But given that this person is a human and talked about ‘becoming new death,’ you doubt he’s one of The Nine. Is he a mortal then? Was a mortal? It’d still take a lot of effort to get here on your own, that’s for sure.

“Lord of Death, hear my words!” The Profimancer exclaims, managing to keep proper inflection this time. He jingle-jangles with each step. “I know you’ve been here, waiting for me to arrive. My coming has been heralded by a parade of corpses, devoutly sacrificed in your name! So do not slink away into the shadows. I have come here to speak the language that all beings, god and mortal, know of well: business~”

Business? As in, money business? Oh this man has zero clue what Lobo is like. Lobo would rip his fancy clothes to shreds and leave him with nothing but a rag for even considering the idea.

“Come now, despite my overwhelming might there is no need to fear. Though your bloodstained skin may crawl, I am merely here for the sake of building a, mutually beneficial.” He jingles closer with increasing speed, trying so so hard to sound evil. “If you so wish, I shall drop my Scepter of Seven Hells for you. As proof of my good will.”

Putting your desperate desire to laugh aside, The Profimancer – ugh, you’re already getting sick of his title you’re just gonna call him Dave – really seems determined to do whatever deal he has in mind. Though, ‘bloodstained skin?’ Dave really doesn’t know what Lobo looks like, does he?

...oh you have an amazing idea.

“So, come! Oh being of the darkness and all things terrible, come into full view! We may yet talk, not as enemies, but as business partners~”

“…drop the stick.”

There’s a long silence. His footsteps stop just around the corner. You straighten yourself to your full height, breathing out slow.

“Drop it, then kick it over.” You say again, more firm. “You wish to make good on your word, don’t you?”

“...it’s a scepter.” Dave grumbles, then tosses the black and red hunk of metal to your feet. It sounds quite weighty and you can’t recognize the carved skull resting on its tip. It doesn’t look like any animal you know of, that’s for sure. You squat and pick it up. About as heavy as a frying pan.

“Good.” Resting the scepter on your shoulder, you step out exactly how you are. No fancy walks or deep intimidating voices, just you and your thousand dollar smile. “Now we can talk properly.”

Dave’s head flinches back in disbelief at the sight of you. His eyes widen, then squint, brows slamming against each other like a sumo match. He’s looking at you as if he just ate something and he’s unsure if it’s even edible. One hand was so obviously behind his back for stabbing but it drops soon after he sees you.

“You’re a girl.” Dave says, dropping the voice entirely.

“Mhm.” You place a hand on your hip.

“Why are you a girl?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

That question really seems to throw Dave off. His hidden hand is pulled forward completely empty.

“Because, because the Lord of Death isn’t a girl.” Dave states this like it’s a fact of life. “The countless texts I’ve pored over depict you as a man. The Grim Reaper, Charon, Satan, they’re all men. Also, why in God’s name are you wearing a skirt?”

“Oh, this?” You pinch a fold and flutter it a little to show it off. “Do you like it? I sewed in the designs myself.”

“But where’s your dark cloak? Your soul-slicing scythe? You look nothing like how the historians depicted you.” He gestures at your entire, you.

“Okay, first off? That’s my work uniform. Yes it works for instilling fear in mortals, but that’s not the only thing I wear.” You wave the scepter in Dave’s direction. “Do you wear your Garb of Darkness to bed?”

“I mean, I paid for it.”

“Yeah, that explains some things.” You lean in to make a show of inspecting the wrinkles. Dave smoothes out the front with his hands. “Second, I ask again, why wouldn’t I be girl?”

“Because, the texts…” He waves a hand with a dozen rings away to the side, referencing the ambiguous ‘texts.’

“You do know ‘Death’ in Spanish is ‘La Muerte,’ right? As in, feminine? Have you even heard of Santa Muerte?”

Dave’s eyes shoot open. The sound of a wrinkly balloon deflating fills The Mist.

“And third, you went on to insult me instead of actually saying anything about my skirt.” You jab a finger towards him. “Minus ten points.”

Dave recoils as if he was just punched, transforming his confusion into a full on panic. Though he seems to be focusing quite hard in your outstretched finger, staring it down like one would a barrel of a musket.

“Now now, Profimancer. I’m willing to let this slide. I’m feeling merciful today.” You lean forward and waggle your finger closer to his chest. He takes two full steps backwards. “But I am still waiting for my apology.”

Dave jumps, terrified at whatever invisible grading system has been counting down with each second passed without an apology. He bows deep, the skulls on his shoulders nearly toppling off. “My deepest apologies, oh Lord of Death sir!”

“That’s another ten.”

“MA’AM I MEANT MA’AM!!”

With what little time you have outside his gaze you stuff your face into your sleeve and let out a shaky exhale. It’s barely been a minute and he’s already scared for his life, this is great! If he’s afraid of what you think he is, you can totally use this to your advantage. Maybe you’re starting to see a bit of what Lobo sees.

“Alright, c’mon Dave. Get up.” You wave the scepter in his direction. “No point spending your entire time here wallowing.”

Dave jolts from his spot on the ground, staring up at you pale-faced.

“What?”

“How,” he stammers, “do you already know my name? I never gave you mine.”

.....la puta madre Lana KEEP IT TOGETHER!!

You turn around, bite your lip, and wave for him to follow. He straightens himself and does his best to keep pace and face.

“So then.” You stretch your arms above your head and roll your head around your neck. “Talk to me Dave, what’re you looking for?”

Dave seems to flinch whenever you say his name, but the jury’s out on if it’s fear or embarrassment. “As I– ahem, as I had stated before, I–”

“Yeah yeah you’re looking to strike a deal. I have ears.” You wave away his Dark Lord voice and round the corner into the ‘backyard’ with all your facilities. Dave stops a few moments, seemingly taking in all the colors and blank-faced cow with soulless eyes. “What I’m asking is what you want.”

“I, well,” Dave scoffs, clearly out of his element, “What I’m looking for is quite simple really. I wish, to become the new Lord of Death.”

“Mhm?” You nod without turning around, tucking the scepter under your arm. You take the jar with the storm cloud and pour water across watermelon vines and berry bushes. You’ve been craving something sweet lately. “And how are you gonna go about doing that?”

“I have come bearing a proposal. An exchange, that would benefit the both of us.” He comes closer to examine your crops. You grip the mason jar tighter and watch his hands for any funny business. “As someone who has been the Lord of Death for countless time, without a doubt you must be exhausted from the monotony of it all, are you not?”

“Hm.” You think about Lobo’s ears rising whenever you offer to play a game. “To some degree I suppose.”

“I thought as much. Though this is the first time we’ve met, and I will admit I got certain parts wrong,” he glosses over that line very quickly, “We’re not so different, you and I.”

“Aaah,” he was waiting to use that one, “is that so?”

“We sit at the apex of our respective worlds.” He gestures to himself, then to you. “I have accumulated more profit than one man could use in a lifetime. You stand at the apex of creation, deciding who deserves to live or die. Both of us can decide the fates of hundreds, even thousands, with a simple wave of a hand.”

Dave waves a hand through the air with a quick flick, The Mist flowing between his fingers. “But most of all, what we are, is cursed. Cursed by society, by life itself… with eternal boredom.”

You deadpan. “Is that so.”

“It must be! After all,” he gestures to your little garden, “why else would someone of your status be playing in the dirt?”

“…do you not have, like, any hobbies?”

Dave doesn’t register your question and turns away, reaching into his cloak.

“This is the reason behind all of my efforts to meet with you in person. Several years of planning and work, all for us kindred spirits to talk, face to face~” Dave stretches a practiced smile across his face, preparing to pull something out. “In exchange for relinquishing your status as Lord of Death, I shall grant you what you desire most…”

Both mascara-coated eyes closed, Dave pulls out a small bedazzled chest, more gemstone than wood. The light of the nearby sun is reflected in their sheen. With a gentle tug, he pulls the cover open to reveal… gold. A small pile of honest to goodness gold coins. A few trickle down out of the box and clatter onto the floor beneath.

“Oh wow.” You plant your hands on your hips while inspecting the chest. “Are these all real?”

“As real as they possibly could be.” Dave takes a coin himself and, to prove his word, bites down. Ckchink! The metal doesn’t bend. He then offers the coin to you, but you elect to grab one from the chest. He almost seems disappointed at that.

The coins are thick, a little messy too. The imprints hammered into each side have squeezed it into a rough shape, but the carvings appear intricate. One side has the face of a man who is no doubt important, but you have never met. He looks fancy though with the helmet he’s got on. The back has a picture of what appears to be a bird and some letters, Greek? You purse your lips as if inspecting the quality of the craftsmanship.

“This is but a fraction of what I have to offer. I have collected thousands upon thousands of these gilded treasures just for you, and plenty more shall come in the future.” Dave bows and offers the whole chest to you with both hands. You take it in yours, careful to not brush your fingers against his skin lest you give away the game.

“Huh.” You walk around the facilities as you inspect them all, rifling your finger through the coins and take a proper look at them all. Gold can be a hard metal to come by these days, especially this much. Getting enough to make a few gold coins, much less thousands, would take countless decades of work. “Neat.”

You toss the chest into the furnace.

“GAAAAAAH!!” Dave screams and sprints to the furnace, trying to grab whatever he can from the burning flames. The first touch singes his fingers, as it is prone to do, so after blowing on his hand he tries blowing on the flame to make it go out.

“Thanks for that Dave, I needed some fuel to make a stew.” You idly stretch your arms using the scepter while the dark lord scrambles and sputters near the fire.

“Nonononono, I spent decades getting all this together, this can’t just–!” The Profimancer starts to take off his cloak, but then decides against it and just tries to stomp it out with his shoe. Apparently underneath all that he’s wearing light blue fuzzy slippers.

A snort escapes you while stretching your arms up high (one holding the scepter), savoring the feeling of desperation Dave has for salvaging his goods. But as you do, you notice something out of the corner of your eye. Up on the roof of the cottage, cloaked in shadow, is Lobo. His expression and body language is hard to parse from this angle, but it’s very clear that his eyes’ red glow is filtered through a squint. You never even heard him come back, how long has he been watching?

New awareness of Lobo is followed by awareness of what’s in your hands. Dave’s black and ruby scepter. You look back up to Lobo with a grin. He tilts his head.

You toss the scepter past Dave and into the fire.

“NOOOOOO!! MY SCEPTER OF SEVEN HELLS!!!” Dave shrieks in horror, nearly diving in before common sense pulls him back out with hands seared medium rare. He makes up for it quick though by tearing off his cloak and tossing it onto the fire, perhaps trying to snuff it out with hearty stomps. Beneath the garb of the dread lord lies a pair of pajama pants and a fleece robe with week old food stains. He stomps with no avail, unfortunately, and–

FWOOMF!! The fire suddenly doubles in size and ferocity, erupting into pink! One of Dave’s slippers burns through wholesale and is reduced to cinders after seconds of exposure. He kicks the flaming fleece as far as he can. Dang, that scepter must have been potent.

You catch a faint snk from up above, and to your delight Lobo has pulled his snout down and away, a paw up to his mouth.

“Wh,” he spins around to you, genuine tears in his eyes, “why the fuck did you do that you crazy bitch?!”

“Minus forty points.” You push your finger closer to his chest.

Dave scoots away, but he doesn’t let up. “Do you have any idea what you just threw away?! I had worked for DECADES to amass that fortune just for you! Out of the kindness of my heart, and you tossed that heart into the furnace!”

“Okay, completely ignoring that ‘kindness’ part because we both know that’s full of shit: I’m immortal. I travel anywhere I want in the world and guide souls to the afterlife. Why do you think I’d want cash?”

“Th-the coin in the eyes thing! From Greek Times!” Dave points at his eyes, then makes circles with his fingers and wears them like spectacles. “People paid you to ferry themselves or loved ones into Hell! They gave you money, why else would you accept such gifts?!”

Oh, really? That was something Lobo did back then? Dang where is that cash he’s been hoarding then?

“Well I,” you were contemplating for too long answer quick! “give them to charity! Orphans, starving kids and the like. Children in need.”

“....what.” Dave slumps, utterly baffled.

“Yeah, yeah every time people pay tribute to me with wealth I give it to someone who needs it more! Where do you think all those lucky coins came from, hm?” You nod while pointing up with a finger to show you are Very Smart. “Those kids got it rough this day and age, that’s why I give fifty points to anyone who donates to orphanages. They can use a bit of luck now and then.”

Dave’s face tightens into a wince. He looks away.

“Dave.” You lean in, crossing your arms. “Those orphans didn’t appreciate what you did to them.”

“D-don’t you judge me for being economic! They weren’t using the coal mine on that land! B-besides, you’re one to talk about wasting money! My cape, my scepter, my ornaments–!”

“You realize that, if you wanted to become the new Lord of Death, you’d have to take on the cloak too? Nobody would even see your fancy robes.” With crossed arms you gesture back to the furnace. “It’s called a work uniform for a reason.“

“B-but, you’re the apex! The top of the ladder! Who could possibly tell you otherwise, that you couldn’t wear what you wanted?”

“Sorry to say Dave, but that’s just how it is. Besides, this is what I like to wear.” You do a little twirl and let your skirt flutter. “Simple, but stylish. Why would I want to spend an hour every day putting on makeup and heavy clothes? Or even an all black and raggedy cloak?”

A bemused huff trails down from overhead.

“Even still! Wearing those rags doesn’t excuse you wantonly destroying my Garb of Infinite… wait.” Dave had lifted up his foot to stomp on the ground, but mid-arc it froze in place, slowly lowering back down. He leans forward, squinting hard at your shirt.

“Hey, bud. My eyes are up here.” You snap your fingers at him.

“Are those…?”

You look down at where he’s glancing. Though it’s a little hard to see from this angle, there are little grey strands of fur across your shirt.

“From! My hunting dog! I have one back in the mortal realm, let him follow me around from time to time. You should see how cute he looks whenever he’s tearing into a prey, his ears perked up and tail wagging.”

A very clearly offended gasp sounds overhead.

“You… pet your dog.” Dave’s confusion grows.

“Um, yeah? Who wouldn’t pet their dogs? Monsters, that’s who.” You jab again at his face, though he doesn’t flinch. In fact, he’s inspecting your finger quite intensely, eyes narrowed into razor thin slats.

Dave, hesitantly, leans towards you. Quickly glancing up at your confused expression, then back down to the finger. He reaches forward, cautious but curious. Then he baps your hand with his own like a cat. His skin does not rot away, and his heart does not suddenly go into an attack. Nothing happens.

“oooooOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHH!!!” Dave GASPS dramatically with a perfect O mouth and points right back at you. “YOUUUUU!!!”

Wuh oh! “Whuh, what’s the problem, Dave?”

“Youuuu vile witch! Trickster!!” Dave is speaking in another voice again, but it’s a far cry from his evil lord voice. It’s much higher pitch and his face is already turning a smidgen red. “You’re no Lord of Death at all!!!”

“Whaaaaaat? Nooooooo!” You put up both hands in mock surrender. You know you should be a little scared, but your face is fighting to keep itself straight. “I’m totally Death! I mean, can’t you tell by my snrrk, awesome cabin?”

“That shack isn’t awesome, it isn’t even as good looking as my Abyss of Sin! I should’ve known from the start that cloak was a fake, but my eyes are open now! Ooohoh they’re open alright! I see you for what you TRULY are!!”

“But just look at me Dave! There’s nobody else here, and Ihah I was willing to let you into this realm in the first place! What else could Ihehe, whahehe, what else could I ppphffttehehehehehe!!” Your valiant effort to keep face fizzles out almost as fast as Dave’s clothes. You double over and clutch your sides, snorting and giggling in a manner not unlike Vida.

“Fiend! Harlot! Deceitful wretch!!” Dave has escalated to full on shouting and returning your finger pointing with double the force. “Explain what’s going on here RIGHT NOW or else I–”

“Dude, ehehe snrrk, you gotta chill man.” Between fits of giggles you manage to suck in a deep breath. You hold up your hands, the jig is up. “Yeah, you’re right, I’m not Death. I’ve just been bumming around his place for a while.”

“AHA!!”

“But even still, I doubt you’d even recognize Lobo if you saw him in person. You spent almost your entire time here sucking up to me – a skill you need to practice more, may I add – and were scared shitless at the thought of getting poked.” You brush the white hairs of fur off of your clothes. “Then again, I suppose first times can be scary for everyone. Especially touching a woman.”

“YOU!!!” He shrieks, grinding his teeth down to sandpaper. With one hand he reaches behind his back and pulls out the knife you knew was there from the start. It’s all a pale, sickly white with the curved blade having a black stained edge. “That’s it, no more games! Tell me where Death truly lies, take me to him!”

“Or what? You’re gonna stab me? You’re gonna run that tiny little knife right through me??” You throw both your arms wide, leaning forward with a half bow. “Sorry to burst your bubble Davey, I’m dead! We are in The Afterlife! You can’t hurt me in any way that actually matters!”

“Well then, I suppose we’ll just have to see about that won’t we?! TAKE THIS!!” Dave shrieks, his free hand thrusting in your direction from several feet away. “SIEGE OF INFINITE AGONIES!!!”

A sudden feeling of dread explodes in your gut as he yells the name of some unknown spell. You full body dive out of the way behind your crops right as he finishes speaking and–

. . . . .

nothing happens.

“What’s it– come on!” Dave grumbles. Risking a peek above the barrier you see The Profimancer slapping his multicolored rings. “The dealers said that these were the real thing!”

You grab the glass jar you used earlier while he’s distracted and chuck it his way. He’s too focused staring at his magic rings that the jar shatters square against his shoulder. Your little storm cloud thunders and a little arrow of lightning shoots past his head, only barely missing his flashy skull earrings.

“Sorry Davey boy~” You waggle your fingers and lean forward. His head snaps over to you. “Looks like you don’t have as much of an eye for quality as you thought you did. Then again, those bootleg magic rings did match your oversized onesie.”

“GghhhrdON’T CALL ME A BOY!!!” Dave springs your way, knife clearly prepped for attack. You kick yourself out of the way towards the cottage well before he can properly hit you, that was visible a mile–

Shhk!

“Ow!” You suck air through your teeth as a small blossom of pain flashes across your palm. Dave is still stumbling so you back up against the cottage and check the damage. As expected a new cut about an inch and a half has formed at the edge of your palm. It’s shallow and no blood leaks out, only a burning pink scar, but it’s still a cut.

Before long Dave’s mismatched footsteps rush towards your direction, an almost feral snarl painted across his face. You kick out one of your legs and with a huff Dave’s gut is now hosting your boot! He raises his arms upwards and tries to stab your leg, but his movements are slow and obvious. You grab the wrist holding the knife and fight against him, but it’s hard to push back when your gasps constantly leave way for giggles.

“I should have known from the start,” he growls as you laugh between struggling grunts, “the realm of the dead isn’t this colorful! Death doesn’t wear skirts, Death doesn’t garden! He is a Conquerer!! Once I get rid of you, I’ll take his title for myself, because I WORKED for what I have and you didn’t!! You’re NOTHING to me, you hear me?! You’re NOTHING at–”

Snap!

In a blink, all of The Mist goes dark. The only remaining light is the pink fire flame the furnace, which only seems to glow brighter in this total darkness. You and Dave both pause your fight to the death squabble. Dave is especially panicked at the sudden change if his triple-take is anything to go by. But you? Your grin creeps wider and the cackling gets haughtier.

“What? What’s going on?” Dave tries and fails to press the knife to your throat and shut you up. “How did you do this, what’s going on?!”

Two crimson eyes blink open behind him. Even with the furnace’s pink light you can’t see the rest of him. He is only eyes. They shine especially bright in this pure dark. Dave is none the wiser.

“Answer me, you peasant!!! I swear if you don’t, I’ll–!!” Dave tries again to pull himself closer, but his own trembling voice betrays him. Soft footsteps approach from behind The Profimancer, the eyes growing brighter. There’s something within them both that you haven’t seen since the start of this long month. A deep, eager hunger as the wolf sizes up his next meal. “I don’t… t-turn it back. Whatever you did, turn it back! This isn’t darkness, it’s, it’s nothingness. I don’t–”

“Hhhaaaaaaaaahhhhh~”

A breath seeps past Lobo’s fangs, washes across Dave’s neck and crashes up against your chest. It’s warm, thick, salivating. Enough to make even you shiver from its potency.

Dave’s wrist tenses under your grasp and you watch as his head shrinks in between his shoulder blades. Dave’s still staring right at you, or perhaps at the glowing spots against the wall behind you.

“Bienvenido a casa Lobo.” You smile up to him. “I prepared some dinner, just for you.”

“My my, how generous.” A grey clawed hand reaches out from the darkness, each individual finger tightening around Dave’s throat and strangling his adam’s apple. “I’ll make sure to savor every bite~”

As if it were no different to plucking a grape, Lobo lifts Dave up off the ground and away from your grasp. The man gasps and grunts while uselessly kicking his legs in the air and against Lobo’s chest. He swings his knife wildly this way and that in a desperate attempt to free himself as his face is pelted by the hungry winds.

The tip of the blade slices Lobo’s cheek. He doesn’t even flinch, simply glancing down at the tiny slices of fur that were shaved off. Lobo, unblinking, stares back into Dave’s flickering eyes. His laugh is low, resonating from deep within his throat, thick with anticipation.

You take this opportunity to slide down the wall and prop up a knee to rest an arm. This spot has a good view of the show. It’s fun, seeing what happened to you not that long ago from a whole new view – and this time happening to someone you know fully deserves it. Most of him is still consumed by shadow (likely by design, drama queen), only his eyes and the outline of his snarling maw can be seen. But the pink fire shines in his pristine fangs.

Another swing, but in a blur his wrist is caught with Lobo’s free paw. You’re unsure whether the krackle that emits from Lobo’s squeeze is from the knife or Dave’s wrist, because both fall soon after.

Dave whimpers.

“Is that all? With how loud your entrance was, I half expected you to put up a proper fight.” Lobo digs a claw into Dave’s cheek. No blood leaks, but you can see the tear forming as the cries and kicks for freedom grow more intense. ”Don’t you know it’s rude to get others’ hopes up like that, Dave Harken?“

Dave’s entire body shrivels. You thought, staring down the wolf’s razor blade maw, that the man was on his last legs. But after hearing his name spoken in full, it’s as if Lobo had reached inside his body and dragged his claw inside, tearing through each individual nerve.

“P-please, please let me go.” Dave’s pleading barely rises above a whisper. Perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of breathlessness. “I’m sorry for disturbing your master, I’ll give you anything you want, I’ll leave this place for good, that’s all I ask–”

Lobo laughs again, tilting his head back and bursting out like a canon blast. Dave curls up as best he can within the god of death’s grasp.

“Ooooh, oh you still have no idea who you’re dealing with, do you? In that case,” With one hand, Lobo unsheathes both sickles, then combines and extends them to its full staff and raises it up high, “Allow me to enlighten you.“

C L A N G

The blade hits the ground with a resonant strike, echoing across The Void. A plume of pink sparks erupt from the impact and leap into the air by a few feet. They linger in the air, fluttering like radiant butterflies, then all at once they swirl together and rush downwards to the ground to the site of the impact.

F W O O O O M!!!

A wall of flames erupt all at once, pillar upon pillar blasting into the sky around The Void’s only three guests. Their pink flames CRACK and ROAR with the combined intensity more violent than any forest fire, a white and searing center rising to a deep and radiant red. One after the other, bringing with them a new wave of sweltering heat. The final column bursts to life only a few feet from your right, which does admittedly make you jump back, but you cannot help but stare in awe. The ring of fire stops at the cottage’s wall, creating a perfect semi-circle and lighting up the night.

Lobo stands in the center, the shadows of his grey fur only accentuated by the flames from below. His small dark grey patch around his eyes is painted black as deeply as his poncho, the rest of his fur bathed in the glow of the flames. His ears are fully perked up, his teeth stretched into a manic smile. And his eyes… you know just from watching Dave’s reaction how he’s feeling. Sinking deeper, deeper into the endless pools of blood. Entombed under the waves until he can no longer bring himself to speak.

“Well now,” Lobo lifts Dave higher, to which he hugs the hand choking him to catch his fall, “do you understand?”

He does. From the unconscious gape of his jaw and the singular tear rolling down his cheek and into Lobo’s cut, you know he understands. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.”

“Aaaah, that’s what I was looking for.” Lobo laughs in his throat, then presses his snout close to Dave and sniiifffsss up his body. Dave sobs. “So delightfully, rich in flavor~”

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry…” Over and over, shaking his head and sobbing until he is forced to breathe in the ashen air that fills his lungs.

“I must say, even if you lot can be an annoyance, I must thank you for bringing yourselves right to my doorstep. Wrapping yourselves up in elaborate packaging, just to be torn away. But I should be thanking you most of all, Dave. Do you know why?”

“Imsorryimsorryimsorryimmsorryimssorryimsorry…”

Lobo sheathes his blades once again then runs his free hand through the fire. The flames bend around his fingers, coating them as though they were a liquid, dribbling down into his palm. Taking extra care to make sure Dave sees his burning claw, slowly creeping towards his shoddy purple makeup.

“You arrived here for me already coated in flame accelerant.”

Lobo presses his claw against his left cheek, against the smears of purple like a mother would wipe away a child’s tear. Four seconds of gasping and shaking pass, the pink flame too hot to even register as pain with how quickly it sears off his nerve endings. Seven seconds pass as you watch the flame crawl along Dave’s cheek, following the streams of face paint across his nose, around his eyes and down his neck. The screams are stuck in his throat – far too much pain at once to be properly voiced, only croaks in their place. Dave claws at Lobo’s arm as the liquid flame sears more and more of his face, digging his nails in as deep as they can go as he writhes.

After thirteen long seconds the flames have crossed his face and finally reach their destination. Dave can only writhe in horror as he feels the molten flame burrow into the cut Lobo made on his right cheek.

That is when the screams begin. A combination of gurgling and throat tearing screeches that does not sound like it’s meant to come from the human body. His skin grows brighter from within, spreading outwards from the cheek, down his neck and blooming across the torso onwards. He screeches much louder and longer than a human reasonably could, unable to maintain a breath due to his lungs collapsing from the inside out. Nobody will run to help him.

Lobo doesn’t dare blink as his meal is prepared right before his eyes. His ears are fully turned Dave’s way and the slouch he wears is gone. Each gasp for life he breathes in, each crackle of meat he salivates. This is what Lobo lives for, this is the wolf in his element. Even though you’re witnessing a man boil from the inside out – a horrible display of cruelty that would terrify many – he doesn’t look back your way. Nothing else exists for him outside of this moment. There is only the wolf and the final death rattles of this miserable husk of a man.

Dave is nearly out of breath, his screams reduced to rusty squeaks. He claws for freedom even as his eyes roll to the back of his head. In the back of his mouth still stretched wide to scream you can see the back of his throat flicker in the flame. Seeing this, Lobo licks his lips, then grabs his shoulder with his free hand, then plunges Dave into the pillar of flame behind him. All that can be seen is the outline, but you watch as his body barely lasts seven seconds. Lobo lifts the conquerer high above his head as bits of his form dissipate. You can hear the cracks of something like tearing glass, and then…

“I will not remember you.”

C R A C K

Lobo flings his arms outwards and Dave’s body shatters into two pieces. What little you can see of his form disintegrates and crumbles into cinders. No blood, no ashes, not even dust. Lobo, the ultimate predator, has claimed his bounty.

You stare up at the wolf, arms and legs spread wide as he basks in the glory of his latest kill. There’s a tangible energy visible as his chest bobs up and down, belting an euphoric, cruel and proud laugh and almost seems to echo across The Void. You’ve lost count at just how many times Lobo raised his voice or directed his rage towards you, these types of outbursts are not foreign to you. But this feeling of giddiness, of a craving finally fulfilled, is something you’ve never seen on the outside looking in. In this moment, the god of death is alive.

And then, with a sharp breath in, Lobo drops his arms down. The pillars of hellfire vanish, along with the fire of the furnace. A few embers dance in the air and between his digits, but they all fade into the fog not long after. Lobo turns around to face you, only the outlines of his face visible in the dark.

“...your cheeks are flushed.”

“Huh?

He points a claw at his own cheeks. You press the back of your hand against one and, yeah he’s completely right you’re burning up.

“I mean. It’s kind of hard to not be! With all that, fire, haha.” You brush the hair off your face and stand up straight, pinching a lock between your fingers.

“So then, you’re fine? No major injuries? You’re not sc… you’re okay?” He eases his way towards you but not having returned to his typical slouch quite yet. His posture is straight, eyes flickering all across you and scanning for any sign of otherwise.

“Don’t worry Lobo, I’m good!” You smile and wave hands in front of your face as he is one step away. Though the flames are gone, the darkness of his cloak still blocks out The Mist. “Believe me, all I got was a little scrape. You don’t have to worry.”

Lobo squints down at you. His mouth is not completely closed as he inspects you. His teeth are still oh so sharp.

“…good.”

Lobo flicks your forehead.

“Ow, hey!” You flinch backwards. The Mist has returned and you can fully see Lobo’s face once again scrunched in frustration.

“What on Earth were you thinking, doing something as foolish as that?”

“For what, messing with Dave? Why are you asking me, I heard you laughing too.”

“Ugh, still as thick-headed as ever. Why do I bother?” Lobo drags a paw down his face and shakes his head. “The knife. The rings. All of it, just, ignored. I thought you knew better at this point.”

“Aaawww, were you scared that I was going to get hurt Lobito–”

Flick! “Ow.”

“No, I thought that all the time I’ve spent learning to tolerate you would end up wasted, because you seemed perfectly fine throwing yourself into oblivion yet again.”

“Lobo, you gotta calm down.” You chuckle and wave him down. “All I got was a tiny cut. Those rings didn’t even work.”

“And you didn’t stop to wonder why that was?” Lobo asks.

“Huh?” You look up at the wolf. He’s crossing his arms and tapping a claw on his elbow.

“...oh.”

He nods then turns on his heel and walks back to the general area where Dave was just ripped to shreds.

“Well, just because it would’ve hurt, it doesn’t mean that I would have died, right?” You follow close behind him, a growing awareness of your surroundings developing around you. “I’m already dead, and you could just bring me back. Right?”

Lobo gestures to the empty space where Dave had just been doing his final good deed to the world: dying. “Would you like to put him back together and ask?”

. . . . .

“Oh.”

“Next time, I won’t be able to bail you out so easily.” He huffs your way, then turns back and raises his paws up into the air.

You… do your best to try and not think about oblivion. Of how you were mere inches away from having your soul resemble what Dave just went through. Of how, throughout that entire exchange, you were throwing yourself at the man who has openly said he’s sacrificed hundreds of people’s lives to get here.

No lo pienses, Lana. Idiota. Look, he’s doing something else now, focus on that.

Lobo has outstretched his paws into the air and is pressing his fingers in and out of a section of The Mist. In and out, weaving his fingers through strands of grey, faded green and pink like a weaver would with thimbles tangling string, pulling back deep violet strands. You’ve seen faded pinks and greens in The Mist, but never a purple this vivid and deep.

“So. He was already just a soul?” You stand beside him and watch.

“Oh? You figured it out already, did you?” He spares you a glance, but focuses on his collection.

“I mean, I thought it was weird how he was able to just show up here, despite not looking that different from me. But when you were doing all of, that to him earlier,” you glance at the claw he used to open up the gash on his cheek, “he didn’t bleed.”

“Mm. Caught on quick. Would be wise to transfer that to other skills too.” He nods. “It’s a rule of our realms that nothing can enter freely. God or Mortal, if they wish to enter somewhere they cannot, something additional must be done. In your case, I brought you here myself after you already died.”

“Is that how other ‘Mortems’ are brought here too? They’re invited?”

“’Invited’ implies a willing choice perrita, I’d hesitate to use that word for our initial arrangement.” He huffs, but it doesn’t carry the same kick to it as it normally does. “As for those who try to force their way into our realms, they often resort to more underhanded tactics. Harken here used a specific spell, which was the equivalent of breaking a window to climb in. As a result, he tore himself on the shards, and his body was left behind. This ‘business proposal’ of his was always going to be a one way trip.”

“Damn.” You look up at the pooling strands of violet, bundled together like plucked grass. You almost feel bad for the guy. Almost. “So then, does this happen to you a lot? These evil lord types ‘breaking a window?’”

“Less often now compared to before. There was a point a good three dozen centuries ago where I had at least one or two a week, since the magic and materials were more common back then. But now it’s one every, say, two months.”

“Two months?!” You gape. “So since I’ve been born, the world’s been threatened over–”

“One hundred times, yes.” Lobo smiles fondly at your surprise, and also at his nearly complete collection. “A few of them were a challenge. All were a good meal. I was actually wondering when the next would come, Dave was getting late.”

You comb fingers through your hair, contemplating the little things you’ve done while alive. Getting hypothermia after jumping into a freezing lake on a dare; spraining your ankle after trying to climb a tree with your long skirt; arguing with a merchant about how they’re overselling what they call “luxury” paint pigments that you’ve made as a child. All those times, Lobo was dueling somebody to decide the fate of the world. Good lord, all would have been the stupidest things you could have done right before a world ending calamity.

“Don’t you worry your little tail off perrita. I said that only some of them were a challenge. Larger than life egos like this one was rarely have the skill to back it up.” Lobo pats your back. Your existential spiral must have been clear from your face. “If someone like you was able to throw one off this much, I doubt any of these modern challengers would pose a threat to you.”

“Hey.”

“If any of them do though, you’re free to hide in the archives. I’ll fish you out after I’m done with them. Eventually.”

“My my, how generous.” You lightly punch his shoulder, barely moving him an inch. He rolls his eyes, but you catch his smirk.

“There. This should be the last of it.” Lobo claws in one final strand of what you presume to be Dave’s soul, which now amount to a few handfuls of wavy translucent grass clippings in his cupped hands. Lobo folds the pile over and presses both together like one could pack a snowball in their hands. Words are muttered under a breath (which you’re unable to parse, even this close to him), and then a glow seeps out while The Mist seeps in, swirling together. He opens his hands, the glowing mass rises off his hands, and then.

Poof!

The remnants of Dave’s soul change form, landing on Lobo’s hands with a dark violet plate. An overwhelmingly rich sweet scent punches your nose before you fully register what you’re seeing.

It’s chocolate lava cake.

On the bottom, a palm sized mound of baked dark chocolate sits, sculpted as if it came out from a mold. On the top a full scoop of vanilla ice cream sits and drips down onto the chocolate, along with actual vanilla beans poking out every which way as if they were plucked from the vine and shoved in. From there, drizzling down, is some sort of dark purple sauce that you can’t fully recognize. Elderberry, maybe? Resting on the top are tiny gold flakes. It all culminates in a dish that is simultaneously a delicacy so rare for a person like you, but also unprocessed and gritty.

Lobo (after wiping off the gold flakes) plucks one of the vanilla beans and chomps into it. You grimace. “With the way you cooked him from inside out, I thought he’d become a well done steak.”

“Meh.” Lobo shrugs. “It’s a decent change of pace. Tastes good too.”

“Yeah, I don’t think you have a say in what tastes good or not. And what was up with that fire anyway? I’ve never heard of Death harnessing pink hellfire before.”

“That’s why it’s all the more effective.” Lobo starts walking back to the house, chowing down on Dave’s soul. “I only save my fire for special occasions.”

“Aww, was I not special enough for you?” You follow behind him, both hands clasped behind your back.

“Sadly not. Truly a shame, perrita. Would you like a vanilla bean to make up for it?”

“Hard pass.”

A few hours later, you’re sweeping up the shards of glass and dagger from Dave and Lobo’s scuffle. Lobo’s upstairs inscribing fates as usual after taking time to enjoy his treat (you munched on some watermelon to satiate your cravings). Thankfully his fire didn’t leave too much of a mess, but you’d rather not have the risk of lodging a shard in yourself after a fall.

Though Vida was kind enough to provide a dustpan, you elect to sweep the shards into the furnace since the fire there breaks down anything thrown into it. Fwoosh, the flame rises as thanks for the food. Maybe you could put on some water to boil?

The flame is orange, just like a regular fire. But you can still remember Lobo’s pink flames clearly, how they incinerated everything so easily. Including Dave, a person who was only a few feet away from plunging his dagger into your stomach.

‘I won’t be here to help you next time.’

“...hm.”

You place the broom against the furnace and walk back to the garden. Through all of the chaos it’s still resting there as it was a few hours ago. You pick it up, flip all the way to the end of the book, then tear out a page. Vida said he talked with them, so you should be free to send this through her flower as well.

Hey D, Lana here. Sorry for not writing back for a bit, I’ve been a bit obsessed with all the gifts you all gave me and trying to make to most of them. Give my thanks to everyone, I really do appreciate the sentiment.

If it isn’t any trouble, do any of you know any self defense techniques I could learn?

Chapter Text

CRACK! Glass under a boot.

“Yeah, you like that huh?” You pant, knuckles white.

The Mist around you is cleaved by your weapon as it crashes into your target’s side. CRUNCH! Wood snapping off a tree.

“Betcha didn’t expect this!” You twirl around in a full 360, striking with a one-handed backhand. CRUNCH! Ice crunching.

As your opponent recovers from the recoil and swings back you leap back, blue red and black fabric fluttering behind. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Your chest feels tight from all the action, but you’ve been growing used to it with all your exercise. This is nothing you can’t handle.

“And this is why you…” The sun at your back casts a shadow along Lobo’s cabin. Your arms overhead, sprinting forward. “Don’t mess with a Cortez!!”

TONG!!

You suck air through your clenched teeth. Vibrations and shock resonate along your arms from metal clashing against metal. Oooh, oh boy that’s smarts. The frying pan’s grip slips through your fingers and clatters onto the ground.

“Yep. Yep that’s fair.” The words squeak out of your throat as you shake the feedback out of both hands. Against your hip a pressure bumps lightly yet firmly. The punching bag you received from the gift basket nudges you away, goading you to leave and come back stronger. It receives a raspberry for its generosity.

“Lose a fight with an inanimate object?” Lobo suddenly speaks to your left, appearing as silently as he always does. He hangs from the corner of the cabin with an arm, hood still up. You hop in place, transferring the raspberry his direction. “Again?”

“It wasn’t a fight, it was training.” You clarify, straightening your back and raising your arms up high. “Gotta stay prepared in case any more evil lords show up, you know?”

“Aah, glad to see you’re taking this seriously.” He leans forward, the shadow of his cloak only leaving his glowing eyes and razor grin visible. “You already made a quippy one liner for when you deal the final blow.”

“Ay, you have no right to judge Lobo. I’ve seen your theatrics with that barbecue you subjected Dave to earlier.” With a huff you walk over to a pile of papers resting on the ground nearby and pick some up. “You can’t fool me, drama queen.”

“Oh you wound me, perrita.” The eye-roll can be felt even in his voice. “But you can’t deny their effectiveness. That leech got exactly what he deserved. And if I recall…”

A hot breath slithers down your neck and shoulders. Not even a footstep gave him away. “You’re not immune to these ‘theatrics’ either~”

“Nope. Totally am.” Even as you spot the flash of fangs right above your right shoulder, you stand unflinching. Without looking you reach behind and pat Lobo’s cheek. It’s course, thick and clumpy, but you don’t feel any grime. “Sorry Lobito, you’re becoming predictable.”

Lobo’s lips droop, his fangs hidden once again. He slumps and huffs with pursed lips like an upset puppy. Then, he plucks one of the papers from your grasp. “What are these?”

“Remember how one of the gifts I got from the other Nine was just a note? I’ve been talking to one of them, thanks to Vida.” With a spin and a skirt flutter you face the big bad wolf. “Believe it or not, I am actually taking this seriously. I asked D for some self defense tips and have been practicing on this. It’s good exercise, and it helps the mini-sun nourish my crops. So it’s a win-win-win.”

You show off one of the papers you’re holding. It’s a drawn diagram of the various grips to use for weapons, spanning one handed maces to two handed blades (a frying pan is kind of like both when you think about it). The anatomy on the hands is fairly impressive, if the pencil sketch lines are a tad messy. At the bottom is a written note, its handwriting matching said scratchiness.

Lana!! It’s great to hear that Death’s been allowing you to keep in touch. Hope you’ve been putting that bag to good use, letting that spark catch. That one’s from my personal collection, but don’t be afraid to use it however you’d like!

Either way, Bullhead and Blueberry told me you were looking for fighting tips to help defend yourself after facing off against one of Lobo’s Challengers. I’d love to help you out in person, but I know the wolf wouldn’t let you hop over for a visit or vise versa. So I put together a collection of exercises and forms for you to practice in your own time.

Keep on fighting Lana! You fought your way to where you are, so make sure you train to keep that title! Death has nothing on you!

-Tenacity

“Mhm.” If there’s any resentment Lobo has against this particular god, Lobo hides it well.

“I know you don’t like the other members of The Nine, but you said it yourself: Next time this happens, you won’t be able to bail me out as easily.” After handing the wolf the rest of your papers, you kneel down and pick your frying pan back up. “So instead of solely practicing how fast I can bury myself in the archives room – my record is ten seconds by the way – I’d rather prepare for the worst. Next evil lord is only two months away, after all.”

Deep breath in, then out. Stance wide, body lowered and knuckles aligned towards the threat. Bag Lord defeated you once, but they won’t know what’s coming this time. You raise the cooking pot above your head, then swing downwards with empty hands– hey.

“Well, I suppose it’s fitting that you’re practicing with a frying pan.” Lobo smugly twirls your pan dexterously on the tip of a claw. “With how sloppy your stance is, it’ll be perfect to prepare your ‘spicy chicken thighs~’

“It’s called ‘training’ for a reason, pendejo.” You make a swipe for your weapon but he shoves one of his paws directly into your face, holding you back. His pawpads are firm and rough, slightly scratchy against your cheek.

“It’s akin to training a perrita you’re going about it.” Between the gaps in his fingers you watch as he tests the pan in different grips. Front, reverse, between two fingers. “You’re copying the pictures, yes, but you’re not truly learning anything. The most this flailing and bag whacking will earn you is a long and successful career as a living scarecrow.”

“A living scarecrow can, mrrph, at least scare people off.“ You wrestle with his arm to try and wrench his palm off your face, even as he threatens with claws digging into the sides of your face. ”’Sides, I don’t see you, rrph, trying to help!“

“That is dependent on whether or not you’re willing to accept my help.” He taps your forehead with a claw. “If I remember correctly, the past few times I’ve offered as much, you spat in my face.”

“Oh really? Well you–!” One of your fingers is primed and ready to jab… but you pause mid-air, and let it go slack as you exhale. “Alright. Yeah. You were right that time.”

“I tend to be.” With your admission, Lobo releases his hold on your face. But not before leaving behind a parting flick, making you flinch.

“So are you going to help me train now?” You say, eyes closed for a moment as you rub the sore spot. “Or are you just scared that eventually I’ll get better than–”

BANG

“Gah– fuck! Hey!!” An intense force slams into the back of your head, a sucker punch directly to the skull. Your head throbs a war drum’s beat. “Alright Lobo, now you’re just being a…”

You look upwards at the wolf, his arms crossed. The angle of his snout barely hides his amusement. His cloak is still fluttering from quick movement, exposing a portion of his scarred and scruffy chest.

You’re lying on the ground.

Between the throbs in your skull, you can feel a growing soreness from the back of your legs.

“If you were alive and had fallen this way onto stone, you would have died.” Lobo states the matter as a fact.

…you hold back your devastating comeback with a mumble.

“So then. Are you actually willing to learn?” Your pan handle prods into your vision. Lobo’s holding it out to you, the other hand on his hip. “Because going forward, that head injury will be the least of your concerns.”

You huffed, exhausted. But you couldn’t hide that stupid smirk from your face.

“You were waiting for something like this, weren’t you?” With a grip of the handle, you’re pulled up to your feet.

“Just as much as you were waiting for an excuse to hit me with a chair.” The wolf raises an eyebrow with his fanged grin.

“Touché.”

LESSON ONE

After a brief excursion to the attic to inscribe some more Sealed Fates, Lobo joins you in his cabin’s “front yard.” Most of your supplies are in the back, so this gives the both of you plenty of space without risking any of your currently ongoing projects. He finds you in the process of limbering up,  stretching out your back and legs to get them ready for whatever beatdown he has prepared.

Seeing your stretch routine, Lobo decides to join in. He raises his arms up and locks his fingers, loosens up his wrists, cracks his knuckles and snaps his neck. He snickers at your shock, as fast as you try to hide it.

“If I’m going to properly train you, the first thing I need is a proper assessment of your abilities. Fighting style, strengths, weaknesses.” He raises up a finger. “I’m sure you’d like to say that your slip up earlier was a fluke. But if so, the same can be said about our scuffle in the tavern.”

“Is there really an objective measurement for fighting abilities though?” You tilt your head as you tilt your body to the side, stretching out your hips.

“There isn’t. But considering you’re focusing on close-quarters defense…” Lobo snaps his fingers – no, his claws – together and ignites a small spark of pink flame. Barely bigger than a fingernail. “This should be enough.”

The wolf flicks the ember to the ground. With a swirl of a finger the flame dashes across The Mist floor and forms a complete closed circle around the both of you. It’s just large enough that if Lobo lied down, hands and feet extended, he would barely graze both ends. Tight, but not claustrophobic. A whiff of ash singes your nostrils.

“If you step outside of the ring, then you lose.” Lobo’s hands slide down to his sickles.

You jolt and hastily drop into a messy fighting stance to prepare for the rushdown. But instead the wolf takes both blades out, makes a show of holding them upright, then tosses them outside of the circle. He holds out his arms, and licks his lips.

“The first move is yours, perrita. You gave me dinner and dessert. I’m all yours~” Lobo smiles with his snout pointed slightly upwards, both hands goading you to approach. Widening his stance.

“Pfeh, oh really? You’re all mine?” Against your better judgement, an idea worms its way into your brain. The edges of your mouth snake upwards. “If that’s the case, then I hope you don’t mind…”

In the small circle you have you don’t have much room to get a running start, but you make do with what you have. A slight skip and a twist of your lower half provides enough windup, and then leveraging movement from your body, you channel it all into one point and…

“…if I indulge myself!”

THWACK!! A familiar sensation reverbs against your foot – the beautiful blossom from boot against groin. Oooh, you’ve been getting along with him well, but you won’t lie and say you haven’t been craving this feeling.

You catch Lobo exhaling from the impact… but his upper body isn’t buckling like it did last time. Without moving his arms you watch as Lobo stretches out his fingers and curl his hands into fists… then squeezes his legs together, trapping your boot between his thighs.

You let out a slightly ungraceful yelp. But no matter how hard you tug, Lobo’s grip keeps tight.

“Mhmhm~” Lobo chortles, dragging a claw across his teeth. His eyes blaze with glee. “My turn~”

Your foot is released from its cage but you don’t have time to balance–

CRACK!!!

A rifle shot of pain bursts through your ribcage from Lobo’s roundhouse kick. All around you gravity skips and flips over on itself until you skid to a halt on the ground. Several feet outside of the ring.

“Ooowww…” Your knees have already curled against your chest but that does not help the cracking within your chest. As far as you know you’ve never had your ribs broken, so this is a new first for you. It feels like pointed shards of glass are stuck inside your chest, tearing apart your tendons when you move, setting them on fire. And you know that this is likely how getting ribs broken feels because Lobo just loves his attention to bodily detail!

“You could have done any other move, any other attack. But you just couldn’t help yourself, could you perrita?” Through the squint of your eyes you watch as Lobo steps past the ring, letting the flames extinguish themselves. He goes down on one knee, leaning his head forward so he can make sure you see the shit eating grin on his face. “You’re getting predictable. That move may have worked last time, but it’s quite situational. Especially depending on the opponent.”

“You... gh... shape–shifting… asshole…” You can barely sputter out the words.

“Sit with this pain, let it ferment into a lesson.” Lobo pats your cheek then steps over your shriveled and trembling body, hair sprawled out like a blood splatter. “You’ll feel better in no time.”

LESSON TWO

Lobo was right. One “day” after your first test, you feel perfectly fine again (putting aside slight aches when you bent at certain angles). But that doesn’t put to rest the bitter feeling in your gut from having to lie in The Mist for what felt like hours in order to stand.

Once again, after the usual routine, you meet Lobo out in the front. He’s already stretching, preparing for you. You stretch as well, but hold back to keep some of the pain at bay.

“Sure you’re up for another day, perrita?” He whistles. Underneath his words you can feel a lofty smugness. This is no different from him asking if you want to call it quits already.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily.” You breathe the trepidation out from your throat and inhale confidence. Stance low, fists up, stay ready.

Snap! The flame leaps down and circles you both once more. Lobo descends into a fighting stance you don’t recognize; he shifts his body to the side so his right shoulder faces yours, both hands straightened and pointing towards yours. Maybe one from a different country?

“Tell me, Fuilana.” He lets that L linger a second longer on his tongue. You only recognize the shiver after it leaves. “Why did I made the ring this tight?”

“From your comment yesterday, I assumed it was to get a good glimpse of this lovely face~” You grin and make kissy lips. Lobo scoffs, but the edge of his lips don’t drift down.

“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s because, when enough space is closed, the best duelists can fall in an instant.” Lobo rolls his head around and stretches his neck. “How long are you hoping to last against me? Five seconds? Ten?”

“Pfft, oh come oh Lobo. Do you really think that little of me–”

Fwoosh!

Lobo’s first strike rushes past your hair, springing towards you with the strength of a catapult. Figures he’d try to catch you off–

Crack!!

Your nose crinkles into its own socket and a ringing digs into your ears. As much as you try, the momentum of Lobo’s second strike sends you tumbling back. Not as strong as it was yesterday, but certainly enough for something to start pounding behind your face. You fall right on your ass and flop onto your back.

There’s a momentary burn against your back before it’s snuffed out entirely. Stinging, like hot silverware against skin.

“–was… three seconds.” The siren in your ears fades right as Lobo finishes his sentence. “While some show-offs enjoy stretching out a fight, if someone is coming at you with killing intent, you’d be lucky to survive enough for fifteen. That should be your minimum.”

“Mmmrrrghhrr…” You shove your middle finger towards the wolf. He shrugs, ambivalent to the tragedy, and once again steps over you to walk back to the cabin.

LESSON THREE

“So you asked for this?” Vida, fingers pushing away your tufts of hair, inspects a section on the back of your head where you landed particularly hard yesterday. A sizable lump the size of an orange had formed, making it especially difficult to lay down and rest.

“I’m telling you, I’m fine. Really.” You reassure the deer for the fifth time. Despite it being hidden in the mess of hair she was able to spot it immediately. But despite your protests, she sat you down inside Lobo’s cottage and is actively combing out the strands to view it fully. “Like I said, this hasn’t been the worst of it and I’ve gotten back in that ring myself.”

“I’m thankful he’s created a boundary for this, at least.” Vida touches the lump and blows out a steady stream of breath and oh that feels weird. It tingles as if it were brimming heat, but feels cold like ice. “With all due respects, I expected him to have a training regiment consisting of surprise attacks where you have to watch your back every moment of the day, lest you’re whacked across the head.”

“That is, a very specific hypothetical.”

“Lobo’s capacity for violence knows no bounds, florita.”  

A few seconds of the goddess’ treatment later, they tap the space where the bump had laid. No soreness remains.

“Despite my reservations, I will say that his lessons helped me. Lobo isn’t the only one who meets Challengers on a frequent basis.” The blue deer leans forward and flexes his arm. It bulges up over twice its size. She winks your way. “You should’ve seen the last guy who had to deal with me.”

An image pops into your mind of Vida facing off against an army of Daves. An elongated neck squeezing him tight like a boa constrictor. Crushing him under a giant hoof. Sending him flying with an enlarged sculpting spatula.

“Sure, but you’re still you. Things would certainly be a lot easier if I could grow to unimaginable size and kick the threat away.” You tap your boot against the table leg.

“Shapeshifting or not, everyone has their own strengths and weaknesses. It can just take a while for people to learn what those may be.” They walk around and lean sideways to meet you at eye level. His hair cascades down like a canopy, a few clay flecks drifting down. “You’re discovering an entirely new side of yourself and you have infinite time to do so. There’s no rush here.”

“At least not until the next guy comes around…”

“Just don’t be afraid to try something wild, something new! Maybe something even Lobo wouldn’t expect?”

“Hm…” You raise your knuckles to your lips. “Well, I did have this one idea…”

Later that day, you learned the unfortunate truth that your canines are not as tough as a canine’s.

“Four seconds. Amazing how fragile human teeth can be, huh?”

LESSON FIVE

“Why do you make me feel pain anyways?” You idly rub your chin, still feeling phantom pains. One of Vida’s muffins did well enough to help your recovery. “You said so before, that I still feel alive because that’s how you made me feel.”

“Are you implying that those acts are limiting for you?” He side-eyes you while he stretches out his palms. There was quite a clamor from how many Sealed Fates he threw in the archives today.

“Are they not? Getting out of breath, feeling sore, needing to blink. They’re all drawbacks in a fight, right? So training without them would be objectively easier.”

“Pff–!!” Lobo’s snout is slapped with a smirk, both cheeks puffing and body hunching down with each chuckle. He doesn’t even bother to cover his mouth this time because of the audacity of your response. “Is that so? You really want to put that to the test?”

“.....yyyeesss?” Your head tilts to the side (wow you really are living up to Lobo’s nickname for yourself huh?). A slight queasiness in your gut signals you’re walking face first into some sort of trap, but you can’t help being a little curious.

“Pf, heheh, whatever you say perrita.” With a shake of his head, Lobo steps up right in front of you. A single step backwards is all you can manage before he raises a finger up, and then–

Boop

lobo tapped you on the nose and youre not quite sure what to make of things at first nothing quite jumps out to you as feeling different then three seconds of complete stillness later you realize you havent taken a single breath and now that you noticed the rest of the revelations flood in the stinging in your eyes is gone all soreness and beating in your body and pain in your limbs has completely faded sound still filters through your ears and after a quick squeeze of your palm youre sure you can still feel your nails digging into your skin you really have to cut them soon “so how are you feeling now” “fine i think but also i dont know what oh oh that is not” “no need to take breaths between sentences and no need to blink oh right and also no more momentary pauses between thoughts due to bodily limitations everything comes in like a pure stream” the absence of weight and pressure within your stomach doesnt feel bad but theres something you cant quite place it but it feels wrong like all your hair was shaved off something inside of you was removed and you dont know what but your brain is filtering in so many things at once what is happening you cant fully stop “i i dont know if this i dont” “that should be enough time ready to go again” “what are you” the air around you shifts and you try to dodge left but moving your leg is like trying to extend a fully extended leg whumph lobo forces both palms into your chest and gut and sends you flying back but you dont feel anything no pain there should be something there youre still lying down lobo is over you the thoughts dont stop coming “lobo please i dont i dont want please give it”

Boop

“WhhhHHhuUuUhhhh!!” Sputter and spit escape your lips, a violent coughing fit bangs against the back of your throat. You force a breath down into lungs that only now claw at you for air after… thirty seconds? A minute? How much time as passed– oh gods the nausea explodes into your stomach.

“Now do you see why I let you keep these ‘limitations?’” Why does he feel the need to look down on you like this every single time, you want to strangle him– but also no you need a second to breathe. “I have seen some spirits that can adjust to living in such a way, abandoning their sense of mortality. But most that start find themselves waddling like a newborn. And acting like one as well.”

“Ghh. Haaaahh– yhhou could have… told me…” You glare between clumped locks of hair.

“I gave you a warning before we started, didn’t I?” Lobo collects his sickles and barely gives any thought dodging out of your leg-slapping range. “Try to last more than two seconds next time, perrita. I know you can manage longer than an infant~”

LESSON EIGHT

Dang Lana, sounds like Muerte’s really throwing you through the wringer. As nice at he makes it out to be though, this feels like a one-sided competition. After all, he has centuries of experience, you don’t. You need something to even the odds for yourself, like a weapon!

You told me you’ve been given lots of cookware, why not use one of your own blades? I’m sure you’re pretty handy with a knife, it’s worth a shot right?

-D

Shwing! The Mist is bisected by your boning knife, but not a hair from Lobo’s face tuft is cut. You slice, you jab, you cut, but again and again all it’s met with is clouds of grey.

“What do you have against this face, hm?” Lobo sidesteps and prances around your swipes with the grace of a dancer. You say nothing. Talking at this point wastes breath, you know that now.

After another failed cut Lobo starts winding back for a punch! You hold the blade upwards, one on the grip the other on its back, hoping to intercept his strike–

BAM, his knuckles clash against yours on the handle. Your fingers crumple and the knife drops, and before long, BOOF, a foot to the chest leaves you flopping on the ground.

“Six seconds. You braced yourself for it this time. Your reactions are starting to improve.” Lobo picks up your knife from the ground, nodding contently. “But having instincts trained towards failure isn’t a good thing. Don’t let this become a habit.”

LESSON THIRTEEN

“Weapons are fine, yes.” Vida says, digging holes in the garden with her little mole claws so you can plant more seeds. “But that can easily be used against you if it falls out of your hands. The best offense is a good defense, try to focus on dodging and wait for an opportunity to shove him out.

Deep breaths, dodge, weave. Most of his strikes today are consisting of kicks, barely any with his arms. He bends down, locking into place, then you duck out of the way as his leg springs forward and completes an arc above your head. Your locks are caught up in the air current he creates.

You circle around him trying to goad him towards the ring’s rim. Not once does he let the momentum slip away, transferring the energy into full body rotation and using his arms as leverage. Over, in front, a jab towards your chest, the assault is relentless. But as you watch, there is a pattern to his movements: whenever he prepares a low arcing kick he bends down to launch himself upwards. Prime for an interception.

Another jab forwards – you swivel, boot nearly hitting Lobo’s pink flames. And then you see it, the momentary dip. Eye of the hurricane. You brace your stance, hands forward and right as the leg punches forwards, then stops, then swivels backwards what is–

WHACK!! The paw bashes into your cheek and you stumble back, falling flat on your ass right on the flames. Lobo’s kick faltered then raised a whole foot higher to intercept your interception. A slight crack resonates in your jaw while you try to talk.

“Nine seconds. Not bad.” Lobo nods approvingly after slinking from a low kneel to a full stance. Dusting off his poncho. “But your body twitches in advance when you’re about to strike. Might want to work on that.”

LESSON SIXTEEN

Blueberry has a good point, but acting purely defensively doesn’t end battles, it creates a war of attrition. You’re small, but that means you’re closer to his pressure points. Use his own weight against him!

“Ghh– mercy, mercy!!” You slap the damp rock textured floor, over and over, screaming uncle towards your opponent. Whose ass is currently planted right on your back, squeezing the air out of your nonexistent lungs.

“You know, I wouldn’t exactly consider the act of barreling full force into an opponent’s legs to be an effective strategy.” Lobo teases over his shoulder, while his feet press down on the backs of your knees. “Unless you were intending to practice breath training, to increase your stamina?”

“Ghhet the ffuck off me!” You slap around above you and yank on his cloak, scratchy and dusty to the touch. The wolf makes no indication of feeling anything from this.

“You probably should work on that you know. Though, as you are now, would be more akin to pain tolerance than actual bodily change.” A shift in the boney ass pressing down into you, and both of lobo’s paws rest on the ground in front of you. He’s lounging. “But even still, lots of things are possible. Including lasting longer than three seconds.”

“I’ll give YOU seconds!!” You gnash your teeth towards his grey wrists, but they just crawl further away.

“You get right on that, perrita.”

LESSON TWENTY

Just because you have a weapon on you, it doesn’t mean you have to let him know about it. Keep the knife behind your back, I’m sure it’ll work this time!

CLATTACLANK

“Four seconds. Holding an arm behind your back limits a lot of your movement capabilities you know.

LESSON TWENTY ONE

“Just outlast him, he can get tired eventually!”

BANG

“Twelve seconds. Though maybe you should work on that breath training.”

LESSON TWENTY FOUR

If you can’t kick his groin, poke his eyes!

CLENCH

“Five. You’re getting sloppier. Again.”

LESSON TWENTY SIX

If it breathes, a punch to the windpipe can cripple any opponent!

CRACK

“Four. You’re making things boring for me perrita.”

LESSON TWENTY EIGHT

“Please don’t do that.“

SLAM

“Thirteen.”

LESSON THIRTY

Listen, this little trinket is something I’ve been saving for a rainy day. You can say that you’ve secretly been cultivating it yourself if you want. Just hold it in your hand, channel your focus through it, and envisioning the type of attack you want to inflict, yell–

“CORTÉZ CANNON!!”

B O O O M

Even with your other arm acting as a brace, the blast of D’s pinecone charm crumples your right arm into your socket. You wouldn’t be surprised if this somehow made your bone marrow explode given the intensity of the pain. As proud as you are of that attack name,  already you’re regretting this whole plan.

It was hard to see Lobo’s face in the instant before the impossibly bright purple flash sparked, outside of his eyes widening and starting to sprint your way. And it’s especially difficult now as your eyes are recovering. Certain things don’t require sight to understand, however. Like how the air is rushing past your ears and your skirt is flapping violently and, oh yeah, the lack of ground beneath you.

The viole(n)t explosion sent you flying across Lobo’s realm, shot out of a canon hopped up on godly energy. After at least five seconds of hang time, you crash onto your back and sliiiiide across the damp stone. Lucky for you, the angle of the explosion meant you didn’t go crashing through the side of Lobo’s home. Not that you were scared of getting really hurt from that, but because you know for a fact he would have ripped you a new one if you destroyed it more than you did before.

Blink, blink. You try to rub your eyes and refresh them from the blast. Then wish you could go back to that stinging pain when you see Lobo above you, arms crossed.

“When I agreed to you bringing whatever you’d like into the ring, a glorified trinket wasn’t what I had in mind.” Lobo deadpans. “You barely lasted a second.”

“Grh, yeah well, I suppose that’s on you for not specifying your rules. You never were good at that.” The recoil in your right arm makes sitting up a task in of itself. But the pain this time is at least manageable. Right behind the wolf is the cottage, you wrapped all the way back around this place.

“Oh lo siento, are you referring to my generosity for allowing your indulging in this type of magical meddling? Again?” Metal is unsheathed and unfolded. Before you can even reach up to stop it, Lobo uses a blade and snatches up D’s charm by the thread wrapped, around its miniature pine cone. “It’s possible for you to utilize magic, yes, but that requires years of discipline. And right now, you’re struggling to prove that you even have any.”

“Come on.  I’m getting my ass kicked every day, and now I’m still learning.” With your right arm out of commission, you sit yourself up with your left.

“From the wrong people, clearly.” The charm clinks against the metal. Lobo huffs as he pockets it, disappointed. Somehow, this makes the twinge in your gut even tighter. “This isn’t about winning against me, Fuilana. This is about training. If you don’t want to be helpless when my realm gets invaded again, then you need to stop fighting like you did while alive. Scrambling for anything you can crab, any idea that pops into your head. It’s yet another groin kick. Situational.”

“Yeah well… what do you suggest then?” You glance back up. The wolf is still here, a little disheartened but not dismissive. He sheathes the sickle once more, then starts walking away, waving a paw behind his head.

“Try taking the time you need to figure things out yourself, instead of looking to others for answers.”

With a flick of his cape and a fwoosh, Lobo vanishes from The Mist and leaves you by yourself.

Once again left soaking in defeat, you drudge around the cottage and into the backyard. Getting your face caved in by Lobo has practically become routine now. Spend time resting, cooking, journaling and doing other hobbies while he’s out. Then do your daily spar and tend to the crops after he shows up.

Your garden especially is doing well now. A month of workouts and sparring (however momentary) has cultivated your collection of ingredients to nearly fill two entire shelves. Jars of peppers, pumpkin seeds, cocoa beans, and multicolored spices you’ve never even tasted while alive. You even have bags of unprocessed linen and cotton, a bit more work to go and you can process thread for fabric! The crops have been doing well too – you’ve grown an entirely new orange tree. They’re a bit more firm than you’re used to, but still plenty juicy. A third is just now beginning to sprout – not for any sort of food, but for pine. The smell familiar prickle of pine can help give your new home a bit personal flair.

To think, a little over a month ago you were struggling just to grow enough to make one meal. And now Vida had to make a whole new field so you can manage all the space.

Today you were planning on harvesting some ripe squash. There was a recipe you found that would turn this into a curry you were particularly excited for. So you snip away a vine and pick it up with one hand and you-oh no–

Face first right into the dirt. Great. Cool. You just watered it all recently too and now there’s far too much mud on your face. As much as you try to wipe it away it just keeps smearing. This day just keeps getting better.

…you know Lobo is still trying to help you. You know he means well. The fact he hasn’t been jumping you at random points in the day has to mean something after all, right? But it feels like you’re going nowhere fast. Everyone keeps trying to give you advice but every day you throw yourself at a brick wall (or rather, the brick wall keep slamming itself into you). Over and over again, for what? You heard what he said a few days ago, there’s no real bodily improvement here. Just pain tolerance. So in a space like this, in an arena, what is there left to improve?

You wipe the last of the slick mud off your face and onto your sleeve. It’s been smeared a good deal, a few stains even muddying your shirt.

“.…hm.”

LESSON THIRTY ONE

“And here we are again.” Lobo shakes his head as you approach, arms crossed. His teasing flair is present but the residue from yesterday’s disappointment is still thick underneath. Your ring of fire arena is already formed, waiting for you.

Your boots continue a steady and focused march forward. Breathing in and out through your nose, keeping your face stoney and controlled. No words can be spoken.

“Nothing? No oh so witty remarks about how you’ll break your losing streak today?” An eyebrow raises. He’s taking off his blade holster belt while he talks, kicking both blades a good distance away. “Or are you finally taking this seriously?”

Your final footfall lands within the pink fire’s bounds. You don’t spare a breath for him, despite how much this gunk coats your tongue. The only response he is given is a lowering stance and a raising of fists.

Lobo taps a claw against his arm while waiting for an answer that isn’t coming. Eventually, he realizes this fact. He lets out a single “hm.” Then he widens his legs and raises own fists, copying your pose.

“Don’t disappoint me then.”

One.

Mimicking Lobo’s style a few days ago you spring forward from your hind leg to close the distance. A familiar move, but one you’ve practiced a few times since training began.

Lobo still anticipates it, his own stance is lowering, hardening. Protecting his lower half.

Don’t choke.

Two.

Lobo shoots out a single jab, anticipating your path. But you’ve already pressed a boot forward to curb your momentum. The fist stops half a foot from your face.

Breathing in through your nose is already straining you.

Three.

Before Lobo can react to your feint you snatch his right wrist in your left hand, trying to force the arm upwards along with it. He puts in a good fight to keep that from happening, whatever your plan may be. Your right is surging towards the thin window between fist and shoulder that hides his neck.

Four.

The wolf catches on fast. In a blur you feel your right wrist crushed and wrenched away, your body dragged closer to his. Of course it was going to end this way.

Don’t choke.

Holding each other’s arms you push against one another, digging your feet into the floor beneath you. Lobo has you hopelessly outmatched in regards to strength, but you press your heels defiantly into the floor regardless. Lobo rolls his eyes at your pitiable effort.

“How many times has it been since you tried–”

Five.

“PPHRPTPTHTPHT!!” A fountain of muddy brown erupts from your lips, gifting Lobo a generous splattering of color to his monochrome physique. A grinning snout turns to a frowning and disgusted one in a fraction of a second.

“GhRAHK!! You–?!”

Six.

Despite his efforts, your earthy assault splattered across his eyes and hinders his sight. You cough and gasp from having to hold that in for so long, very much thankful that you didn’t swallow any by accident. A slice of watermelon is definitely going to be needed once this is done.

But your fight isn’t over yet. You thought Lobo was reaching up to wipe his eyes, but those fingers have curled in to a fist.

Seven.

As much as you try to yank your weight down, Lobo keeps yanking your body upwards. A claw drags across your left cheek and forms a new burning tear. A memory of a man burning from the inside out flashes in your mind

You grunt, but push on, reaching behind your back and under your shirt.

Eight.

Lobo pulls back yet again oh so ready to cave in your lovely face. But before he even gets the chance–

KRACKOOOOM

Lobo’s form barely moves from the sudden strike of lightning, but his ears flicked upwards fast. He hesitates, lacking the sight needed to understand why all around him, wind howls and rain hammers onto tree trucks like bullets from a blunderbuss. Yet he can still feel a sticky squelch against his puffy chest. A blotch of caramel to keep your gifted storm marble in place.

Nine.

Perhaps seeing through your ruse rather quickly Lobo punches again, this time landing a direct hit. His knuckles crash into your cheekbones and make them crack. Glass shards fracturing within your skull, the burning spreads. Your head spins.

Ten.

The wolf winds back again  for another blow. You can feel his grip loosening; with this next hit you’ll go flying once more. But right now he has both sight and hearing hindered, and the clock is still ticking.

Lobo may still have his sense of touch, but he can’t tell what your aim may be as you pull both your legs sharply up and against your chest.

Eleven.

Two simultaneous impacts. One fist against your face, two boots against his knee. Both of you crack, then crumple. Your hearing gets muffled from the blunt force trauma.

Lobo dips down but he does not yield.

Twelve.

His cloak’s collar is gritty and rough in your hands as you yank it forwards. He buckles but does not give. Claws dig into your wrist. His other paw is reaching towards your face as the rest of him wages war against gravity’s pull.

Thirteen.

STOMP! Lobo’s stomach is firm as you dig your boot into his gut. With his paw’s shadow looming overface, you CHOMP, then throw all of your weight downwards! Growls rumble against the back of your throats but even as the fall embraces you both neither relents. Even with a finger between your teeth Lobo shoves your head down, as you try to throw him to the side, and then…

SLAM!

The burn of pink flame burns your back, sulfur singing your nose from its increased intensity. Lobo, still gripping your entire face in one hand, feels it as well.

The ring flickers out.

Fourteen.

“Haaah… Haaaah…” You both pant, battered and surely forming bruises from the exertion. Heat radiates off you both, in bodies and breath, washing over the other. All of the rush from the battle flooding your body, urging you to keep going, keep sprinting even after the marathon has ended. You’re sure Lobo can feel that too.

Even now while pressed against the floor neither of you have released your grips, let the blood return to either of your knuckles. Ears still ring, wounds still bruise, a finger still clamped between jaws. You taste blood. It is not your own.

You let go first. Forcing your cracked jaw to go slack and spitting out his finger. It recedes, his fingers trailing down your cheek, tingling from the fiery claws. He lets your wrist slide out of his grasp. You draw it up past his snout, resting a thumb on the bridge between his eyes.

Gently, you wipe away the mud in his eyes. He blinks. His crimson eyes are on you once more. This close, you can see the waves bobbing in and out from the darkness in a gentle rhythm.

“Hey.” You wipe the mud on his cloak. “Looks like we call it a draw.”

Lobo’s eyes bore into your own. Still huffing, mouth open but snarl hiding his fangs from view. Even right next to him like this, he eclipses your view with his dark poncho. But as he can see, all of your mud doesn’t make it look that dark anymore.

“...…heh. Hehhah. Hehhahaha!” Still on his side facing you, he brings a hand up and laughs. Far from the typical insidious breathy chuckle, these are lighter, each one fluttering up not like a bubble from the depths but rather a coyote. Sure the tone may be deeper but they roll and leap with each hill of breath sucked in. His smile stretches wider with each breath, eyes squeezed tight. He clutches his stomach from pain, but it’s not all from your boot.

It’s infectious. The laughs start fluttering out from your throat too, unable to be contained despite the drilling into your skull and fits of nausea settling in after the fact. Every second that stretches out with you on the ground like this just prolongs the pain; bouncing from laughter like this doesn’t help with the pressure in your lungs. But the pain feels good. Rewarding. The euphoria leaks out with each breath shared between you both while you bask in the afterglow.

It feels good, sharing this with him.

“Congrats perrita.” He snickers, looking at you once more. “You passed the test.”

LESSON THIRTY TWO

CRACK. Lumber snapping.

“No, no you’re using your arm too much.” Lobo shakes his head disapprovingly. “You’re just going to hurt yourself punching like that.”

“But it’s a punch. How could I be using my arm ‘too much,’ that’s the whole point of a punch.” You stare back, confused.

“Here, look.” Lobo matches your stance, copying your punch. On him it looks stiff, rigid. “If you simply punch forward, then your arm is doing most of the work. But the body is a whole entity, an entire machine. A proper stance on its own doesn’t help. What you need is…”

C R A C K L E. A tree being uprooted in a storm. The punching bag swings from the impact. Lobo’s form is rotated into the blow.

“To use your entire body. Rotate your hips, engage your shoulder, push off your back foot.” Lobo motions to himself while frozen in time. “By using your entire body, you lessen the recoil for your arm. Just because you have padding it doesn’t mean you can ignore basic safety.”

You look down at your hands, flexing your grip with your new fingerless gloves. Black leather stretches from your knuckles to your forearms, tightly bound and snug. Across the backs are little folds of dark silver metal, reflecting a vague shadow of your spirit’s form. Dotted where your knuckles would be is that same metal, formed into diamond points that would surely leave an imprint across an evil lord’s cheek.

Offensive, defensive and versatile all in one. There are lines of crimson trim along the flaps of the leather, reminding you of the greeting card that Lobo flicked out when you first met Vida. A piece from his personal weapon collection. A gift.

“It’s good that you’ve settled on your fighting style. It’s always important to prepare yourself in the case that someone else comes barging in.” Lobo glances back towards a table that’s currently using the mini-sun to form pointed four-pronged clay caltrops. He’s laughed at how they’re oddly formed and not as sharp as you’d like, but it’s a start. Plus you have other ideas in mind for traps too.

“But tricks can only leverage the playing field so much. If I’m not around and you can’t hide, then you’ll have to face whoever busted in directly. You won’t be able to get away with any theatrics.” Lobo pokes your chest with a claw. It’s not accusatory, not teasing or a jab. But rather, to ensure you’re paying attention. You’re both serious about this training now, after all.

“Got it.” With a firm nod you raise a fist and give a weak jab back at his chest. “I won’t let you down, coach.”

The wolf rolls his eyes, but he’s not immune to your charms. You can see that smirk of his as he pats your arm away. “Don’t let these go to your head. This isn’t the time to get obsessed with theatrics.”

“I’m sorry, did I hear you correctly? Because if I recall, you have a very consistent visual style.” You tap your silver and black gloves with red accents. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the rest of your weapon collection is like this.”

“I said there’s no time for theatrics, there’s nothing wrong with a bit of flair. And you’re one to talk, Miss ‘Cortez Cannon.’ ”

“Oh so roasting a man alive in hellfire while giving the most evil laugh in the history of time was absolutely necessary then? To save my life?”

“There are forces in this universe beyond your understanding, perrita.”

“Well, maybe one day I will understand. After all,” you lean forward with a grin, “I got this far didn’t I?”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.” Lobo snorts and pats your back, shoving you back towards the punching bag. “Now come on. From the top.”

You nod again, raising your fists up close and matching Lobo’s stance earlier. Deep breath in, slow… then engaging your abs, twisting your upper half back, then strike.

CRACK. A stone being cut.

“Good.” Lobo nods. “Again.”

Chapter Text

“Yeah so Vida’s been getting more and more stressed lately. Just the other day I saw her literally melt into one of the chairs while you were out.” The pot of in-progress broth bubbles over the fire. You snap another twig from the pine tree for kindling to help speed up the process. “She’s juggling several projects at once. A few dozen contests to judge in her realm, a banquet hall to design for some sorta party, the works.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” Lobo says between bites of food – one of your own dishes, a plate of leftover pocherong manok, or Chicken Ponchero (“Painstakingly average” he said. You’re getting better!). He sits on the side of one of your gardens, plate on his lap, legs crossed over each other. “Mi hermano no sabe que maneja – manage their own time.”

“I wanted to try and make a proper gift for her. You can only cook food for people so many times before it stops becoming something special.” Fwoosh. The fire rises about half an inch. “My original idea was knitting some clothes for her, maybe a hat or a scarf. But I asked about her smock, and apparently it has a special type of enchantment that allows it to change with her. So I don’t want to surprise her with something she can only wear some of the time.”

“That outfit of his is one that she’s had for as long as I can remember. While I’m sure she’d appreciate it, the most she’d do is hang it up on a wall.” Lobo concedes.

Chicken bones splash into the pot. “So then I thought, why not try something new? I always wanted to try whittling since I do it a lot with my colored pencils. But then I realized that kitchen utensils aren’t the most accurate carving materials.”

“Mhm.” Tap tap.

“So when you go down for another soul run, could you bring back some woodcarving tools? I can’t ask Vida for them since that would ruin the surprise.” You pluck a ladle from the racks overhead and stir the water around. The bones clink and clank against one another. “I’ll pay you back for it. Helping with the inscriptions, sorting the archives, cooking a meal you want. You name it.”

“You’re giving me a lot of power for just one little request, Fuilana. All for a few little tools.”

“Like you wouldn’t accept right away. Those archives are in desperate need of organization.” Clink clank.

“Well. I feel it’d be easier to come and get those tools, yourself.” Tap tap tap.

“Ha ha. I am laughing so hard right now.” You add head motion to your eye roll so the wolf can see it behind you. “Honestly Lobo, get better material.”

“It isn’t… I don’t want to grab random knives and gouges then have you complain to go and get more.” Tap tap tap tap.

“It doesn’t need to be an expensive set, just pilfer some basic tools and that’ll be fine by me.” Clink clank, clinklank.

“Or. You could… come with me?”

Clink.

“What?”

You turn back to the wolf. His legs are still crossed, but he’s turned completely away from you, opting to recount the number of nails in his cottage. Occasionally sparing a glance back to you before quickly turning away again. Tap tap tap tap, his fork against the wood encasing your crops. Lobo, still turned away, lifts up a paw and tenses into a pose resembling a shrug.

“Do you... Want…. To, come with me?”

Droplets from the bubbling pot jump to your frozen fingers.

“What?”

“Did you tighten your gloves?”

“Tight enough to bruise, light enough to be flexible.”

“Lace up your boots?”

“Triple knots.”

“Remember the rules?”

“Stay close and don’t wander off without saying something.”

“And you’re sure you want to do this?” Lobo interrogates as he holds his forearms tight. “Not everyone can handle this type of experience—”

“Lobo I already told you, I’m fine.” You raise up your hands to try and quell the questions. “I said I wanted to come and I still do. It would be a dick move if I just backed out last second when YOU were the one to invite ME.”

“I– mm.” The wolf opens his mouth to interject, then closes it again. His constant foot tapping against the cottage floor is making you more nervous than you would be alone.

“’Sides, why do I gotta be worried, eh?” You jab Lobo in the shoulder. “I’m walking with The God of Death: The face of entropy itself! If I’m going to be your apprentice, you need to keep me safe in the first place, don’t ya?”

Lobo doesn’t flinch, but a smile follows his scoff of disbelief. “Apprentice? You’re getting a touch ahead of yourself, don’t you think perrita?”

“What are you taaaaaalking abooout? I would say I’ve been a great help around here, making this house feel more alive.” You lean towards the wolf and bat your eyelashes.

He snickers and shakes his head. Got him.

“You’re ridiculous.” After a brief roll of the eyes, he turns and opens the door out to The Mist, walking out a short distance away

Following close behind you fiddle with your skirt, rubbing over the fraying cat’s whiskers. You weren’t lying before about not being nervous; you know that Lobo has things handled. But there’s a definite weight in your steps, in the closing of the door behind you. A tingle of anticipation at something, some place new after so many months within this realm. Maybe that’s why Lobo was being so overbearing. Because he could smell the dread and anticipation stewing within you.

But you’ve already agreed to this, and Lobo has stopped to turn around and face you. He’s clearly put a lot of thought into letting you into this part of his life. May as well see how far this goes.

He holds out both of his paws to you, pads facing up. “Ready?”

You aren’t.

You take his hands. “Let’s go.”

From The Mist’s floor a familiar black wind begins to seep upwards, like bubbles of air threading through the fabric of a tight knit shirt. They flutter around you both, collecting, building, a whisper becoming a cry becoming a howl. Piece by piece The Mist’s wispy grays, greens and pinks fade into the darkness until both of you are completely consumed in the storm, leaving not but a shred of proper light.

Your hair and skirt flap and flutter in the void’s cyclone, but it never feels as overwhelming as you remember it being. The howling is loud against your ears, but you can still parse the feeling of the fabric flapping against your knees, the chill plucking the hairs along your arm to create a wave of goosebumps. Lobo’s hands grasping tight against your own, but never enough to hurt. A crimson glow, ever present through the wind.

You take a long, slow breath. All around you, the cyclone rises and falls in tandem.

“Let’s start with something small.”

Howling turns to whistling turns to whispering. Wisps of darkness fleck outwards from the cyclone and a deep blue begins to balance out Lobo’s red. Your hair settles down against your back again (all your clumps help in it staying bunched together at least). And then the wind is gone.

And now you’re back.

Not back in the tavern, thank goodness, but back in the realm of the living. In place of the wisps of grey above your heads you’ve grown accustomed to, there is the dark blue of the sky deep into the night. Stitched into that blanket of night are patches of faint white and pink creating a tapestry of stars. The moon hovers above it all, sifting a pale glow across this unfamiliar frontier: the wide open grasslands with its rolling hills, the dotted oaks with their arching branches. Fog crouches, hiding and dispersing among the maturing plants. And far down from the hill you and Lobo stand atop, a stone-laid pathway towards a tiny village, no more than eight houses large. Patches of stars shine through the windows.

You realize you’re holding your breath.

“Oh… Lobo I… wow…” Coherent sentences turn their back on you. A gentle rustle from the trees leaves you clutching against your blouse.

“Still with me?” He whispers behind you.

“Yeah… yeah I’m still here, I’m still– woah.”

In all of your awe you hadn’t paid too much attention to Lobo himself and the sight of him makes you plummet back down to reality. Something, different is happening to the wolf. His form is much less definite than it was before you left The Mist, less tangible and hard to properly see what you’re looking at. Copies of himself fade in and out around where he stands, afterimages blinking into existence and then evaporating just as quick. One of the most solid versions continues to look into your eyes, while others are turning away, squatting down, reaching out to pluck some invisible thing out of the air.

“Are you… okay?” You ask. “You’re looking a little…”

“Ephemeral? Transparent?” One of the Lobos holds his arms out wide. You now realize that he isn’t speaking in a whisper; his voice is distant, as if echoing from someplace far away.“I’m letting you follow, but I still have a job to do. As long as you stay close to this part of me, you should be safe.”

“Part of… So right now there’s, several of you?”

Three shades of the wolf with a brief delay between them point down the hill towards the village. You  watch as Lobo opens the door to a house and steps inside, each movement flickering in and out as if flipping through a  picture book. In the flower field behind another, Lobo waves a paw along the plants to collect clumps of fog, seemingly absorbing them into his paw.

The collection of shades closest to you begin to step together down the path, waving  you along. You jog  to catch up with them all and do your best to not appear too mystified at the sound of gravel beneath your boots.

“The world is a big place, perrita. Much greater than you could imagine. You might call me a god, but a task such as this is requires utmost concentration.” As you two (five? seven?) walk along, you continue to spot flickers of the wolf out of the corner of your eye. A paw placed against a mighty oak, taking a knee on a rooftop, cupping something in a distant prairie. There for a fraction of a second, gone the next.

“How does it feel when you get like this?” Cautious but curious  you reach out a hand to the collection  of shades. Fingers break the surface of one of its cloaks, but when another’s fur materializes around them, you slink back out.

“Difficult.” One copy of Lobo waves a paw along the fence. Some make contact and feel the grooves. Others phase through. “You could imagine the feeling as… playing three lyres at once, each a different song.”

“That’s a very tame example compared to what you’re doing right now.” Then again, having the ability to split one’s mental focus equally like that is rather impressive. Just the thought of it is making you feel  exhausted.

“However you choose to imagine it, it’s effective enough. Gets thousands of souls into the reincarnation cycle a day.”

“Doesn’t anyone else help you? Any of The Nine?”

“Hah. I’ve been told that my method is too effective. So no, I haven’t gotten help. It isn’t perfect, but it’s the best course available.”  Narrowing his eyes, a distant puff of breath blows the more  concrete details of the wolf out of focus. Lobo  exits the house in the village, his movements now carrying  movements in  between key poses, cupping his hands together. But if  there’s something  within them, you can’t tell.

“Hm.”

Still trailing alongside Lobo, you mimic  his movements on the fence opposite to the path. The posts are choppy, imperfect. A splinter grazes by your  thumb nearly every step. It’s as if the fence was   made years ago, but nobody  thought to replace it. Or maybe they don’t   care to. At the very least it assists you during your descent.

With more effort than expected   (you also don’t mention how inclines have become a recently rediscovered concept), both you and   Lobo reach  the village proper.  The moonlight overhead casts a wide  shadow behind each of  the homes, but it’s difficult to say just   how late into the night it is.   Back home  most  of  you  had  wood  homes  and  the  plaza around the  tavern  was brick, but  here it’s primarily  cobblestone  with straw  roofing.   Some  moss  around  the  sides.   Maybe  you’re  in  another  country  entirely?  You   can’t  recall  a  potential   name  right   now    though.     There’s   still      one     house    with      a        light    on        though.

 “—errita?” Lobo   asks    under    his   breath.

“It’s a shame you gotta,  do this yourself. I can’t,”   you     yawn,    “imagine, doing this,   without  any…      help…”

Eyelids      are      fighting to     stay       open.              Your.       body                       sways

“—all the things to forget… idiota, Muerte... Lana, take–”

Fwump!

“S-SHIT!!” Instinct seizes your muscles and stiffens you into a pole from your previously slouched state. Every last inch of skin across your body is buffeted by one of the most intense chills you’ve ever felt in your entire life; even falling into a pond in the dead of winter doesn’t compare to this! The back of your throat stings, your eyes are blanketed by frostbite–!!

“Still with me, Fuilana?” Lobo places a paw on your shoulder, but you quickly slap it away.

“Lobo what the HELL was th–uuuuuh??”

Lobo is kneeling down to your level, now fully solid rather than a moving mass of shades. His brows are tensed tight and ears pointed backwards. A touch of a crumb of snarl is showing, but his eyes lack any sort of glare that would indicate rage towards you. One paw on the ground, the other cautiously reaching out to you, and you are focusing on all of these little details because you are still processing the fact that for whatever reason Lobo is now standing in front of you completely shirtless with his fluffy and scar riddled chest on display and you are still staring completely dumbfounded and haven’t moved.

The shirtless god of death breathes out, relieved. “If you’re capable of that type of reaction, then you’re fine.”

“You... uh...”

“The cold shock will wear off soon. It’s a few sizes too big, but it should keep you grounded as you walk with me.”

Still reeling from the cold shock and shirt shock, you finally register the pressure thrust upon you. Dusty and slightly ragged, Lobo’s poncho now encompasses your form. More accurately you’re carrying it than wearing it, Lobo may only be a foot or so taller than you but his shoulders are much more broad. And he’s right: despite your initial reaction, the the full body freeze is now closer to a chill. Waking up early on an Autumn day, feeling the chill from outside prickle across your arms from the blankets. Whatever brain fog was plaguing you before, this poncho helped you snap out of it.

“And… if I don’t wear it?” You tug the poncho tighter against you, picking up the front from the dirt path.

Lobo’s form shifts, becoming unfocused once more. To your right, a wispy shade – the one that had previously entered the house beside you – cups a flickering light blue flame. It’s small, oddly shaped. But you’re certain that in its cradled state, you can make out the outline of a small child. Seconds later the critter is subsumed in the flames, leaving behind no discernible features.

The wisp is clasped between both paws and disappears, either absorbed by him or faded away.

You grasp the poncho tight around you and nod.

“Come on. Let’s keep going.” The wolf whispers and holds out a hand. You look back to the house, glancing through the window. No people can be seen, but against the light of a candle, a shadow cast on the wall hunches over its bed.

You reach out your hand, the tips of your fingers transitioning back from transparent to opaque, and take his paw.

...much more pronounced than you expected.

Three hours since you’ve inherited Lobo’s poncho, you begin to realize that the soul reaping gig isn’t as exciting as you had imagined. More than likely that’s due to your initial introduction to the wolf, combined with his latest performance with Dave the Profimancer.

As you march deeper and deeper into the nearby forest,w a wide line of shades stretched out to your sides, it feels more akin to garbage collection. A gentle haze among morning grass, clouds of Mist from chopped trees, lingering flames from animals hang above the remains of a grizzly feast; even as you react to some with revulsion, he collects them all equally, with little variation or ceremony. No battles against deities or hunts for fleeing ghosts, it’s merely one long stroll.

“Walking” in Lobo’s terms is not actually a matter of using both of your legs to hike across the entire continent (thank goodness). You learn that fact quickly once you both exited the small farmstead and “step” into the woods surrounding it, landing flat on your face from a root that wasn’t there before. Lobo teaches you the basics rather quickly though.

You intentionally take a step, you take that step.

You move forward. The wisps of The Mist rush past both your cheeks. The colors around you smear and streak, the watercolor canvas reality splashed with a bucket of water. And then it passes, and the canopy of the woods has sprouted twenty feet upwards.

It feels like wading through a dream, gliding from one spot to the next. When you decide to start skating, the floor beneath you has become ice, and you’re free to move as you please. Consciously doing so after learning this fact however is… difficult to say the least.

But you don’t mind. Even if it’s slightly anti-climactic, you’re still back in your realm. Feeling the wind on your face, the groves of trees, the rustling of branches; it feeds a nostalgia you never realized you had. It’s comforting.

“…and before the wood sprites left, they used magic to make the trees glow a deep red, which scared the humans in the village nearby. The population plummeted from people moved away, save for a few families in the village you saw. All of this, from a simple defense mechanism, developed entirely by themselves.”

“Mhm.”

“The sprites aren’t fairies, as many believe them to be. They’re colonies made up of physical manifestations of magical energy that have bonded to a certain object or concept, operating off of a strict set of rules which mimics what they… Lana.”

“Huh? What?” You snap your gaze back to him and plaster on a smile. “Oh, sorry, yeah. Wood sprites, really cool!”

“…you weren’t listening.” The enthusiasm in his voice quickly drains.

Busted. “…sorry. I do enjoy listening, it’s just a little hard with all of… you know.”

“It’s distracting. It’s fine. Should have expected as much.” Lobo doesn’t sound mad, just a touch annoyed, as if expecting as much. Some of the versions of him cross their arms, others hold them, others fiddle with the sickles.

“Hey, I don’t have to worry about ‘moving’ into people and that affecting me, will it?” You pull a question to try and keep the conversation from sputtering out. You’ve had to lift up the poncho so you can hop over a gnarled root or two so it’s taking up a section of your mind. “As curious as I am at the thought of possessing something, accidentally becoming an eleven year old and re-experiencing puberty doesn’t sound like my idea of a good first date.”

“I’m sorry, this is a date now? Despite you almost fading from existence less than an hour ago?” A mused, amused and bemused look greets you, each from a different shade.

“Don’t act oblivious now Lobito. I prepared you dinner, we had a little tussle, and now you’re taking me out on a moonlit evening stroll. That’s textbook.” You elbow one of his many sides. The pressure gives way and your elbow goes clean through. Distantly you can hear someone fall. “Besides, we’ve gone through so many life-or-death tussles together at this point, it’s practically par for the course now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Lobo tries to act stoic and grab his cloak to avert eye contact… but then lowers it back down after grasping for air and settles for turning away.

“Uh huh.”

“Shut.” All the Lobos say at once. “Regardless, no. There’s no such thing as an accidental possession, especially for us. You and I aren’t normal spirits now anyways.”

“We sure aren’t–”

“We’re not even fully people, in this state.”

“...oh.”

“Our state of being is one that everything awakens to at some point in their existence. Whether that may be the end, or the beginning, depends on the individual.” Lobo explains as trees shift past you both. “Without something to cling to – a body, a mind – we become ungrounded. Concepts. A concept is not something that can interact with the living world on its own. At least, in the conventional sense.”

“So right now… I’m the idea of Fuilana Cortez?“ Yet another chill runs down your spine and clutching Lobo’s cloak around you doesn’t help.

“Before you begin to spiral: no. You are not a copy of the person you were upon death. There’s no need for yet another identity crisis.” Eight different eyes glance to you. Contempt, pitying, sympathetic. “You hold a very strong concept of self. You know who you are, your history, what you believe in. There are few who can achieve that basic level of self-actualization.Thus, your belief in your own identity allows you to naturally persist. If only for a few moments longer than most.”

Self-actualization so strong that a concept can be given consciousness. You think back to Vida’s giggling, each snort changing a piece of her into something else entirely. There were plenty of moments when you lost yourself and sunk into a slump, but never melted into the floor. Perhaps Lobo and the rest of The Nine have more flexibility in how they present themselves? Vida being creation, Lobo being death. You’d be lying if you weren’t envious of them from time to time.

“Is that what ghosts are, then? Dead people with strong senses of self?”

“Not all of them, but a good number, yes. Wraiths, pocongs, thayé, whatever you all choose to call them. Stubborn is what they are.” Lobo scoffs as he phases through a low hanging branch.

“Is that– ow, is that a bad thing?” You ask, face smacking into the same branch.

“It’s annoying. Makes my job more difficult. More often than not, those with strong senses of self refuse to go easily. Perhaps you assume that I find joy in that, and I do. But wrangling together a drove of spirits like pigs every hour of the day slows down my workflow.”

“I would’ve thought that having a persistent spirit is something you would have admired.” It still lingers in your mind: Lobo’s nod and look of respect when you proposed the game of Heads or Tails. “Isn’t having that full understanding good, despite the complications that come with it? Don’t you like that about mortals?”

“The only thing I enjoy about mortals is when they make my job easier, or more entertaining.” Far between the trees, an echo of the wolf gingerly picks up a dwindling rabbit flame.“Stubbornness is not a virtue. There is no such thing.”

Okay now that’s a lie. “So me using the pendant and ‘cheating the rules of nature’ and ‘wasting the gift of life’ wasn’t a sin?”

“It threatened the natural order, which would have been a problem. And me choosing to prepare you for a meal was because you wer– are, a nuisance.” Lobo’s voice is suddenly corroding from its bitterness. “There is no virtues that make you a good person, nor misdeeds that weigh down your soul. There is only you, and me. No matter who you were, what sort of monumental deeds you’ve done, it does not matter.”

Lobo, presently, carves a line into the bark of a tree, causing it to leak Mist. Far down the line, he collapses the rabbit’s flame into his cupped hands, and then moves on to the next corpse.“We all return to dust eventually.”

“Hm.” You hold your forearms underneath the poncho. Feeling the patchy fabric, purposely imperfect. Glancing at his sickles, carved with six scratched out cats - a human tool for farming. His voice, still dripping with venom, not bearing any bared fangs to release it.

....you leave it be.

“I suppose… I can see comfort in that idea.” You step with Lobo through a long stretch of shrubbery. The world becomes watercolor for a few seconds, then you’re both back. Even after it passes, you keep your eyes down to focus on where you walk. “I won’t lie and say I haven’t felt judged in some way my whole life. Feeling guilty, because I’m not doing more good than others. No need to worry about getting ‘good points’ or ‘bad points’ if everything just… exists.”

You can feel his eyes on yours, hear his echoing footsteps become quiet.

“I’m not going to argue that ‘if nothing matters why do good?’ Because God, I am tired of that argument. I’ve heard enough of it when I was alive, don’t need more now. But you keep talking about enforcing the natural order and making your job easier, and all this time, I haven’t really heard your own opinions about it. Are those your natural opinions?” Above, the canopy breaks and the grass is bathed in moonlight. “You deal with all of us on a daily basis. So if having perseverance is more annoying to you… do you think we shouldn’t have even tried?”

There is no answer. Next to you, there’s not even footsteps.

“Lobo?” You turn around. He’s solid again, facing forward at something beyond you. He groans.

“About time he learned.”

You follow his gaze and almost immediately take ten steps back. In your little jaunt through the woods you’ve seen the aftermaths of the hunts and feasts of wildlife. A rabbit here, a hawk there, even an elk.

It pales in comparison to what you see now. At the edge of a wide open field, deep within this forest, is a massacre. A circle of gore and viscera splattered outwards in a fifty foot circle from two dead grizzly bears, both covered in a blanket of Mist. You can’t look at it all or smell the stench for too long before covering your mouth.

But there’s one piece of the scene that, despite being the most revolting, you can’t tear your eyes from. In the center of this mess, even though you’d struggle to call it that anymore, is one more corpse. You… don’t want to describe it. But even like this, you can tell that the severed arm, still holding a knife, is a human one.

The first human hand you’ve seen in over two months.

“Perrita?”

You turn from his paw on your shoulder. He’s checking you, the same way he did when you began to fade earlier.

“I-I’m fine.” A smile doesn’t do much to dissuade him, but it’s worth a shot. “I was, expecting something like this anyways. Part of the job, right?”

“But not like this, I’m assuming?”

“…yeah.” You concede. “Dave didn’t bleed. This is. A lot.”

Tension. Anger. Guilt? All flicker in their own directions, then coalesce back into one. “I’ll collect these, then we can move on.”

You nod. He pats your shoulder at an odd uneven rhythm, then stands up to move to one of the bear corpses.

As much as you try you can’t help but stare at the man’s mangled body. You’ve never seen anything like this before. Some part of you feels that you should be reacting more, dry heaving or running away. But instead you just, stare. Isn’t that bad?

Everyone else you’ve talked to the past two months have been part of The Nine, with the exception of The Profimancer. You’ve read about mortals achieving great and honorable feats in the books from the gift basket. But staring at a human, your own species, after so much time tugs at some instinct deep within you.

He died alone, cut off from civilization with nobody to save him in his last moments. Just like you.

…you step over the dark stains of blood and entrails from the battle and walk closer to the lonely corpse. A weight presses onto your back from a gaze, likely Lobo’s. But neither of you say anything.

Kneeling down next to them and still fighting the urge to gag, you focus on their severed arm. Though it’s soaked from the battle, you can make out a rolled up sleeve from a thick brown jacket, tattered not from bear claws but from wear and tear. The hand is covered with little scars and calluses from what had to be at least a year of brutal work, no doubt tied to the carving knife chipped and dented from wear. Lobo could no doubt tell you this person’s history, all their minute moral failings explaining why his hate is justified. But will anyone learn of him? You died clearly, and even if it was painful for others you weren’t left a mystery.

Around the corpse, you’re just now realizing, is a clear purple shimmer. Likely his soul beginning to reform after dying. You took a while to wake up the first time too, presumably an entire night This one feels different though compared to the fog and animal wisps Lobo has collected. The purple flickering is opaque, no ephemeral shimmer, and the color is clear and bright despite no light being emitted from it. Did your flame look like that, too? Are they warm?

You reach down to the flicker, wanting to have a brief moment of connection and

Something is wrong.

The shadows shifted. Not just from your hand, but everything. The corpse, your hand, even the blades of grass. It’s minute, if you had blinked as it happened you wouldn’t notice. But you did, because it came right as a pressure crashes hard into your back. You are no longer being watched, but perceived.

You turn back to Lobo. He is kneeling next to the bear, not even looking in your direction. You look around the field, there is nothing. You look up to the sky.

The sky is looking back.

Every dot in the sky – every last star in the vast expanse of space, is seeing you. You don’t know how or why, none have suddenly grown an iris or blink, but as you look up there is a pit deep in your stomach where a primal instinct has slept that is now screeching alarm bells at you and saying ‘if you so much as breathe you won’t even have time to scream.’ The moon sits at the center of the sea of stars, radiating its pale glow to the blue around it.

And then that blue folds. And bends. The color of the sky surrounding the moon creases to reveal a complete void of color surrounding it.

When the spider limbs emerge, you start running.

“LoooOOBOOOOOOOOO!!!!”

The wolf whips around as you scramble away from the ring of blood, stumbling and flailing your arms as if swimming through the air will help you run faster. You try and try to MOVE forward but you can only step one damned foot at a time. There is no sound or crackling from the space above you but you can feel the pincers descending, each the size of a mountain grazing the world below and you cannot stop running.

Lobo catches you as you practically slam into him but there needs to be SOME part of you that keeps moving or else it will get you. His expression is just as frantic and scared as yours. Caught in place with a tight grip, you settle for your mouth.

“THE SKY – TH-THE MOON!! I WAS, THE BODY AND TH-THE FIRE, AND I — IT W— S-SPIDER!!!!”

You hide behind him, nearly digging your claws into his back fur as if this will protect you from the THING above. Lobo finally notices the GIANT SPIDER LIMBS POKING OUT FROM THE THING THAT LOOKS LIKE THE SKY. And he grunts.

“Great. Perfect. Of all the days for him to…” He growls, then shoves you towards the tree line. “Stay there.”

You don’t question him for a moment, sprinting to the nearest tree and hiding behind it, praying that your hammering heartbeat won’t give you away. The spider’s limbs have stopped extending, now extending twisting and flowing silver threads down to the corpse – no, the corpse’s flame. You can see it all collecting, shifting along the ground into a solid mass.

Lobo unsheathes his sickles and begins sprinting. Not towards the spider limbs directly, but to the nearest tree line. He moves through the field quickly, becoming a silver blur that smears across the horizon, distorting the space around him. Then he jumps into the woods, leaping bounds in a single step.

The webs have collected the purple flames in a woven net and are now yanking them upwards with a quite ferocious speed, almost frantic in nature. After six seconds the flame has risen an entire mile into the sky. As if the entity can sense what was coming. For a fraction of a second your vision your vision goes fuzzy, and then.

S L I C E

A streak of grey across the horizon, chased by a fiery pink comet. The threads snap, a wound is formed in the spider’s legs. The purple flame plummets down to earth, still encased in its silk cradle. As the universe glares, another grey streak in reality swoops by and SNATCHES the remains of the net to let it whip around behind him. All the grass in the wolf’s landing strip is singed pink.

The Grim Reaper skids to a stop and leaves a trail of dug up dirt in his wake.

“De todas las personas del mundo, ¿lo eliges a él?” Lobo throws the soul to the ground and yells up to the moon.

The air vibrates at a frequency not heard, but felt. Two spider legs hold the injured one; a pink scar still remains where it was cut.

“¡No, no! Una cosa es poner en peligro toda nuestra operación y romper el Juramento. ¿Pero para ÉL?”

Your brain rattles against your skull. The mandibles point at the wolf, a spider rearing up on its legs ready to jump.

“No lo vi de inmediato, pero,” He jabs one of his sickles to the tree you’re hiding behind, “ella sí.”

All of the cosmos are set upon you once more. Even hiding behind the tree, out of sight from the moon, your lungs gasp against the weight of a million eyes. Another rumble. You are going to strangle him with these gloves he gifted you.

The wolf is silent for many seconds. Then sighs. “Sí. Es ella.”

You dig your nails into the tree bark, what the hell is he doing?!

You are not just perceived, but recognized. In the entire world you want nothing more than to sink into the tree and be UNrecognized.

But then, the feeling passes. A mountain of pressure releases all at once and your lungs shovel air back into themselves. In the cracks between the canopy you can see now. The stars are just stars again.

The legs curl and slink upwards into the void they poked through in the tapestry that was the sky, silent and with complete ease. For several seconds it stays there, a hole where the universe should be. And then something falls out from it. Something small, box-like, spinning and fluttering in the descent for half a minute until it lands with a pomf a few feet away from your tree.

You look at Lobo. He’s sheathing his sickles and rubbing the bridge of his snout, walking back to you. Tiptoeing out from the tree line you reach the giant spider god’s apparent offering right as he does.

It’s… a book. Purple cover, gold leafed pages. No other features are apparent save for a deep crimson flower symbol emblazoned on the front.

Lobo bends down and picks up the book and thumbs to its middle, letting the seemingly blank pages flutter by. “This better be good.”

Each page flipped through adds to the book’s shimmer until it has reached a full glow.

“—a–d—o–”

A voice and a picture begins to emerge from the page. Pencil sketches become solid lines become a solid silhouette.

“Maadwo!” The image clears and reveals the owner of the accented voice. “Or, perhaps Maakye would be more appropriate?”

From the pristine pages, eight eyes of violet and black eyes into existence to blink at you. Then they pull back, revealing a round face covered with dark purple fuzz. Their mandibles peel apart to open the section of mouth and give a fanged smile. All of the dark fur in his face is handily offset by the cloth they wear, barraging you with an assault of bright colors. Though it appears to be a robe, in actuality it resembles more of a large blanket bundled and folded around the spider’s form. It is segmented into patches that remind you of a giant quilt made of dozens of intricate quilt squares. Red, gold, black, green and other colors bundle around the entity, save for a dark mass from a revealed shoulder. Popping out from every hole in this quilt is a giant spider limb (the same as the ones above, no doubt), fuzzy but revealing a rigid blackness underneath. Three carry books and scrolls, three more write on each, and two curve in front of him, pressed together as if they were clasped hands.

“Oh my dear, I’ve been waiting to speak with you for a–” The spider finally pokes one of his many eyes open from his pleasant smile, and then all of them deadpan at once. “Muerte, I didn’t drop this book for you.”

“I don’t care. I reiterate: that self-aggrandizing stunt could have risked everything.” Lobo snarls into the book’s pages, jabbing a claw into the image’s face. “And for what, a deadbeat husband who went to live in the woods instead of caring for his family?”

“His books inspired an entire generation of children to follow their dreams, he deserves to be remembered!” The spider-man chitters, one of their arms clutching tight to a pencil. “Also who are you to mock me about being flashy, hm? You aren’t even wearing a shirt, show off.”

“That has nothing to do with this!”

“Um, hi! Hello?” You wave a hand between the dog and book to stop their bickering. “Fuilana here, quick question: What the Fuck was That?”

“Don’t just–”

“Ah, there you are!” The spider leans closer, pushing his face up against the page. “Muerte, pass me to the little lady, would you?”

“No. What’s going to happen is that we are going to talk about–”

“Muerte, you know as well as I do that we do not control the lives of our Mortems. If she doesn’t wish to speak then allow her to say so.” A limb clacks firmly against the table.

“I do not…” Indignantly Lobo scoffs and turns your way. You’re holding his poncho tight against your chest, staring determined at the god on the page. Your desire for answers seems to trump his frustration at the spider.

The reaper bites his tongue, sits on the ground and props the book up on his legs.

“So then. Spider, person.” You sit next to the wolf and awkwardly wave, grabbing the other half of the book to hold.

“Yes, hello there little miss. My deepest apologies for scaring you like that.” Two of the arms press together as he bows slightly. “I had searched the grounds first to ensure no-one else was present, but you seemed to slip right through. Looking at you now, I can see why.”

You pinch a piece of Lobo’s poncho between your fingers.

“Regardless, you’ve given your greetings, so it’s my turn.” All of the paper scratching and flipping stops momentarily. With a claw against his chest, the spider god bows his head with every last eye closed. “I go by many names. Lepomene, Lord Thangjing, Fu Dalu, The Eye, Ogama, and many more. But you may call me Anansi.”

“Anansi. Alright then.” The name doesn’t ring any bells, both from your time alive and the notes D has sent you. But feeling one half of this book in your hand and running your thumb across the gold leafs you have a hunch. “You’re one of The Nine.”

“Correct! You have a nice head on your shoulders, Miss Fuilana.” A ninth limb extends from Anansi’s colorful garb (you don’t want to think about the glimpse you saw underneath it) and begins to sketch what appears to be a bust shot of a person on a piece of paper. You pull your knees tighter against your chest and hide in the poncho.

Lobo is the god of Death, with his dark cloak and sickle staff. Vida is the goddess of creation with their pottery smock and sculpting tools. You’re not familiar with Anansi’s colorful robe, but considering he’s writing three separate things, “You’re the god of… writing?”

“Stories little one, stories!” They step back and proudly give a view of their surroundings. Hundreds upon hundreds of bookcases stretch out behind them as far as the book permits, each no doubt much larger than you and containing hundreds of books and scrolls and tablets and many more. They shift and float above one another to organize themselves. One slides past the spider god and he slots the scroll he was scribbling in onto the shelf. “Tales of heroism, tragedy and triumph. Every last fact, no matter how forgettable, all collected in my grand archive.”

Far below whatever balcony Anansi sits atop, you can see little specks of people perusing the collection and take out from their shelves. Other Mortems. People. One of them hangs from a rolling ladder and rushes across a bookcase–

Anansi steps close to the book and blocks the view. You blow out a held breath.

“I do hope you’ve enjoyed my part of the gift package. I can’t imagine how dreadful it is in the reaper’s realm.” Half of Anansi’s eyes close as he shakes his head. The others continue to focus on their respective projects. “Did you read ‘Requiem of an Earthen Heart’ yet? That one was a personal favorite of mine.”

“Actually… yeah, yeah I did.” A crumb of tension releases in your legs. “I thought that Aria’s struggle to define herself despite her origins as a homunculus–”

“Alright, you both had your questions answered. My turn.” Lobo yanks the book from your hands. “You have five seconds to explain why you thought ‘Giant Spider Legs from the Moon’ was in any way appropriate.”

“It’s a localized effect that can only be seen to those within this field, makes no noise, and this is the only way you even allow us to interact with the mortal world.” Anansi’s voice turns stern the moment Lobo takes hold of the book. As if they practiced this response for him specifically. “You left us with next to nothing to work with Lobo, what else was I supposed to do?”

“Nothing.“ Lobo states it as if it were the most obvious fact in the world. ”I know you all enjoy playing as the council of benevolent gods but this is getting dangerously close to crossing the line. Even if the others still go behind my back at least they do it with a hint of modesty.“

“And yet. You have a Mortem of your own sitting right next to you.”

“That I never asked for!”

You just tune the gods out at this point in the conversation. The direction their bickering is going reminds you a little too much of your first few weeks staying with Lobo. The animosity and spite that fueled your interactions. There are a number of questions you have from their back and forth, but you know how the wolf gets when he’s this upset.

You run your hand across the grass and feel every individual blade of grass tickle the back of your hand. A few of them graze your shins under your skirt. They’re decently tall, reaching up to your knees while standing up and swaying in the wind. Your head buzzes from the sensation, just like when you first drew with colored pencils; remembering what a basic sensation like that felt like. Vida could make you a plot to grow a tiny field of grass to lie in. But would that ever compare to this? The wild flora and fauna that grow here, the way everything here naturally formed?

You lie back completely across the field of grass, looking up at the stars. They terrified you earlier with Anansi’s trick, but without the existential terror of being perceived they are quite beautiful. You wish you could just focus on this view. Not the argument happening next to you, not the conflicting voices in your head. Not the grizzled man with a purple aura looking down on you.

“Um… hello there.”

“Woah!” You shove the surprise stranger away and scramble back to your feet. Both of the gods immediately stop arguing as the man flops onto his back.

“Ah, !La puta madre–!” Metal unsheathed behind you, a smear trails from the corner of your left eye.

“You violate The Sacred Vow!”

YANK

Lobo materializes clearly in front of you once more, the smear blinking out of sight. His body has frozen mid-motion, held back by violet strings that make you gasp with recognition: a Binding Vow, emerging from Anansi’s book and tangling around Lobo’s arms and neck. His sickles hang in the air, their arcs interrupted. The God of Death tries to struggle against their pull but they allow him to go no further in his reaping.

Lobo’s target lies in the grass, covering his face and cowering in fear. The moonlight is erased in the reaper’s shadow – only a crimson glow remains.

“You know how this goes, Muerte.” Anansi speaks clearly, commanding. “Play nice.”

Several long seconds pass where all are frozen in place; the only sound being Lobo’s increasingly aggravated growl. But eventually, he shoves his sickles back into place, then storms away muttering under his breath. Anansi’s Binding Vow vanishes soon after.

“Idiota… idiota…”

With the apparent danger having passed, the man on the ground heaves deeply. He’s wearing the same thick brown jacket as the corpse, so you can imagine who this may be. Said jacket is very thick and unless his mental image included the bear attack he’s worn it down to tatters. It covers his whole body, but underneath you can spot a plain beige shirt and pants. He’s completely bald up top, but has a full frizzy beard so dense he could use it as a hammer. All this included with the scars you’d assume he was some sort of survivalist.

But you heard their argument. Anansi said his books inspired a generation of kids, so he must be some kind of author. Lobo says he left his family behind to live out here for whatever reason; and instead of eating the man, he was just doing his usual soul collection. Even if you don’t have the full story, you have the outline of some details.

The man stares at you, the only other human here. He waves at you. You… wave back.

“Ahem.” The book coughs and both humans flinch. “Maakye, Arthur Penworth!”

The man (presumably Arthur) looks at the book, then looks at you, visibly cautious of what’s going on. Lobo is off a handful of meters away rubbing his face and grumbling.

You go and pick up the book then bring it over to him, giving your most reassuring smile. Both of your hands brush against one another as the book transfers hands. You try not to let it show just how much this affects you.

“My sincerest apologies you had to be met with that horrid sight earlier.” The spider god’s demeanor has regained a cheeriness that matches his colorful garb. “I’m sure it was quite a fright. But don’t you worry your scruffy face, you won’t have to deal with that despot anymore.”

“Um…” Arthur peeks up and over the book’s top to the space around him, sparing little time for the circle of gore. “Am I… dead?”

“Ah, I always knew you would catch on fast! Yes, your time in this realm has come to an end. I do apologize, if there was a way we could change this then we would have done so before you woke up like this.” Two of Anansi’s limbs are brought together in a sort of prayer and they shake their head.

You cross your arms and lean in to listen.

“But, consider yourself lucky! Because of your hard work here on Earth, you now have a choice for what comes next! Not many souls get this luxury you know – in fact, just seven percent of mortals are able to do what you’re doing right now: stay conscious after death!”

“Wait, wait, hold on.” Arthur’s eyes began to gleam during the god of story’s exposition. “’This realm?’ So, I was right? Other worlds do exist?”

“Indeed you were!” Anansi’s clap sounds a little too crusty for your liking. “My name is Anansi, god of storytelling. And today, as thanks for your contributions to the world, I’m inviting you to my realm to stay for the rest of your afterlife!”

Anansi steps back and shows off the wide expanse of his archives. Arthur covers his mouth, astonished at the beauty that he is now being given access to. Once more you spot people far down below Anansi’s balcony (does he sit up here specifically when he’s talking through the book?), each in clothes that you’ve never seen before, seemingly from different time periods and cultures across the world. One runs around with a handful of scrolls, meets up with another, then after jumping in excitement together, gleefully runs deeper into the library.

You’ll never meet them.

.....you walk away as Anansi begins explaining some of the benefits, including what they call “Post-Mortem Publishing” and “The Ultimate Immersive Theater.” Still clutching your arms.

Lobo is facing away as you get close, shimmering shades of himself echoing around him. Though his ears flick with your steps, he does not turn back to Arthur and Anansi. He taps his claws into his arms. A drop of read coats one.

“You’re not giving your pitch to Arthur?” You stand beside The God of Death. “For reincarnation?”

“No.” He says. “There’s no point in it. When collections escalate to this level, it always ends the same way.”

Looking back, Arthur is now standing up and talking to Anansi through the book. One of them mentions you both and Arthur looks your way. But then he looks back at the book, nods, then walks further out into the clearing. The fabric around the moon shifts once more.

“Your reaction to reincarnation is one a vast majority of souls have had. They run, bargain, or more often than not, choose the next best option.” A single spider’s limb extends back down to the world below. Arthur steps back but doesn’t run away. “At a certain point, you just stop bothering to explain.”

“Heh. Doesn’t sound too different from my time in the tavern, actually.” Arthur steps onto the point of the limb, holding onto its fuzz. “When you say the same fake greetings and explanations, over and over for years, and people barely listen in the first place, why bother saying it anymore?”

“I have met lingering flames who were willing to accept the cycle of reincarnation. But as time has passed, those have become the exception, not the norm. The rest, even those who have studied and worshipped ideas that resemble reality, run.” Lobo breathes out a tired sigh. “Reincarnation always sounds nice on paper, but rarely when you’re standing right outside the door.”

“Do you ever lie to those people?” You peek around to see his face. “The ones reincarnating, not eating. Do you tell them what they want to hear so things will go faster?”

“There’s no point in sugarcoating what will scare them anyway.” Lobo shakes his head, but his eyes are hollow. “One way or another, they’ll return to Mist. And I don’t have the time to waste anymore.”

“Mm.”

He doesn’t seem to notice, but Lobo’s shoulders have slouched since you’ve come over and talked to him. The grimace in his face has not left, but his glower softened. How exhausting it must be, to keep up that expression during so many hours of the day.

You look back to Arthur and Anansi, but they are gone. The fabric surrounding the moon has been sewn back into place.

Lobo takes your hand and water streaks across reality. “I need a break.”

With the ever-watchful spider having reeled in a new member of their nest, the reaper once again sends out his many shades across the world. They emerge and trail off behind you both, left to collect the remaining embers of whatever flames lingered in your wake. What remains is a single blurry and semi-transparent wolf, dragging you along through a smear in space itself.

Beneath you the ground transforms from grass to dirt paths to stone. Your version of the wolf (whichever he might be) continues to drag you all the way from deep woods, to port towns, then without bothering to warn you in advance, on a long walk off a short pier.

As it turns out the warning was not necessary; no water rushes into your lungs. You didn’t even recognize the ocean in the haze rapidly advancing towards you. Only when the light began to dissipate and you walked by what you are certain was a normal fish did you have to do a double take since you still felt dry and water wasn’t flooding into your lungs.

Lobo refused to answer your questions as any light from the moon was drowned by the ocean, the watercolor smears turning darker as you descended deep, darker and darker. All the colors from your face, clothes and eyes fade until you become nothing but a white outline in a black void. Lobo shares your fate, even his glowing eyes are not immune to this. You cannot see the layered shades of him this deep, but one faint outline of him is always visible to you.

Untold minutes and miles later the hazy wolf finally comes to a stop. You’re both alone in a place that is empty. Tangles of your hair float up and turn into a cloud of clumps. Sand sifts beneath your boots and little flecks of something drift across your cheeks. They feel like flecks of dust.

“None of them will come down here.” Lobo whispers. “Won’t have to deal with them for now.”

“And ‘here’ is…?” Your voice provides the faintest echo.

He waves a paw out to the miles and miles of sand.“The lowest point in all of the ocean.”

“Oh… Wow.” You gaze down the singular path that stretches on into the darkness. “It’s very… vast.”

“At this depth, the pressure of all the world’s water makes it near impossible for anything to survive. The experience would be no different than if, on the surface, an ant crushed under a mountain.” Lobo squeezes a fleck of deep sea dust between two fingers. “No living mortal as you know them has ever observed these sands.”

“’As I know them?’”

Lobo gestures to something behind you: what appear to be giant, curved columns that reach far into the sky. They’re all decay, little chips and fractures in the impossible architecture. But in between them there are more of these structures, some linked together and others drifting apart several meters away. All linked up to a giant structure bigger than Lobo’s cottage far in the distance, groves and holes weaving in and out of every orifice.

You feel incredibly small when you spot the creature’s teeth, twice the size of your entire body.

Lobo moves past you and enters the giant creature’s carcass, planting a paw on one of its ribs as he goes.

Despite this feeling all manner of invasive, you follow suit. The creature’s ribs branch out wide inside as if you were walking through a grand and ancient palace. Flabs of likely some kind of viscera hang off sides of the bones, the rest no doubt picked away by whatever decomposers exist at this depth.

Lobo hops up onto what appears to be a central spine (sitting beside a second…) and gives a hand to yank you up next to him. There is a film on the bones that feels both silky and slimy which you quickly wipe off on the cloak.

“So. About what just happened. With Anans–”

“Don’t.” Lobo hisses.

“Sorry! I just didn’t know… You and them, some of the things you both talked about…”

“Perrita, I know butting into things is a pattern of yours, but I would rather do anything than talk about what just happened.”

“Woah, okay. Jeez.” You reel back. “I didn’t realize I… sorry.”

A small swarm of dust is thrown far away by Lobo’s huff, then he stares at the skeletal structure’s branching links.

The spat between Lobo and Anansi was very brief, but you could feel the history behind it. Of course you have questions, some even stored from before you even left the cottage. It’s always been difficult to ask them though and you try to not let it get to you. But Lobo always gets snippy and defensive when you try and ask more about The Nine. You know better than to push it further. Don’t want to risk further mucking up a good thing.

You look down, watching the faint outlines of your clothes overlap and fold into one another. A creature this size could have digested you and barely filled its stomach, and all of its bones are picked clean. Not a single piece of tissue or meat sunk into the sands. This deep in the ocean, whatever creatures picked this clean must have thought it was the best day of their lives.

But do they think, though? You’ve heard fairy tales of talking fish and deities that embody the will of the ocean. But when decomposers eat predators eat prey, do they feel any regret? Conflicting emotions? Perhaps they’re simpler here. You could see, then, why Lobo likes coming down here, why he enjoys things like fungus. They have complex systems and networks, a chain of command and intricate pathways they fellow, but none of the mud he sees as coming from people.

All of The Mist in Lobo’s realm. You’ve seen him collect it, walking with him today. Wisps of plants, animals, flora and fauna that don’t have any sort of will or personality. You can feel the passion he has for sects of nature without clear personality or will. So much so that he fills his realm with them all.

And yet. He wears the cloak draped around your shoulders, lives in a house that is painfully mortal, and uses weapons made by human hands.

You hug your knees against your chest and stare out into the miles of nothingness. It’s been two months since you’ve started living with Lobo. And even still you don’t feel like you’re coming anywhere close to understanding him.

. . . . .

“I do think you all should try.”

“Huh?” You turn to him. Lobo is at a whisper but it still caught you by surprise.

“Earlier, when you asked me about my opinions, about you all.” The wolf is picking something up by his side of the spine. He holds it on his finger and brings it up for you to see. It’s… some sort of creature. Long and smooth up top like a slug, but way too many hair-like legs on the bottom. It clings to his claw. “You asked a question, and I brushed it off.”

You wonder if Lobo can see you bite your lip in this world devoid of color.

“I don’t… enjoy dealing with most mortals. So many of their deaths are either foolish and could have been easily prevented should they have looked at the better picture.”

“If this is another jab at me then just get on with it Lobo.”

The little leg slug creature wobbles on the wolf’s claw, trying to scrape off any nutrients it can likely get despite his trepidation. Lobo looks towards you and breathes, likely so it doesn’t get blown off.

“I’m sorry. For calling you a ‘cheater,’ back when we first met.”

“Oh?” It takes you a moment to remember what he’s talking about. All the way back at the start, two months ago. The amulet. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I think I’ve been so focused on everything else that I forgot about that one detail.” You chuckle. “Weird how that turns out.”

“It was… wrong of me, to lump you in with so many other mortals. You did something foolish, but my attempted reaping went too far.” Lobo waves his hand in a frustrated motion, the bottom feeder waggles its legs as it floats helplessly in the air. “I was not in the right state of mind that day. It was not my place to make that choice.”

Where is this coming from? You thought that you both made up a while ago. And what possibly could have made him behave like that on that day specifically?

“Well. Apology accepted, I guess?” You shrug then try to knock against his arm. It’s firm this time. “I mean, you were a mierdito, but I never fully believed in a kind and caring death god in the first place. My family liked to believe in that concept, Sidapa I think they called it. But I never fully believed it myself. I… lost touch with that part of me for a while.”

“Perhaps not kind, but fair. That is what I try to be, at least. But in the brief glimpses I get into mortal lives, I only have time to focus on actions, not intent.” Lobo holds up a claw in place, waiting for the creature to float back down and land on it. “The only snapshots I have of people are their encounters with entropy. They are flawed, but when you deal with the workload I have, you learn to make do.”

“That feels like something the others should help you with, isn’t it? I- I know you said you don’t want to talk about he, but Anansi’s whole deal did seem perfect for that job. Watching people and recording their stories. Why aren’t they helping?”

“Oh there was a time when they tried to help. When everyone tried to. But you saw how easily things got out of hand today with just the two of us.”  The little scavenger, despite its slow speed, slips off of Lobo’s claw and continues to fall. “Imagine the rest piling on, everyone arguing about how this mortal deserves kindness for hurting others, just because she had a difficult childhood. Or how the mortal should live in their afterlives instead. At a certain point, the screaming just became noise.”

“That still sounds exhausting. One man deciding the fate of everyone sounds like much more work than having available but flawed help.”

“I said it was better, not good. But at least this way, souls will not be left to linger here, festering until their very souls corrode the air around them, until they become nothing.” He watches the slug thing slip down deeper. On its current trajectory it will fall all the way back down to the sea floor. Lobo clutches the bone he sits upon, carving his claws into the softened bone.

A shudder ripples the water around you at the thought. But it also leaves something else in you. Even alive you never believed in specific gods, but you always believed in something. You’ve seen magical creatures do feats you could only dream of and wizards set the sky ablaze with rainbow fire, why wouldn’t there be some sort of higher power. Maybe something that was kinder than a lot of humanity. But at the end of the day, they’re just people.

You don’t know how this makes you feel about the state the world is in.

…you extend your leg and catch the slug thing on your boot. The worn down leather is easier for it to latch onto.

“Well. Even if you were an ass back then, in a weird way I think I appreciate it?” You carefully pull your leg back and try to keep the boot upright so it can balance. “You gave me a space to help me figure out some things about myself that I don’t think I would have pieced together myself.”

Lobo scoots backwards as you place your boot on the giant whale’s rib. “I still could have been better.”

“So could I.”

Lobo and you sit and watch the slug thing skitter off your foot and starts digging into the rich calcium deposits. Lobo stares at it, holding his elbows low.

“Thank you for taking me with you today, Lobo. Even if it wan’t the best time, I appreciate you inviting me.” You smile for him.

He looks at you. Searching for something. “You don’t want to keep going, do you?”

A knot twists as you look away and shake your head. “No. I don’t think I’m quite ready for this, yet. It’s a lot to take in at once.”

Lobo is silent, but nods. Just seeing one human corpse was enough to make you like this. Both of you know that any more would be pushing it. His ‘something small’ was still too much for you.

“But one day I’d like to try this again. Even if it takes a while, I’ll get used to it. Exposure therapy, right? Maybe one day I can do a full walk with you.”

“You don’t have to force yourself to do that.”

“I won’t force myself to do anything. ‘Sides, can’t let you hog all the fun with your reapings.” You lean towards him and grin. “There’s quiiiiite a number of people I’d love to help season for your meal~”

Lobo’s ears perk up at the proposal, despite his face appearing nonchalant. “Really now? You honestly believe you would have the stomach for a job like that?”

“Lobo, look at me.” You gesture to yourself. “I’m a young, brown skinned, chubby, minimum wage worker who draws as a hobby and wears leather boots for work. I’m a capitalist’s worst nightmare.”

Yet another sigh and eye roll. The wolf releases his nervous grip on the bone platform and plants an arm on a raised knee.

“Well, I’ll keep you updated then.”

“It’s practically what I’ve been training for.”

“Is that so?”

“I had a hunch I wasn’t gonna get into heaven, but I always thought ‘you know? Maybe I could barter with whoever’s down there and help man the pitchforks.’”

“Have you ever used a pitchfork?”

“Actually I have. Push brooms are heavier, I could totally handle it. Hey, what even are these slug things anyway?”

“Ah, this little thing? Well since we’ve descended this deep it hasn’t been given any scientific name. But at this depth with no other predators capable of withstanding its depth, it has one of the highest survival rates of deep sea. All one has to do is find a suitable corpse, typically a whale fall, and it will have enough food to sustain itself for over a century. It’s likely that a majority of what we sit on was digested by this one creature alone.”

“Wouldn’t it need to swim with a pack? It looks kind of like a shrimp. Aren’t there like, schools of shrimp?”

“That is a tactic commonly used for survival, to appear larger. With no predators to speak of, this creature is free to travel as it pleases. The only remote danger would be overstuffing itself, but even then…”

A clasp of hands, a roar of wind, and color returned. Lobo happily lifted his poncho from your body and flicked it back on as if he were reuniting with a part of himself. Then just as quickly as you both arrived, you waved each other off and Lobo was gone again.

That was four hours ago. You have been trying to force yourself to “sleep” since, let your mind wander. But no matter how much you tossed and turned in the sofa, wrapping Lobo’s blanket around you, rest never came.

You tried to draw. Thirty minutes of staring at a blank page later, you slammed it shut.

You tried to practice fighting techniques. None of your attacks seemed to give you that satisfying crunch against the bag.

You tried to garden. But once your hands were subsumed in the dirt, you couldn’t focus on anything else but the individual grains rolling between your fingers.

You try to read Anansi’s books. You can only focus on the gold leafing of the pages.

These long hours of waiting for Lobo to come back have always been a practice in patience. How can you occupy yourself for hours upon hours until the brief window of time your roommate comes back to help entertain you. Some point during your stay you’ve gotten used to the wait. Even developed a rhythm to it all, a “daily” routine so to speak. That schedule is broken now.

With enough effort you could convince yourself that the reason is because you’ve been out during your self-designated “resting time.” But you know the answer to why. Every time you close your eyes you can see the night sky, hear the wind rustle the shrubbery, feel cracking bark of passing trees under your fingers.

But most of all you remember Arthur. You remember the other humans in Anansi’s archives, sprinting off together excitedly for an unknown adventure; remember the shoddy craftsmanship of the village fence, the patches of starlight woven into the windows of each of their homes. Remember, for that brief moment, when you felt the hand of another human.

You could bother Vida with your request: “Please, goddess of art and creation, take the form of a human so I can feel skin on skin contact again!” Pathetic. Besides she’s already swamped with work and sent you a letter saying that she wouldn’t be able to stop by this week because she had to crunch through the rest of her projects. You don’t want to bother her.

That’s why you’re lying on the sofa, holding the bottle of red wine from Lobo’s pantry box.

It’s still the same as it ever was. Olive greens and gold vines twisting together on the label with a nigh unreadable cursive title. Apparently it’s meant to say “Mutual Respite,” according to one of D’s recent letters to you. A bottle from his own personal collection. Definitely alcoholic. A gift, given to the wolf far back when D had officially joined The Nine.

You asked him what that meant. He said you should take a sip.

Over twenty years alive and two months dead and you’ve never touched any alcohol. It’s the one line you’ve refused to cross. Any chance you’ve been given to begin an addictive habit you avoided like the plague. Protecting your health, saving money, not wanting to become the habitual drunks that kept making trouble in the tavern.

But you’re not alive anymore. Even when you fall enough to break your spine ten times over, you’ll be able to walk around just fine.

A fork does well enough to pop the stiff and crusty cork from the bottle piece by piece. A pink vapor dances out of the bottle and singes your nostrils.

“Sorry Lobo.” You toast to nobody. “I’ll pay you back for this eventually.”

You take a swig.

“ppPTFTTEW!! Bluh!!!”

And spew it all out across Lobo’s dining table before you swallow a gulp.

“Eeugh, that is just– oh, oh what is this meant to be? A leather belt soaked in acid and berry?” You hold the bottle’s top as far away from you as possible. “Why would anyone want to drink this stuff at all– how is this a respite?!”

Well, there goes that plan. You drag the bottle along outside and toss it in the direction of the furnace. It bounces and rolls to a circular stop as its contents dribble out onto the ground. You’ll push it in soon, this taste in your mouth NEEDS to be washed out with water. With a pop the clasp is unsealed and you take a swig. Much more refreshing than the–

“–’ts her!”

Your body snaps into a fighting stance, jar at the ready. A voice. Definitely a voice. Somewhere here.

“–hhkay. This is it, this is the moment…”

The voice is subdued yet echoed, shimmering. It sounds, panicked? But you still don’t see anyone else around.

“…practiced for this big guy. Deep breaths. First impressions…”

Then you realize. There isn’t anyone else around. The puddle of wine on the floor, the vapors are beginning to glow as the puddle ripples.

Curiosity gets the better of you. With jar prepared at a moment’s notice you inch closer. Maybe it functions like Anansi’s book?

“…deep breath. You got it. One. Two…”

And then the puddle erupts into a geyser. A column of butter wine splashes wide outwards in an arc and far too much of it splashes on your clothes. Your trusty jar is swept up in the sudden flash flood and shatters on the ground.

“Fuilana Cortez! By your own wits and quick thinking, your pleas to escape have been answered!” A man leaps up from the spout and summersaults to the top. The voice is booming (much different than what you saw before), implanting the image of a show announcer in your head with its effeminate flourish.

His afterimage is a blur of maple brown white and crimson until he lands right next to your feet and CLOPs his hooves onto the ground. Toga fluttering and maple furred arms on the ground he smiles a wide, clean white tooth smile. That contrasts hard against his scruffy and unkempt fur, vines and leaves twisting through his matted hair.

“You need not be alone in your suffering any more!” Smiling big and arms out wide for a hug, the satyr gives the biggest grin you could possibly imagine. His gold eyes and purple irises separate in two much like a goat’s, but blinked into a vertical blob. “For it is I! Dionysu–!!“

You punch him in the face.

Chapter Text

The intruder’s cheek caves under your fist, leather and metal digging into maple fur. They stumble back and land against furnace, but they do not fall.

“Wha– Ow!!” A furred hand cups a swelling cheek. Only a twinge of recoil stung in your shoulder this time. Better. “What the heck was that f– WOAH–!!”

The goat person strides back and away from a spray of not-quite-boiling-yet olive oil, flung in his direction from your frying pan. His leap travels too far, crossing several feet as he glides back down to the ground.

“GET OUT!!!” You scream as you engage your whole body and fling the rest of the frying pan.

“H-hey, hey stop!! It’s okay it’s just me!!” The goat glides back again, his toga fluttering close behind. He’s magic then. You can’t give him an inch.

“I’M NOT IN THE MOOD!!” You sprint forward as you snatch your latest project from a nearby workbench. “GO BACK IN YOUR PUDDLE OR I’LL TURN YOU INTO CURRY!!”

“B-but you were the one who–!!”

SPLASH! Across his face and along the floor, the still-floating intruder is coated in a strange-smelling clear liquid. A few finger wipes clear his vision, but the moment he lands his hooves don’t keep their grip on the floor. It’s a bit cliche, but combined with the already slick ground of the Mist, a dash of lubricant turns every step into a slide.

One jar’s worth is hardly enough on its own; he slipped but he’s still floating in the air as his arms windmill and kick to regain balance. Making sure you stomp right at the edge of the splatter, you raise your hands up and SHOVE the goat to the ground. A small ‘ba-a-ah!’ escapes his mouth upon impact. Even if something lacks gravity, that doesn’t mean it can’t be thrown to the floor.

“Now for the last time…” Wooden legs nearby are pulled out, then risen up above your head. This chair is far more solid than the one in the tavern. “LEAVE ME ALONE!!”

“U-uncle, uncle!! I yield, I surrender!!!” The goat shields his face and curls up to brace for impact. He’s just like Dave. All glamour and no skill.

But after several seconds, the hit does not come. Gold and purple eyes peek through furred fingers. High quality wood looms over his head like an executioner’s axe, its wielder focusing a trained eye on her quarry.

“You listen to me, kambing. I don’t know who you are, how you got here or how you know my name. But I do not–” Your gloves squeak against the wood as your grip tightens, “–appreciate people barging in unannounced. I have just had a very, veeheheery long day and got more than my fair share of cosmic entities using my skull as a tuning fork. So if you don’t crawl back to whatever realm of shitty wine you came from, I’ll take your presence as a sign to try out taxidermy. Got it?!”

“B-but that was my finest vintage–”

You raise the chair up higher.

“Aaaaa–” The goat retreats into himself, “Youweretheonewhosummonedmehereinthefirstplace!!!”

“What.”

The goat lowers his still shaking arms. “You… you don’t know? Fuilana it’s me. Dionysus!”

You blink.

“Greek God of Wine? God of Parties, Good Times?” He says, baffled that you don’t recognize something apparently obvious.

…

“D?”

“Oh.” Emulated circulation returns to your fingers. So, one of The Nine. A God.

…It strikes you just how much you’re getting used to standing in the presence of the creators of your realm.

“I still don’t appreciate you barging in like that.” Your grip tightens once more.

“But you were the one who let me in! I thought that’s why you poured the wine out in the first place. Because you followed my clues!” The greek god pleads his case while continuing to cower and keep watch of the axe.

“Clues? What clues?”

“…permission to move?”

You lower the chair down to the side but keep it in swinging position. “Granted.”

D lowers his hands, places his thumbs against his pinkie fingers, then snapsnapsnapsnaps all the way down. For each snap a scrap of paper whizzes past your cheek from behind and hovers gently in front of your face. They’re Dio’s letters to you from the past few months. Only, some of the sections are no longer written in black ink, but pulse in purple.

“…it can be tempting to keep on pushing, but there’s no need to prove yourself anymore. There’s no harm in ditching things if you’re not having fun…”

“…aaww, you’ll get ‘em next time Fuilana. That old dog’s bound to crack eventually. But if you need a buddy, I can be there for ya whenever you need it…”

“…I can understand that feeling. Lots of my Relivers hold funerals for themselves as a sort of induction ceremony. All you do is pour out a bottle for yourself…”

You lean closer at the rest of the letters as you catch on to the pattern. At least twelve other letters from Dionysus have this hidden purple line. And every time, it’s in the last line of the second paragraph, right in the middle of the page. Have these been there the whole time?

“I’ve been dying to meet with you when I learned you were living in Muerte’s realm,.” Snapsnapsnap. The pages combust into sparkling flecks of purple and vanish. Dionysus has uncurled and looks up to you, still wary but smiling in admiration. “The old dog set up the rules of his place to lock it up tight and I had my entry ticket revoked a looooong time ago. But even the most clearly written rules have a loophole. That free sample of mine is technically a part of my realm~”

“Meet me?” You set the chair down on the ground facing away from you and lean on the backrest. “Why would you go through all the trouble just for that?”

“Why? Because you’re a legend!” Dionysus laughs as he throws his hands up. You just now notice he’s wearing three brightly colored bracelets on his right arm – yellow, orange, and red. They look elastic, tacky, almost out of place with the rest of his flowing robes. “Barely anyone manages to stand three seconds against the old mutt, let alone win. Then you come along, completely trounce him at his own game, then kick your feet up on his own table! You even got in contact with Life – completely on your own – who forced him to officially accept you as his Mortem! I mean dios mio, we haven’t had a swindle like this since the Extra Lives Incident!”

You frown. Some of those details aren’t quite right. Vida had said she wouldn’t say too much about the circumstances of your arrival to help Lobo save face, but letting The Nine fill in the gaps may not have been the best call either. You have long since passed the point of feeling prideful about your “victory.” Also, did the Greek god just speak Spanish to you?

“Okay, so you’re here. You’ve met me. What now?” You tune back in. Discrepancies and questions can be saved for later. “That can’t be the only reason you went through this effort.”

“Weeeellllokay yeah you caught me.” Dio’s confession reminds you startlingly of some of the popular girls back in your old community who would cash in their popularity for free favors. “As fun as it probably has been to bask in your accomplishment, you’ve been stuck here for the better part of three months–”

“Two months.”

“–two months, and how many people have you had a conversation with? Apart from Muerte?”

You think back to your entire stay here, surprised that you end up breaking out your other hand to count. “Including you… six. Though I don’t know if Dave the Profimancer really counts.”

“And that isn’t healthy, especially for a girl of your age!”

“Don’t call me that.”

“So.” Dionysus crosses his legs confidently, ears slanted down and a mischievous grin blossoming on his face. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, back in the direction of the wine puddle. “You wanna ditch this place for a little while?”

“.…what?”

“Come back with me, pop into my realm even if it’s only for a little while! The loophole should work the opposite way and allow you to pass through, so you can get out of this dreary dog house and have some fun for a change. Anything you can think of, we have it there: The richest alcohol, gourmet food, universe-class hot springs, you name it. And even if you’re not a party person, I’m sure there’s people there you would love to talk to. After all…” The god gestures to himself proudly with a flourish. “You’re talking to the god with the most Mortems out of the entire Nine~”

…go and leave… just like that…?

“....what do you all have against Lobo, anyway?” You stand straight up. There has to be some sort of catch. “First Anansi and now you. I know he can be a stuck up prick at times. And he can definitely be the most dense person alive. But he’s Muerte. Death. Isn’t he a part of The Nine, like you all are?”

“Oh. Oooh Fuilana girl, you are out of the loop.” Something sparks in Dionysus’ eyes and he grins. Like he just found the golden opportunity he’s been waiting for. He leans in. “I would’ve thought he told you by now. But Muerte–”

“Was never a part of the gods’ special after school club.”

Dio’s eyes dart above your head and he shrinks back down. You feel frost creeping down your spine.

“Ah, hola Lobo.” You lean your head backwards to look up at your roommate. There’s a bit of relief in his presence, even if it came at an awkward time. “Lo siento sobre esta lío. This one’s an accident on my part.”

“Oh don’t worry perrita, I wouldn’t have expected anything more.” To give him credit, if the wolf is angry at Dionysus breaking into his realm to say hi, he’s hiding it tremendously well behind his standard stare of annoyance. Lobo breathes out through his nose, then places a small weathered leather pouch on the work bench next to you. You can spot little chisels and carving knives sticking out of the tops. You say gracias.

“Hey, he-hey, hey hey, Muerte. I’m not violating any rules here!” Hands up in surrender and ears flicked back, any bravado Dionysus had been building up before Lobo’s arrival has completely deflated. His mouth is stretched into a nervous smile, like a child caught eating desserts saved for a party the next day. “A person within your realm – with authority! – has granted me access to enter! There’s no rule saying I can’t be here!”

“Mm.” Lobo lifts his head.

“M-mhm! Mhm.” Dionysus rattles his head up and down. His mangy fur flops back and forth.

“Well. My apologies then perrita.” With a click of his fingers Lobo poofs a parchment into existence from The Mist. This one is different from all of the Sealed Fates though, it doesn’t have any sort of decorations or flair. It almost seems to be a completely different material all together. Scratchier, messier, as if someone tried to make paper by hand using homemade materials. A feather quill is pulled from the inside of his cloak, then he begins to write. “This time, the fault lies on myself.”

The goat flinches as he recognizes the parchment. He starts to scramble to his hooves, smearing his toga even further. “Hey – Hey, no don’t do that–!”

“To answer your question perrita…” Lobo scratches out a section of what appears to be a list as Dio continues to catch his attention. You can’t recognize the script that it’s written in. The glowing crimson symbols and letters are completely foreign to you. “I am not a part of ‘The Nine,’ because that is the name of beings who delude themselves into believing they hold some great purpose. That moronic title was one I had no part in making. The pleasure goes to our latest home invader there.”

“But all the best groups need the best names!” With newfound vigor Dio pushes himself up from the ground and floats through the air towards Lobo. You double take as he easily passes over the trap he cowered in before. “A-and, you! You never showed up to our meeting to provide alternatives!”

“Doesn’t change the fact that it’s an idiotic and unnecessary one. Not everything needs a name.” Lobo turns away casually as Dionysus scrambles for the parchment.

“The Nine is a very cool name and we all voted on it!!” Swipe again. Lobo ducks under them as he begins scratching a new addition to the parchment.

“It can be,” you chuckle as you follow behind, “but for a group of people, if something changes and you add a new guy, wouldn’t it be called ‘The Ten?’ That doesn’t sound as imposing without any other adjectives.”

“Heeeyy!”

“Don’t play this pup’s game perrita. Besides, the titles you gift my things aren’t that much better.” Lobo glances your way. “The Mist?’ ‘Sealed Fates?’ ‘Binding Vows?’ Congratulations, you have named an orange fruit ‘Orange.’”

“Hey!”

“And with that…” Lobo dots the I’s and crosses the T’s, and then you feel a shift in the air. A smell that you had never noticed before suddenly disappearing. A trickling along your right arm. Dionysus appears to feel it too; he’s looking around as he floats, no longer trying to stop Lobo.

Lobo clicks his tongue, tucks the quill into is cloak, then points at the god floating just above his head. “I revoke your permission to be in my realm.”

Around Dionysus’ neck, a grey Binding Vow materializes. He pouts. “Poutana—”

SLAM! Dionysus is yanked down to the ground at an awkward angle, limb tangling with limb. The “Gla-a-ack!” of pain he makes as he clutches his frizzy head makes you wince too. Lobo smirks.

Lobo kicks the god of wine along as one would dribble a rather large stone down a path, nudging him back to the puddle of wine they emerged from. “Go on now. Off you go.”

“C-c’mon Muerte–” The goat boy coughs and sputters. As much as he struggles to fight back, the Binding Vow only reels them back towards the puddle, never giving slack to let them swim back out. “–g-give a goat a chance! I just wanted to give Lana a space to have some fun!”

Kick. “Millenia of you all squabbling at me about ‘respecting the mortal’s choice,’ just to do this. Fuilana chose to stay in this realm. Twice. Stop pretending to be a hero.”

A twinge in your gut. You follow close behind them both.

“I-I’m not pretending! I’m giving my people a chance enjoy what they didn’t–”

Kick. The god’s garments are collecting quite a load of wrinkles. “Oh, and don’t think for a moment I’m entertaining the idea of you sending more letters. I was tolerating your correspondence for her sake. But a breach of boundaries like this? Not even my sister will be on your side. You won’t be coming back.”

“Ay, Lobo…”

“Trust me perrita.” Lobo speaks to you, not once breaking eye contact with the god. “I’ve seen the people this god ‘saves.’ He is the last one you want to be tangled up in.”

You bite your lip.

The three of you near Dionysus’ portal back to his realm. Lobo rears back again for another kick before Dionysus holds up his hands, groaning from the tumbling and tugging at his throat. “Alright, alright. You made your point. I can walk the rest of the way myself.”

D stands up with a huff, smoothing his robes out as much as he can with all of the stains and wrinkles coating it now. He has to be careful with how he does so as any tiny head bob towards the portal can’t be reeled back. Lobo crosses his arms as you hold your elbows.

“I’m sorry Fuilana.” A piercing glare turns soft as Dionysus look past the God of Death. “I wanted this to be a surprise, thought some new friends would be something you wanted. But I shouldn’t have jumped you with that choice. I ended up leaving you with none at all. You deserve better than this.”

Scratching the back of his scruffy head, Dionysus gives an apologetic shrug and turns to the portal. He waves goodbye behind him as he steps closer. “Maybe another time, Lana. Good times be with you.”

Dionysus raises his arms and steps into the wine puddle, the wine swallowing their robes–

“Wait.”

You step forward and grab the god’s wrist before he disappears beneath the drink. Goat eyes brighten into a smile.

The wolf sighs without a hint of surprise. “No.”

“Lobo listen–”

“No.” Lobo repeats. “I allow you to do a lot of things perrita, but this is too much even for you.”

“The people there can’t be all bad–”

“Alcoholics, abusive spouses, public indecency to the highest degree and magic addicts.” Lobo counts off his paws. “All he looks for in Mortems is how bombastically they can destroy their senses of selves. These aren’t your people Fuilana.”

“And all you look for in people are their lowest moments Muerte.” Dio bites back. “Why do you alone get to choose who deserves a second chance?”

You turn back to the goat and force a smile. “D, I appreciate your input, but just let me handle this, okay?”

Dio blinks, surprised at you taking initiative here. He nods, then takes his wrist back to wait and wade in the wine.

You face Death yet again, breathe in, then out. “Look. You’re right. I’ve never been a party person and the type of people that the God of Parties picks up might not be the best. But Dionysus said that he has the most Mortems out of the rest of The Nine. Not all of them can be as bad as you say. And he said that anything I want they would have there. So that means there would be some quiet-er spaces, right?”

“Don’t be an idiot, Fuilana.” Lobo snips at you, his eyes staring at a child that needs to be explained for the hundredth time that no, eating dirt is not healthy. “Running into the unknown just for the idea of something better has never worked out for you before.”

You wince, picking at your skirt fabric. “Why do you have to say it like that?”

Lobo opens his mouth to retort again, but when he realizes the extent of what he just said, he backs off.

…you suck it up. “It’ll be different this time. We can make a Binding Vow, or you and Dio can make a vow, to make sure I come back and don’t get hurt. That’ll work, right?”

“You know as well as I do that he,” Lobo snarls over your shoulder, “makes it a mission to exploit loopholes–”

“Then come with us.”

“What?”
“What.”

Both gods stand and swim agape, baffled at your proposition.

“You don’t want to make a vow and you can’t trust me on my own. So come with us. Take a break. Earlier today you talked about how you do all this work all by yourself, all the judging by yourself, barely getting any time to enjoy yourself because of how busy you are.” You toss your hands all over The Mist in exaggeration to play up the drama. Lobo didn’t say it this way, but he certainly meant it like this. “Well. You just finished your soul collection. You usually spend an hour or two here training me and inscribing fates before leaving again. So instead of doing that, you can come with us.”

“I…” Lobo shakes his head so lightly you would mistake it for a reflex, before swiftly closing his eyes plastering back on his smile. “Pah, trying to back out of your training today, perri–”

“Nope.”Snap snap, right in front of Lobo’s eyes. The God of Death recoils, his plaster job immediately undone. “None of that now.“

Dionysus stifles a laugh behind you both. No doubt it’s quite a sight, seeing Death himself shut down so quickly, recoiling and stammering to regain ground. But you step closer, then take his hand.

“Lobo. You of all people deserve a break. And I want you to come with me.” You squeeze your fingers into his paw. “Now. No bullshit. Do you want to come, or not?”

Lobo’s blood red eyes are wide, looking down at his paw, at you, and over your shoulder at Dionysus. He’s silent for a long time, clearly weighing his hatred of the god against your proposal, whether or not he should even let you leave in the first place. Even if the idea only just now came to you (and the taste of his recent insults still linger on your tongue), you do mean what you say. After who knows how long of repeating the same old structure, some change would be good for him. For both of you.

Admittedly you’re still unsure about Dionysus. Lobo has much more knowledge about The Nine than you do and he actively hates this guy. But he was wrong about Vida being upset with him and Anansi seemed nice enough, given the circumstances. And D’s been talking with you all this time, keeping you company when Vida and Lobo were away. It’s not like Lobo is the perfect wolf either. Maybe this will be okay.

Whatever the case may be. Gods you are starving for somewhere new.

Twenty whole seconds of paw-holding later, Lobo closes his eyes and huffs in deep. He leans in close and whispers while pointing a claw at your chest. “If there is so much as a hint of underhanded tricks, I’m calling this off.”

“Deal.”

Lobo stands back up to his full height, arms crossed. With a spin on your boots you turn back around. “Is that fine with you too, D?”

The God of Party’s eyes are the size of apples and his lower jaw fills with wine. You may as well have made out with the Grim Reaper right in front of them with how they’re staring at you both. After a beat they remember themselves and start nodding so high and rapid his chin splashes in the wine. “Y-yeah! Sure! Totally. The uh, the more the merrier it’s– …c-come and join the fun!”

Dionysus waves you in with his strained smile and dives down with a slick plop. Lobo is tugged behind you as you keep holding his hand while walking. His grip turns firm as you take a deep breath, plug your nose, then hop into the shitty wine.

The God of Wine’s alcohol is much more viscous than you expected. Granted it’s your first time swimming through godly wine, but as it leaves a sticky film along your body and soaks into your clothes (there better be a magic towel waiting on the other side), the sludginess of it all makes you want to gag.

Above you the foggy brightness of The Mist fades. The currents shift. You’re dropped deep into the crimson ocean and sent floundering through the briny depths, no clear walls or floor to help deduce which way is up. You’re forced to let go of your nose to help balance yourself, but as expected, your nose is then filled with leather and berry.

Lobo holds onto you the whole way, his grip shifting from your hand to your wrist, acting as your anchor in these thrashing waters.

Your journey through the Godly Slip and Slide ends with a jagged impact, your torso landing against steps sloped up and out of the current. They’re polished, indentations between the tiles scraping film off your fingertips. Pushing up and through the film you rise from the depths with a pop and shovel air into your lungs. The fluid in your nose can’t be blown out fast enough. Your skirt is soaked and puddles form inside your boots, but your gloves feel fine at the very least.

“Oh me stars– he actually brought ‘er back?”
“Cato, quickly, prepare the logic wristbands for the fresh blood!”
“Everyone– shh! Put that ‘ere away!”

Once all the alcohol is tapped from the ears (or most of it anyways), you hear it. Mutterings of a crowd. One of them sounds extremely gruff, most of their words slurring together. Some of them have accents, “hey’s” blending to “aye’s.” The dozens and dozens of excited voices fill the room, second only to fluid pouring into the pool you emerged from.

A gentle hand guides you to the edge by your shoulder, dabbing a cloth against your face and clearing away the mess while being careful to not overwhelm. The wine is fully cleaned few more taps. You blink your eyes open to find Dionysus right in front of you, his purple and gold eyes holding a weighty relief as they stare into yours. He nods to you, not as a response but as a question. You nod back.

He steps to the side, revealing the rest of his world.

You have to take things in piece by piece or you know you’ll break down.

All three of you have entered a palace. That is the best way it can be described, with its marble floors and columns and fine felt rugs, colored with deep purples and crimsons. Adorning every inch are giant, immaculate jewels carved into numerous shapes and spirals, quintupling your existence in pure value. The wine you’ve just emerged from belonging to a wide pool of deep and rich crimson, poured from fountains of chiseled men and women holding ornate jars. Nostril burning sweetness paired with a whiff of flowers somewhere deeper. Far, far in the back of this great hall, light filters through a stained glass window of dashing warriors and heroes of old, none of whom you recognize.

Just one glance at it all gives you the sense that the image of a stereotypical rich man crawled from your brain and created this space – were it not for the countless splashes of clashing colors coating every spot you can see (and relieving you from thinking that Dionysus is One Of Those People). Along the marble walls crude graffiti and intricate murals overlap and fight for dominance, a typhoon of paints impossibly vibrant and bright, far more than any you have touched. Ancient pottery etched with the history of mighty legends now spill over with dirt and wild ivy that creeps upwards across the walls. Defaced only in the eyes of kings. Banisters that once likely held the insignia of some old monarch are torn and burned and restitched, each now bearing a wholly unique rendition of the same symbol: a minotaur cradling the sun delicately within his hands.

And the people. Oh gods the people. You cannot see an end to the horizon line, they all just keep going. Humans are in the crowd: women with hair wrapped in buns and men wearing skirts, all of them unique in clothing style and skin color and facial features, more than you’ve ever seen in your life. And the humans are only a fraction of the crowd! In just the front row there’s a little pixie in a frilly purple outfit sitting on the shoulder of their human companion; a dragon (wyvern? drake?) the size of a large dog, a luxurious bathrobe draped over silver scales; far in the back, an eight foot tall werewolf dwarfs everyone else with her wide proportions and flaring pink fur. And they’re all staring at you.

Dionysus squeezes your hand and pulls you back into your body. Only now do you realize he slipped his paw into yours. He smiles warmly at you, then turns to the crowd.

“My friends…” He raises your hand high into the air, a referee crowning a victor. “FUILANA CORTEZ!!!“

Your body trembles as the entrance hall explodes with rapturous applause.

“Tha idiot-brain was ne’er the wiser!!”
“I… hi-m, hi, every–”
“A wee lass like ‘er! Hhahaa, he’ll be so mad!!”
“It’s nice t– th-thank y-”
“Blood to Wine! Blood to Wine!!”

The applause of the crowd squeezes you from all sides, their cheers shooting from wall to wall, echo upon echo of celebration all over your being. Not as brain-rattling as Anansi’s trip inside your skull, but their praise is forced down your lungs and drowning out the air. Ecstatic whoops and chitters and chirps and howls and growls and whinnies and barks and gurgles and burps. A spotlight is on you, eyes fighting to stay afloat in the clamor of the crowd, scratchy overgrown fur in your left hand.

A large, scruffy paw in your right.

You squeeze it. Close your eyes. Feel the scars on his pinkie finger knuckle. And breathe.

Behind you, wine trickles, falling from fur and returning to the pool. It becomes difficult to tell when the shrieks of celebration stop and the shrieks of horror begin as Lobo climbs the stairs until his chest presses against your back. A few members of the crowd start scrambling away. More than one of your loudest supporters grabs a bottle and breaks it over the counter, ready for a brawl.

“It’s okay everyone, it’s okay!!” You take your hand from Dio’s and wave down the people who are about to rush the stairs. You intentionally make a show of you willingly holding Lobo’s hand, not the other way around. “He’s my plus one, he’s friendly! Dionysus let me bring him here. All he’s here to do is eat some food and have a drink or two. Right?”

You turn around to the two gods. Dionysus, still standing exactly where he was without turning to acknowledge the wolf behind him, puts on a forced friendly smile and holds both hands behind his back. It would be a surprise if they weren’t already regretting their choices now. Lobo, fur soaked and dripping dark syrupy wine, pores into the crowd of Mortems. His eyes glow much brighter than the wine he’s drenched with, turning his ashy grey into a deep red velvet.

Gods of Blood and Wine glance at one another, the briefest of acknowledgements and agreements, before Dionysus turns to abate the crowd.

“Yes, yes, not to worry! Though Fuilana is not joining our merry band of Relivers…” D says, pronouncing it re-liv-ers. “She will be participating in our festivities tonight, one night only! With the grace of her… accommodating host.”

“Just pretend I’m not here~” Lobo growls. Bloody wine continues to drip down and stains his fangs as he smiles to the crowd.

“Exactly!” Dionysus claps. “Now, as you were everyone! Good times be with you!”

Pairs and trios of nervous eyes look between one another, still baffled at the presence of another god in their sacred party grounds. Your warm welcome turns cold and the party guests trickle outwards to wherever they were before.

Lobo licks the wine coating his snout. “You were right, perrita. This wine taste like shit.”

Dionysus sucks in a deep, long breath.

To prevent any further crowd control incidents, Dionysus began leading you and Lobo throughout the palace. This was to both to introduce his Relivers to the “Guest of Honor“ while acquainting you both to the party grounds. ”The twisting passages can feel like a maze at times,“ he says, ”so it would be best to learn them right away.“

Lobo mutters a fun fact into your ear that Dionysus, before being a satyr, used to present themselves as a peacock.

Just like the entrance hall, every door you walk through you are hit with extravagance overpowered by the expressive. A corridor of antique murals of royalty from a long dead is actively and happily defaced with darts and paint and claws. A room filled with mile long tables for strategizing war plans has been transformed into the bar; twelve different casts of alcohol hanging off the edges and drunk patrons pouring their hearts out to a song too slurred to comprehend. The castle treasury, still full with its riches, brims with Relivers making angels with taxed gold in stolen robes.

The rest go by quite fast. A dining hall with pristine food piled up high, an in-palace bathhouse and sauna turned into a bubble bath, royal bedrooms turned into pleasure rooms (which you kindly asked Dionysus to not open the blessedly sound-proofed doors to). Each door you’re met with dozens of new faces, each more unique and vibrant than the last, that go out of their way to say hello as they pass by. They all have the same three wristbands as Dionysus, but they’re different color combinations (purple orange green, yellow blue red, purple orange red, etc.) And without fail, Dionysus greets every last one by name.

“Penniworth, big guy, it’s great to see you! No no, I told you I don’t mind the paint. It’s amazing to see the latest tag coming along, you’ve come a long way since you started experimenting. Ay, Six Eyes, I see you over there! Don’t think I didn’t see you creeping up with that cask. Trying to hit me with the surprise taste test again, are ya? I’ll try it out later, need to show around a new friend– is that Chau Peng I hear over there? You hog’s ass, get over here!!”

If you weren’t convinced before that Dionysus was one of The Nine, this would certainly do it. As much as you’ve yearned for company, you’re also very thankful you’ve only had to keep track of a small group of people.

Your shoulders brush by so many party-goers. It almost feels embarrassing to admit how much of a rush you get from it each time. Some other Relivers take some time to talk to you as Dionysus goes around with his greetings, forcing you to recall the ancient forgotten art of Party Small Talk. Some avoid you because of the wolf trailing behind the pack. Others take time to compliment you in spite of him, one even holding your hands and saying “it’s so brave of you to help fashion disasters no matter how far away they stray from the light.”

Something inside you bristles at the thought of being so focused on, continuously praised and complimented and labeled Guest of Honor. But throughout it all Lobo keeps a paw close to your shoulder and scares off the stray party guest. He especially takes pride when he spots a blonde man trying to flirt and flaunt his muscles, only to skitter off at the sight of the wolf.

“Celebrity type, that one.”

“Muerte, please do not scare my Mortems like personal party favors.” Dionysus groans while waving goodbye to a water elemental.

“Me? I wouldn’t dream of it.” The back of Lobo’s throat is drenched in sarcasm, paired with the syrupy wine. “I’m simply greeting familiar faces.”

“Unfortunately Lobo, I think you just have one of those faces.” You shrug and shake your head in pity of the God of Death. “If all the people here weren’t traumatized by you already, your entrance sealed the deal.”

“Oh perrita, you wound me.” Lobo leans down to meet you at eye level. “And here I remember you said my tricks were getting stale.”

“And they still are, drama queen. It’s just that the people here can’t handle a bit of spice.” You playfully push his snout away. “Rising from a pool of blood? You’re not just getting sloppy, Lobo. You’re getting pedestrian.”

Lobo presses a paw to his chest and scoffs, unable to hide his smirk. “If that’s the truth, perhaps I–”

“Haha, yeah Muerte, maybe you should practice a bit more.” Dionysus chuckles and leans over your shoulder. “Go and drain the blood of your victims’ necks into a pool, rehearse your dramatic entrance a bit more why don’t ya?”

You and Lobo turn and stare at the party host. They stare back, waiting.

“…ahem. So!” Dionysus carries on, gesturing with one hand while the other fiddles with his toga. “I make an effort to accommodate to all of my guests’ preferences at a party. When I told you that we have anything you want, I meant it. So what are you craving?”

“Hrm. Anything, huh?” Your arms are crossed as Lobo returns to standing straight up. You certainly don’t doubt the God of Good Times’ claim, but ‘anything’ is a very large selection to pick from. May as well be someone asking what do you want to do with the rest of your life.

“I can see you’re struggling. Not to worry, everyone goes through that same indecision.” Dio explains in an almost rehearsed tone. “Let me narrow it down for you: what do you want to eat?”

That somehow feels even more broad than what you had before. But it’s a start. “I guess… I want some ukoy. I’ve been trying to cook more of the foods I had back home, but even with the giant ‘How To Make’ book I got from Vida, I’m never able to fry the shrimp in a way–”

You are holding a plate of ukoy.

The smell tickled your nose before you processed the weight in your hands. It was not placed in your hands by Dionysus or appeared out of thin air. You weren’t holding the ceramic purple plate before, and now you are. Resting on top are three pieces of perfectly golden and crispy ukoy, still steaming as if they came right from the pan.

You look at the fried food for several seconds, then look to Dionysus, who almost seems impressed as he nods to you. “Some people prefer to have them appear floating in the air or materialize in a puff of magic. But this type of summoning helps for a more steady introduction.”

While there’s something a touch unsettling at your body’s state changing without your knowing, the smell of fresh fried food calls to you. Two are scooped up in your hands, the fritters pressing against your palm and leaving behind a familiar tinge of grease. One for you and one of the wolf (who, after a quick sniff check, deems it safe to eat for you both). The crackle tingles against your ears and a wave of nostalgic flavor hits you all at once, mellow seafood washing across your tongue with pecks of onion and earthy broccoli. Just like all the platters you stole away during massive family gatherings back home.

“So good…” You melt.
“Too good.” Lobo says.

You point at the empty spot on the plate and speak to the open air. “I usually dip it with some vinegar as a side, please?”

A serving dish of tangy vinegar poofs onto your plate with purple sparkles. You dip the tip of yours to soak the fried batter and dig right back in.

“So you still haven’t added any moderation for mortals using magic here.” Lobo says to Dionysus, pressing the fried food between his digits. “Should I even bother asking how many souls you’ve lost since I was last invited?”

“Hey. Don’t even go there, Muerte.” Dionysus shoots a finger at the visiting god, looking uncharacteristically stern. Lobo stands unflinching as the party rages on around them both. Then they holster it and grumble to themselves. “Yes, I have added moderations. My Relivers can still summon drinks and food and minor pieces of entertainment, but anything potentially dangerous has to be run by me first.”

“Zero, then?” He asks.

“Hey Fuilana is there anything else you want to do?” Dio asks through gritted teeth.

“Mmngph?” You munch on your mouthful of fried shrimp and rice to think of a response. “Mmph. Well, uh, I would like to meet some new people. Preferably some of the mortal, un-inebriated variety.”

“We have no shortage of those around here! I could bring you to a folk dancing meetup, maybe a game night?”

“Ooh, folk dancing… I do have the skirt for it.” Your skirt flutters and twirls as you ponder the thought of summoning entirely new clothes. Your boots would definitely fit for all the stomping. However, Lobo’s presence is an awkward one impossible to avoid. “But maaaaybeeeee it could be something that Lobo could enjoy too?”

“Something here that, Death, would enjoy?” Dionysus keeps his smile steady, but his eyes shifting left and right can’t hide his disbelief.

“You heard the lass, kid. Go on.” Lobo bounces in, eager to learn Dionysus’ recommendation (and to watch him flounder a bit more). “Dionysus’ realm is accommodating for all~”

Lobo snickers as the goat god begins chewing on one of their nails. Lobo has always been content to sit on the sidelines and watch as you flounder in a new hobby, but you didn’t bring him all the way here just to have him watch you have fun. And frankly, the idea of these two having a conversation without you mediating further feels catastrophic.

“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmokay.” Dionysus nods, more to himself than the both of you. “I think I have an idea. It’s on the other side of the palace, but I know a shortcut.”

“Thiff bedder nod require uffin’ a towel!” You say between bites.

The God of Freedom directs you to an already open door leading back into one of the dozens of passageways. He pulls it shut, then raps his knuckles against the wood. Knocknock knock knocknock knock! A few moments of waiting later, the knob turns from the other side and swings open with entirely new faces – and an entirely new room.

“Aaaaayyy, Big D!!” Both you and Lobo grimace as a staggeringly large and burly human practically buried in facial hair opens the door for the goat, red cup in hand. He wraps an arm around the god (those three bracelets again, purple orange and red) and crushes him against his overalls and stained green undershirt. Dionysus doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest, cackling along with him between gasps for breath. “And here I thought I was gonna hafta go thirty minutes without someone toppin’ me off! Who’s the chick with the big bad wolf?”

“Heheh, these– cough!” Dionysus straightens his back out like one would a roll of paper. “–are our guests for tonight, Brulo! The three of us will be joining in for a round of your collaborative deconstruction exercises.”

“HAH!! More hammers ta’ swing, perfect!!” Brulo shouts, his voice deep and as grimy as the rest of his body, moving out of the way for you all to walk past. “C’mon in. Hope ya don’t mind some dust ‘n debris. You especially with your paws, mutt.”

Ducking past Brulo, goosebumps prickle up across your body from a sudden shift in air pressure. A comfortably warm guesthouse has transformed into a cool, brisk art studio. Your footsteps bounce off of walls filled with covered portraits, ladders affixed to wheels and rails spanning the room, the floor coated with sharp pieces of rubble (you’re so happy you died with these boots), all the way up to a ceiling you can’t see because in dim candlelight. A two story tall door faces you on the other side of the room. Something nearly matches that height – a large, something, hidden underneath a tarp poking at odd angles and wrapped in a single long rope covering the entire body.

At the base of the something are more people! Two pairs of party-goers, to be precise.

To the left is the silver-scaled dragon that greeted you when you emerged from the wine, still sporting the robe from before. In proper lighting you can make out the ridges poking through and along his spine all the way down to the tail. He’s being instructed by yet another extremely burly man, this time more tan muscles than facial hair (though he still bears well-trimmed black sideburns and goatee). He sports a dark brown tunic adorned with shoulder pads and light leather pants tied up with a dark orange and white sash. If it weren’t for you spotting his sleazy smile you could be convinced that he was a walking fridge with clothes.

To the right is another familiar face – the large wolf girl from earlier. It’s much easier to see her now, peach fur accented by pink and black patterns weaving together across her mane and body features. Which are, quite frankly, very easy to see with her dark purple shirt and shorts covering up her scarred muscles and rolling curves just enough to pass for “not just wearing undergarments.” She has everyone beat in the height and weight class by far. She looms over a smaller human girl who blushes as the wolf saddles up next to her. The human is wearing a toga much like Dionysus’ but also wearing an extra shirt underneath to cover up her chest. Her toga also bears the minotaur insignia, this one appearing much more detailed in its embroidery compared to the painted banisters. She runs a hand through her poofy purple hair and out of the way of small reading glasses, clearly flustered but not trying to move away.

“Eyes up front chumps!!” Brulo screams and commands attention. “Gretir! Dustgale! Pelinae! Amora! We got company!”

The burly Gretir scowls as you enter while Ashscale smiles meekly, making an effort to not showing off many fangs. Peline bows with a hand wave while Amora waggles her clawed fingers and licks her snout. Every last one of them, three different colored bracelets.

As Dionysus and Brulo walk ahead to do their greetings, Lobo leans down and whispers in your ear. “Whatever happens, don’t take your eyes of Gretir.”

You look back at the wolf without drawing too much attention. He’s not making a scene, but there is a grim seriousness on his face you know better than to question. You nod.

Brulo ushers the both of you into a lineup between the two groups. Gretir slinks behind Dustgale to put distance between him and Lobo. Amora doesn’t move, but you can feel her eyes creeping all over you, sizing you up. You offer her your remaining ukoy as a peace offering, which she takes and CHOMPS down in one bite.

You look away from her before your face can get any warmer.

“Boys. Girls. Wolves. Goat. Dragon.” Brulo addresses the small crowd with a calloused hand to his heart. “We are gathered here today to indulge in a part a’ ourselves we so rarely get to experience a pleasure so few mortals get to achieve. A primal craving inside all a’ us that was held back by idiotic contrivances called ‘common decency laws.’ The same laws that saw fit to whack an outstandin’, hard workin’ sonofabitch like me for doin’ some community service. But just because–”

“Nobody wants ta hear ye go on an hour long pity party, Brulo. Just get on with it already.” Gretir groans and rolls his eyes. The people around you exhale in annoyance.

“I was gettin’ to that!!” Brulo’s stomp resonates all around the room, then he calms back down. “Ahem. Seeing as some people ‘ere would prefer doin’ rather than listenin’, I’ll regale you new folks with my exploits later. For now, would you all please turn around?”

You all turn around and face the large blanketed something. Even Lobo and Amora, the largest of you all, barely stack up to the height of it.

“This is... quite a lovely art project?” Pelinae adjusts her glasses to try and get a better sense of what she’s looking at. She seems like the only other person here who doesn’t know what’s happening. You shrug when she looks to you for clarification.

“Oh this ain’t my own art project.” Brulo saunter’s up next to the thing, leans against it, and crosses his arms. “This is yours. Miss, can I have that plate please?”

“Uh, sure…” You hand Brulo the empty plate and cup of vinegar. He gladly takes both in each handthen–

CLASH! He hammers the plate against his head and shatters it! Broken shards of purple rain against his face, yet when they all pull away, there’s not a scar or drop of blood to be seen. He still wears that satisfied grin, now holding one of the sharp fragments in his hand. With his other hand Brulo downs the cup of vinegar like a shot of alcohol. “Thanks for the refreshments too.”

The other four just laugh with varying levels of amusement, no concern at all. Brulo goes up to one section of rope and a few seconds of sawing later, it SNAPS and the cloth falls away to reveal…

“’Heavenly King and Slayer of Those Who Creep in Shadow: Lord Ptolisomn (Somn) Descolious The 22nd.’” You read from an engraved gold plaque attached to the base of a gigantic marble statue. The Lord King in question stands atop a mountain of malformed skulls and heads, presumably those of non-humans, but even you can tell they’re not anatomically correct. Across his body is a metal scrap heap resembling armor, spikes and chunks jutting out every which way and two times too big for the man’s actual body. Giant spiked sword in one hand and shield in the other he stands stalwart against anything that isn’t a white human man with mile long flowing hair and sharpened cheekbones. “’May his holy ballad forever remain in the hearts of his people.’”

“Heh! I remember this one.” Lobo says, looking up at the King Lord’s statue. “He drained his entire kingdom’s treasury within a month just to build his armor and erect statues like this across the kingdom. Forty days after his coronation he held a parade for himself, only to trip and fall out of his armor entirely. His neck snapped after just one punch from a baker, but nobody realized because they were too busy making a new yearly holiday.”

“Damn.” You say. Somn’s hair does remind you of some of the defaced portraits you saw on the way here. Guess that explains whose castle this is. “What did he taste like?”

“Rotten cherry cobbler with metal and cobblestone crust.”

Brulo pauses his tarp organizing and snaps his neck to Lobo. “YA’ SUCKED OFF LORD CHEEKBONES?!”

For the sake of Lobo’s dignity, you’ll spare the next few minutes from extensive description. Suffice to say it was full of cackling, dragon chittering and howling in laughter as Dionysus, Amora and Gretir kept piling on the increasingly deeper probing questions. Brulo slapped him on the back and genuinely congratulated him on such a legendary feat. Lobo deadpanned through it all, refusing to look at you wheezing on the floor, laughing the hardest you have in what feels like years.

“Eehehe, good for you Sir Wolf, but…” Pelinae calms down from a giggle fit of her own. “My darling Amora told me this would be something to help with my ‘anger management?’ Where does that come in?”

“I thought, grrh, ya’d never, grrmf, ask!” Brulo chucks more lumps of the tarp up and away, digging up the treasure underneath. Finally after minutes of digging, he unearths the treasure and hoists them up. You feel your pupils widen at the sight.

A large pile of sledgehammers.

“This is the best day of my life.” You whisper.

“Everybody grab one and get inta position!” Brulo lets the group dig in, picking up his own with just one hand. You jog up once everyone has collected their own and try to pick up two for you and Lobo, heaving as you scrape them across the ornate floor.

“No thanks, perrita. I have my weapon of choice.” He smiles and unsheathes his sickles. Seems Dionysus made the right call in guessing something you’d both enjoy.

“Okay, okay. I see you. But consider the following:” You hold up both handles and lean in. “Dual wielding sledgehammers.”

Lobo purses his lips, weighing his different options. You know he can handle this amount of weight and force, he might have even used one as a weapon of choice back in the day. “Hmm… perhaps–”

“Sorry Muerte, rules are rules here.” Dionysus interrupts once again as they stroll past you both, writing something on a purple sheet of paper. “Brulo says to grab a hammer, you gotta grab a hammer.”

“NO SUBSTITUTIONS!!” Brulo yells triumphant with the hammer over his head.

“Besides, I didn’t approve the use of those. We can’t have anyone getting hurt now, can we?” Dio looks pitifully at The God of Death, then walks away.

Lobo glares at the goat while he walks away, then sheaths his blades. He snatches a hammer from you and tests the grip. A bubble of frustration sits in your gut, but everyone else is starting to get into it. You don’t want to call him out and bring the mood down.

“And when were you planning on giving your ‘Guest of Honor’ the protections needed for this?” Lobo pipes up, clearly not holding the same reservation.

“Protections? What’re you– EDAPOL!” The goat drops his materials to leave them hanging in the air and runs back up to you, toga fluttering behind him. With a snapsnapsnap three colored wristbands (THE wristbands) materialize in the air. Before you have a chance to protest yelp he grabs your wrist (Lobo begins to step towards the Godly host) and SHOVES all three onto your arm.

You flinch from the impact, but nothing seems to happen, outside of a slight vibration behind your ears for a few seconds. They all have a strange elastic texture that clings to your skin.

“I’m so sorry, it completely slipped my mind!” Dionysus apologizes as he gestures to the three wristbands, top to bottom with purple, blue and red. “This is mind effects, this is body effects, this is pain. They’re all on by default. Grab and twist to turn them on or off.”

To give an example, Dionysus takes your red wrist band and rotates it around your arm. Green flushes out the red on all sides. He then takes his hand and flicks your wrist. There’s a dull impact from the hit, but otherwise no pain. Just as advertised.

After a quick apology with a deep bow he runs back to his materials, plucking them out of their stasis and continues scribbling with a much more frantic pace.

“So much for an ever-considerate ‘god.’” Lobo growls.

‘Body and mind effects… ’ You think, thumbing the purple and blue wristbands. Mind makes a bit of sense, considering the alcohol. Free choice to not get drunk, or sober up immediately. But body…

You look over to the other participants. Dustgale and Brulo both have orange bracelets, signaling no bodily changes. But everyone else, Gretir, Pelinae and Amora, all have blue bracelets. Does that mean…?

...you twist mind effects off to yellow and body effects off to orange. For now.

“A’IGHT CHUMPS!!” Brulo shouts and shakes the room. Dionysus stands beside him, crossing T’s and dotting I’s. No hammer himself, he must be supervising the event. The rest of the crowd has now spaced circled the statue, leaving no room for the Lordly King to escape. “Remember the three Don’ts! Don’t open your mouth; don’t be a dick; and most importantly…”

Flick! Dionysus finishes signing with a flourish. With a wink in your direction, he flings the parchment high up in the air. It flies and spins and keeps floating upwards, the laws of gravity no longer applying until it vanishes into the lightless ceiling. Then…

“Oooooooooooooooo~”

A ghostly chorus manifests within the workshop as a pane of purple glitter flutters down from overhead. Every flame from each of the room’s candle wicks shifts to a dark hue, blanketing the world in a shadow that’s somehow still bright enough to see. It affects everything it touches; your skin is dark, but the white of your shirt and several stitchings of your skirt emit a lightless glow. Dustgale’s scales, Dionysus and Pelinae’s togas, Amora’s entire body, and Lobo’s fur. They shimmer but don’t blind when you look directly at them. Lord Cheekbones lights up like a shooting star. They all pulse together in one unified rhythm.

A rhythm. Deep strings. Drums, symbols. Some instruments completely alien but undeniably swirls and bubbles and pulses within you. Music.

It’s the first song you’ve heard in months.
[https://youtu.be/_IU9a1npViM?si=PXat_-jQCMvnWEUY]

Brulo swings down his arm. “DON’T LEAVE ANYTHING STANDING!!!”

In an instant the workshop explodes with clouds of dust and rubble. Amora, Gretir and Brulo flash forward and channel their rage into fine points and slam chunks out of the statue. They are machines of destruction, spinning and chiseling the base into dust, creating stars in the night sky. Dustgale, holding the sledgehammer in his teeth, flies and darts from wall to wall with the speed of a lightning bolt to blunt the serrated edge of the Kingly Lord’s blade. Pebbles pelt across your body from Amora’s strike but none of them sting, even though many embed themselves and scratch at your black gloves, completely lightless save for the glowing red accents.

Lobo and Pelinae have not yet moved, same as you. Pelinae, both in awe and terror, can’t decide if she wants to step forward or away. Lobo is looking around and listening to the music, idly bopping his head and tapping a foot while he watches. He notices you still on the ground, not joining the fun, and nudges his head towards everyone else. ‘Well?’ He asks in his gaze. ‘Let’s see what you got.’

How can you say no to a challenge like that, hm?

You grip the sledgehammer in your hands, the leather of your gloves squeaking, and start walking. It doesn’t take much to realize how easily you can lift the destruction equipment with one hand, how a normal footstep takes a bit longer to fall than usual. You adjust your steps accordingly, taking longer strides and and adding more force behind each stomp against the floor and matching the beat of the song. Amora carves a chunk of the statue out directly in your path but you don’t falter. Knees bent low you focus, then leap.

The wind in your ears cheers alongside you as you soar high above the statue’s base, tangled hair whipping around the hammer’s head. Lord Cheekbones’ shield stands in your way but it has fallen before. All you need is to keep your shoulders loose, your grip tight, tense your abs, then swing.

CLANG! The shield’s base cracks and drops away from its master. Your impact causes you to rebound away, shoulders vibrating and resonating but not held back by their usual burn. The marble chunks splinter further upon impact with the floor.

Without a way to alter your trajectory in mid-air you float back to your starting point. Brulo and Dionysus cheer and whoop at your first hit. Pelinae claps in a very polite manner.

“Your form was a little lacking, perrita.” Lobo jeers over trumpets and saxophones filtered through lightning.

You gesture to the statue and shout back. “I’d love to see you do one better~”

Lobo’s smile glows in the shadow. Who is Lobo to back down from a challenge like that?

The God of Death twirls the hammer dexterously between his digits. He squats down, then backflips high into the air. His physical ability was always impressive, but in low gravity he flies up until the arc of his jump completes over a dozen feet in the air. Without blinking a streak of black and white and glowing red eyes tears across your vision. The hand of Lord Descolious is turned to nothing, vaporized in a puff of dust. The sword of Holy Righteousness falls, right onto the head of Gretir. It cracks in two atop his skull then cracks into dust by his sides. He stumbles, hammer slipping from his hands and clattering on the floor. But Gretir stands back up straight perfectly fine.

“Showoff.” You shake your head, smiling.

“AY MUTT, WATCH WHERE YER SWINGIN’! THAT COULDA CRIPPLED ME!!” Gretir shouts and shakes his fist, his green pain nullification bracelet shining bright.

Lobo laughs at him without a mote of remorse perched upon one of the workshop’s grand bookshelves. You chuckle too as he looks your way, even if you feel a little bad for the guy. One breath in and out, you jog forward–

“FUILANA, LOOK ALIVE!!”

A rush of stone in the corner of your vision is processed moments after Amora’s growling call. Trained instincts kick in fast. You plant your feet on the ground and flail your hammer against the oncoming hunk of marble. Dull pressure strains against your muscles on impact, but instead of a rain of fragments against your face, the marble is swatted away and CRASHES back into the statue!

You huff, feeling the pressure recoil in your arms devoid of its sting. It sings and pulses together with buzzing instruments you can’t describe. Amora, frozen with her paw out in concern, widens her eyes with a gleam of a master finding a new student.

“You knocked that one outta the park, lil’ pup!” Amora pumps her toned arm in recognition of your training, which certainly doesn’t inflate your ego and make you blush a bit, not at all. The she-wolf then proceeds to bound over to another chunk of marble (this one coming from the Lord King’s bountiful chestplate), grab it with one paw, and lift it over her head! You guffaw, even in this low gravity that cannot be easy!

Amora tosses it up a bit in her grasp, testing the weight as she grins at you, face glowing with eagerness in the shadows. Waiting. Her eagerness proves to be infectious; holding the hammer upright you widen your stance.

“Uuuh Amora dear,” Pelinae looks back and forth between the two of you, shuffling around to find her footing in low gravity. “I think that might be a little too–”

“BATTER UP SWEET CHEEKS!!”

Amora winds back and CHUCKS the breastplate your way. All the dust in the line of fire is whisked by the rapid change in air pressure. With time to prepare you’re more than capable of catching when to strike. Stance low with a STOMP, hands TIGHT around the handle, air hissing out through your teeth, you channel your power into a singular point and STRIKE the boulder and feel the pressure build up across your body filling every inch and your stance fall backwARD OH NO–

CRACK!! The ton of weight is relieved from your body, or rather, skyrockets to the ceiling. Flat on your ass you watch the ample bust of the Kingly Lord King soar upwards, then be shattered to dust by both Dustgale and Gretir, sledgehammers in hand and mouth. Pebbles pour down in a typhoon, their thumps and clacks feeling right at home with the song of Descolious’ usurping. Gretir spins the hammer above his head in victory, much to Dustgale’s dismay.

“Haahh…” Just because your body lacks pain it doesn’t mean you can’t feel the nerves. You hold up your hand to your rescuer. “Sorry for slacking, Lo–”

“I would instead ask for a thank you,” Pelinae, glowing purple hair frazzled and coated with dust, takes your hand with an exhausted smile, “and a never do that again, if you may.”

“I… s-sor–,” you cough, correcting yourself, then take Pelinae’s hand. It’s soft, delicate, yet her handshake is firm. “Thank you. I promise to not do that again.”

“Very good.” She pulls you back up to your feet with ease, then corrects her glasses. “I can see why Sir Brulo hosts these. That thwacking was quite satisfying.”

“Oh this is a dream for me!” You notice Dionysus and Lobo frozen mid-run to check up on you (Lobo hanging from the wall right next to you), while Amorae cheers at Pelinae’s feat of strength. They are all reassured with a thumb’s up, however Amora does get a scolding glare from her apparent partner. “Thanks again. Now if you’ll excuse me...”

With a squat and a leap you climb a dozen feet in the air, hopping from ladder to shelf to statue bust, then hang from a mounted candle right next to your plus one. In this space his exacerbated red eyes are practically spotlights. “Miss me?”

“Just because you can’t feel pain, it doesn’t–”

“Yeah yeah yeah I know ya grump.” You snort. “But how about THIS!!”

Before he can retort you kick away from the wall and swim across the open air. Even as you flip upside down (you’re also thankful for dying wearing pants under your skirt) you have your eyes on the prize: The Lordly King Lord’s head. Drawing up the hammer above your head you SWING beneath your legs. Tragically, the force from your strike is more exerted onto you rather than the statue. One CLANG later and the entire world becomes one blur while you summersault backwards through the air, barely denting the statue’s impeccable cheekbones! You don’t stop spinning until you splat against the wall, and get smacked by Lobo’s smug know-it-all face leaning above you.

“You really are an idiota, you know that?”

“But I’m your idiot~”  The Mortem sticks her tongue out to her god. Lobo rolls his eyes and fights himself to not let the light of his smile show.

“BACK OFF YA GIT!!” Gretir and Dustgale swish by you both. The Gretir is mounted on the dragon’s robed back, pulling his steed’s wings to steer them both around. Rebounding off of the wall the warrior and steed slam against the Lordly King Lord’s armor, carving out dresser’s worth of marble. “THAT HEAD’S MY TROPHY!!”

“Oooohohoho, oh no you don’t!” Using Lobo’s poncho as leverage (he scoffs in disgust) you readjust and perch, ready to strike again. “I’m mounting this king on MY wall!”

“No.” Lobo grabs your collar and dangles you in the air. “Dulling your pain shouldn’t have dulled your mind, perrita. You certainly aren’t a dragon slayer, either.”

“Who says I was going to pick a fight?” You point your hammer in the direction of the statue midsection. With all of Amora and Brulo’s hard work (and Pelinae pitching in now as well), the Holey King is beginning to become more top-heavy than a doctor would recommend. At least a dining room’s worth of marble has been carved away. Plenty more remains, but even with how low gravity is here, the base can only handle so much weight.

Lobo, realizing your plan, flashes you a look. The same look he gave when you two tied in your duel, and when you suggested the coin flip. Respect.

“Now, use some of that pent up anger…” Wickedness creeps across your face and condenses into a toothy grin as you tuck your knees in and ready your hammer. “And punt me!”

The God of Death happily obliges. Releasing you from your scruffed position he lets you drift forward, plants both his feet against your boots, and your combined force as a springboard you rocket down from up high. Dust and sweat pelt your face until you reach your target and CLEAVE a chunk of the King’s waist away! Dionysus kicks himself out of the splash zone as chunks fly. But they’re not shocked at all. Both of your eyes meet, glowing with anticipation, and he’s as happy as can be.

“Everyone!” The God of Good Times leaps up right into your trajectory and snaps both hands. A large wooden board with the Reliver’s insignia manifests in his hands. “Give our guest of honor a boost, if you’d please!”

Wood splinters from your boots slamming down, but there’s still just enough support for you to spring off and CRACK another hunk of marble away.

CRACK!! A streak of glowing grey explodes into a cloud of dust, utterly vaporizing a section of the Lordly Lord’s waist. Not enough to destroy the entire statue, but just enough to help whittle it away. That grey disappears as soon as it came, but in its place is a splash of roaring pink flame in one specific spot of the statue, separate from where Lobo struck. A target, at an awkward angle with your current trajectory. Another test, a challenge.

Momentum carries you off to the workshop’s corner, if it weren’t for Amora leaping high and offering her broad and muscled back as a platform. Any pain you’d be scared of inflicting on her disappears when she growls with a thumbs up to you, despite her red bracelet glowing in the dark. You kick away.

CRACK!! With each little flame dancing in the air the glow of your reds and whites fades, replaced by a flushed pink glow. Candle wicks of Lobo’s fire splash against your arms. It’s funny. The flames are hot and flicker against your skin, but it feels like a steaming hot shower. You aren’t even afraid as it washes over you.

Brulo, ever the gentleman, doesn’t grab anything nearby to provide that platform as you rocket towards him. Instead he takes a much more hands on approach as you rocket towards him. As in, as you start to fly overhead, he grabs one of your boots and spins you around like a heavy bag of garbage about to be thrown into a tall dumpster. “Trust me,” he laughs, “I was awarded ‘Least Accidents Caused’ in my workforce!”

CRACK!!! Your head keeps spinning after your tossed away along with the rest of your body, sprawled out and flying through the air. But you still hit the target right on the dot. Somewhere all around you there’s another BOOM and the room becomes much more warm.

Your spin is gracefully stopped by your hammer slamming into a large chunk of the statue. Specifically, the shield you broke off earlier. It’s held by Pelinae, arms shaking from the impact, Amora standing behind to offer a sturdy and firm support. Like last time, it seems she acted out of a spur of the moment decision to protect and though she’s smiling she’s grimacing at you almost immediately going and doing something reckless. You salute and kick away again.

CRACK!!!! Rather than shooting to the side you hammer the flames upwards and painting the sun into the sky. The grey bolt once again streaks across your vision, traces of his fur tickling against your cheek. BOOM! Thunder quickly follows that lightning strike and filling the air with static as cracks spread across the Ling’s base. One more strike and history will repeat itself.

Only the wall greets you as you’re flung up above the layer of flames. Not a problem at all. You just have to maneuver up and around behind the King Chosen By God for one final strike. With a kick you swim over to the neighboring wall for a direct trajectory.

“Thanks fer tha help, dogfucker!” Gretir and Dustgale sweep around behind you and SLAMS into your side to bump you back and away! Dustgale looks apologetically back as you tumble against the wall at an odd angle, to which Gretir steers the dragon away to fly ahead.

“Hey, Gretir, we talked about this!” Dionysus yells up from below. “No attacking people unless–”

“T’was just a bump, she’ll be fine!” He yells back, arms out wide as the duo reaches the opposite wall, almost goading the god into interfering. Dustgale reels back, ready to pounce forward. “Now yer majesty, pardon tha headache, but it’s time ye–”

FWOOOOOSH

Twinkling stars become a supernova as the song builds to its climax. A burst of bright pink flame makes you instinctively bring your arm up to shield your eyes, as do Gretir and Dustgale. All the wisps of pink flame floating across the room swelled in intensity, barely leaving any room for the warrior and steed to weave between.

Gretir nevertheless makes an attempt and shoves both of them away from the wall towards the statue. Dustgale, however, actively fights against his rider and flaps his wings away from the flames.

“What are ya’, a rat? It’s just fire, flip off ya pain band!” Gretir continues jerking the dragon’s horns to steer them both back to the statue. Dustgale, in defiance, spits out his sledgehammer away from the statue, and starts hissing and croaking at Gretir. Whatever language he’s speaking, you can feel the dragon spouting off every foul insult known to his tongue.

A low and resonant whistle cuts through the chaos and the beat of the song. One all too familiar to you. You turn your head and perched right at Gretir’s former spot is the Grim Reaper himself, sledgehammer in hand.

You leap over to him and hang from one of the candles. Both of your shadows are cast high up to the ceiling. With the way you’re both positioned, your shadows match together in height.

“And you came here thinking you weren’t gonna have fun~” You tease, leaning in.

“Even a headless chicken can provide entertainment from time to time.” Lobo admits, rolling his eyes. Though the reds of his eyes glowed in the blacklight, the blacks shine with his pink flames, an inferno caught in his gaze.

Lobo waves a paw. An opening within the torrent of fire reveals itself, giving a straight shot to the statue of Ptolisomn Descolious. Heat manifesting goosebumps across your arms, xylophones and trumpets bouncing off your ribs and beating against your chest. A giddiness, a fire burning in and out. You both grip your hammers.

“One?” You wind up your legs square your shoulders.

“Two.” Lobo’s ears fold back with his fanged smile.

“Three!”
“Three.”

The combined force of both of your kicks leaves a gaping hole where you leapt. But in your mind, you know Lobo was holding back his strength. All those other times he smeared across your vision, cleaving reality itself, and this is the time where both your speeds align.

Breaking the surface of the sea of flames your fire roars, crackling with the rest of the world. Above your head your weapon ignites, a meteor burning in your hands bringing apocalypse to the Holy Order. You howl in absolute triumph as your and Lobo’s prey is none the wiser until, flaming jaws of death close their vice grip together.

K R A K O O O M

Cracks explode across the Holy King’s body, fractals upon fractals of destruction. King Descolious’ legs can no longer support the weight of his self-imposed duty. And so he falls, lumbering forwards as his own armor bisects the upper and lower halves of his body. Fire crawls into his veins, marble hissing and popping as it all heats up and air bubbles within continue to expedite his demise. No sword to act as a crutch, no shield to brace his fall, his armor reduced to scrap, he alone remains. And the human body, whether it be flesh or marble, is a fragile thing.

When he hits the ground and explodes into non-existence, you remember to cover your mouth so his body parts don’t fly into your mouth.

Both your and Lobo’s landing grinds Descolious’ form further into dust under your heels, puffing more dust into the air. Pink fire burns from within the mountain of rubble, embers consuming a fired log. Nothing recognizable remains. You inhale deep, holding your burning meteor aloft.

“RRRRAEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH–ooop!!”

As it turns out, belching a victory screech atop a pile of rubble does not provide much for support. Some slips out underneath your foot and you slip too far backwards. One grey paw, however, catches your wrist before you fall flat on your ass after your big moment. As expected the Grim Reaper shows no signs of exertion or being impressed after such a mighty feat as yours. But he looks into your eyes with a playful fondness wearing a different type of smile. Not a teasing smirk, cocky grin, pursed lips of respect. Just a smile. A warm smile.

Body coated in grime, hair an even bigger mess than usual and clothes coated with little tears, you grin back.

FWEET FWEET FWEET!

A shrill sound of a whistle rattles the two of you out of your moment together. Through the fog of destruction Dionysus emerges, hopping and skipping up the cumulation of your work. Each hop up the pile gives another fweet, a wood carved whistle resting between his lips. His eyes glow through the fog, and they don’t look happy.

“Uh, h-hey D!” You nervously wave. “Sorry, we may have gotten a little bit carried away, haha.”

Fweet. The goat stomps to a stop in front of the wolf, fists planted on his sides. “Pleh. Fuilana, I’m glad you had fun. But I can’t ignore what happened up there with you plus one.”

The smile dims, his eyes go flat. “Great. Let’s get this over with then.”

Your wrist slips out of Lobo’s, releasing you onto the pile. The embers within the mound and out have been snuffed out. You sigh, surprised and yet not at all.

“All those flames. I did not authorize that in the slightest.” Dio swirls a finger in the air. Around you the fog begins to swirl upwards, some previously unseen ventilation now kicking into gear. “You might be used to throwing hellfire around in your line of work, but this is my realm and you could have seriously hurt someone!”

“Did you not say earlier that you established protections to ensure those things didn’t happen?” Lobo straightens his back and leans his head forward. “I assumed it would be okay to sprinkle some more excitement into this event, enjoy myself.”

“And that enjoyment requires you to spray fire directly in the path of my Relivers?” Dionysus gestures to a crowd of shadows surrounding the base of the rubble with the exasperation of a parent yelling to others to think of their children. “No. No what was I thinking, of course that’s what you consider fun, hahaha. Why did I even think otherwise?”

“Are you aware of how one of those Relivers of yours was treating everyone else? Or were you only focused on me?”

“Don’t change the subject, YOU are supposed to know better!”

You sigh. Right back at it again. You’re disappointed, but feeling silly at yourself for being so in the first place. You slide down the pile.

To your relief, the crowd at the bottom of the world’s most uncomfortable slip and slide seem much more eager to focus on the fun. The moment you touch ground Brulo SMACKS your back and pulls you close. You are quite thankful your pain bracelet is set to off with how tightly your shoulders squeeze together.

“Young lady. That was, perhaps, the most magnificent piece a’ destruction work I’ve eva’ seen!” He cheers rocking you both from side to side. “Technique combined with a raw destructive power, and a brilliant use of pyrotechnics! It was… it was beautiful.”

“Thanks Mr. Brulo sir, it was an amazing time! But… are you crying?”

“No! Maybe… who said I can’t, hah?!” He sniffs, lower lip quivering. “Is it not human ta feel moved by beautiful works of art?”

“Human ain’t the right word I feel.” Amora’s presence dwarfs yours and Brulo’s as she stomps up to you both. In the dust clouds above you can only see the glow of her eyes from the flickering candles and some part of you is scared that you may have stolen some sort of experience away from her. But then she squats down and meets you face to face (perhaps helped by Brulo lifting you in his side-hug) and in her eyes there is a sparkle of excitement. “But the old man’s right about one thing Lana. That was righteous.”

“O-oh! Really?” You giggle, a touch embarrassed. “You thought I looked cool, doing all that?”

“It was lycan, all that work you did!” Amora’s fluffy tail coated in grime wags behind her. “Pure destructive instinct taking over, embracing your inner fire and mauling your enemy into complete disfiguration! And that howl? Haunting, gutteral. My pack back in the living world would’ve LOVED it! In fact, if you had a bit of fur, fangs and a tail? You’d fit right in~”

Amora’s suggestion smacks you flat across your cheek and claws up the sides of your mouth and oh did Lobo turn back on the flames again?“hahaha you uh, you really think so?”

“Down girl.” Pelinae bats the wolf’s arm playfully with the back of her hand. “Grace her with a moment to breathe before pouncing like that.”

“Oh, would you rather me pounce on you instead~?” Amora creeps her snout closer to her partner, fangs bared against her neck. Pelinae snorts and pushes her snout away.

“Human or not, that truly was impressive Miss Cortez.” Pelinae wipes some slobber away on the inside of her toga. “Though your technique needed improvement, I can see now why you are El Lobo de la Muerte’s Mortem. Even if it wasn’t fully intentional from either of you.”

That catches your attention. “Yeah. It wasn’t. How did you…?”

“El Lobo de la Muerte is not the only god that visits Lord Dionysus’ realm. I asked some questions to the occasional boar and deer at the right time, then lo and behold the truth came to light naturally.” She smiles, holding her arms while looking up to her god. “I owe everything to my Lord. But he often has a flair for the dramatic.”

A strange sense of relief comes over you. Dio’s story wasn’t bad for you by any means, but that crowd cheering for your arrival wasn’t the welcome you fully wanted. But Pelinae’s doing her research – really, all three of these people – recognizing you outside of your relationship with Lobo? It’s comforting.

But then a fact finally clicks. Three people.

“Hey, where are Gretir and Dustgale?” You look around. Most of the dust has cleared because of Dionysus’ spell and they’re nowhere to be seen.

“Ah, that numbskulls’ pants get all up in a twist when things don’t go ‘is way.” Brulo rubs the mass of his beard where his chin should be. “Prolly stormed off to complain an’ get into somebody else’s pants in the pleasure lounge.”

“Heh, if he can find anyone that’d even be willing.” Amora stands back to her full height and stretches. “I’ve been in there myself when he tried to get a taste and nobody there wanted to even touch him. He bitched and moaned about it until I had the pleasure of kicking ‘em out. He’s getting drunk if I had to guess.”

But the doors to the workshop are still closed. One look behind Amora confirms that. And that doesn’t explain where Dustgale is. Under normal circumstances you would much rather be as far away from him as possible, but Lobo remembered him with distaste. And Dustgale not being here sets a sinking feeling–

–kkrk–

Your ears perk at the sound. A new sound, buried underneath the gods’ arguing and the shifting rubble of the statue. Glass breaking? Neither Dio nor Lobo seem to pay it any mind. But Amora does, her ears rising as she suddenly stands up straight.

“Amora dear? Is something–”

“Shh.” Amora closes her eyes, raising her ears up as high as they can go. You would do the same, if your ears could move at all. It’s difficult to hear anything under the two’s argument bouncing off all the walls, but even still you focus.

–ccrkk.

Again you hear it, faintly but certainly within the room. But it doesn’t sound like glass. It’s closer to something else. Metal? It feels familiar, paired with a sudden dread deep in your gut.

Amora nudges you aside as she quickens her pace around the statue remains. She points back to you all, full seriousness resting on her face. “You three, check that side. Now.”

Pelinae and Brulo begin to stutter out questions, but you don’t hesitate. You break away and start running. Lobo told you to keep an eye on Gretir for a reason.

Jogging over large piles of crumpled marble with boots is painless, but it doesn’t stop it from taking time. Your half of the room has little to no open floor space to get around and is littered with large fragments of rock you have to squeeze past in order to move forward. The deeper you delve the more clearly you can hear the noise. A repeated and slow impact. Thump, thump, thump. Mixed in between them all is that familiar crack.

After forcing your way between two halves of the King Lord’s mountainous bicep you spot a jerk of movement. A muscled arm rising up behind a chunk of the shield you broke off, then slamming downwards. Thump, followed by a crack.

Tearing sheet metal.

You throw yourself forward and sprint towards Gretir and Dustgale. Right as you round the corner Gretir’s arm rises once again and you move to grab it but just as quickly you are swatted away. One slap sends you flying several feet and landing on your back. Has he always been this strong?!

“Let him go!!” You yell and fight to climb back up to your feet. All the shards poke against your back like blades of grass.

Gretir doesn’t even look back to acknowledge you. He raises his fist again and punches Dustgale across the snout. Crack.

You can see the dragon better from the ground. The bottom half of his body is crushed under the statue’s rubble, but no blood dribbles out. Wing membranes are torn, the wounds shimmering in the light. He holds up a claw to try and fend Gretir off, but it folds easily. Dustgale makes no noise with each impact, no doubt as a result of the green pain nullification band (what a mercy). But more than that, his jaw is wide open. Permanently open. Back and forth he bobs his head as if to spit something out, but nothing does.

Gretir punches Dustgale again as you clamor to your feet. Crack! One of the dragon’s horns is torn away, a hammer chiseling away at a statue. Where bone and membrane would poke out you are met instead with something far different: burning dark orange shards, fractals of breaking glass folding continuously onto one another. A few splinter outwards, fragments of broken ice flowing in a river, but none fall out. It’s the same color as the torn membrane of his wings.

As confused as you are you don’t have time to speculate. Scooping a cup of marble in your hands you run to the side and fling the shards into Gretir’s face. He barely flinches. The pain nullification bracelet shines bright on his wrist. Another punch. Crack!! Metallic armor is split in two.

Why haven’t Lobo or Dionysus noticed this yet?! Enough bullshit. You breathe deep and cup your hands. “LOBO, DIO, GET BACK H–“

THWACK!!! A dull numbness sprouts across your face and you go flying to the opposite wall. Your head forms a crater. Your mind is crystal clear but that doesn’t help you stand back up any faster.

The ground thumping and shaking signals Amora’s arrival before she tosses aside one of the statue fragments. Brulo and Pelinae manage to squeeze through the tight passage you went through at the same time. Gretir, who was fully turned away from the weak and struggling dragon, looks around and realizes his hideaway has been fully discovered. But he doesn’t run. With spite and apathy, he turns to the dragon as he is rushed from all sides. Dustgale, weak, can only stare back.

“The moment you became their leader, the Du–”

Before you can reach Gretir; before Amora in her righteous fury can maul him; before Brulo and Pelinae can shout to stop; before Gretir can even finish his sentence. The world around you explodes.

BOOM!!! Marble is shot in every direction from one central point near Gretir. Even with the green bracelet active you shield your face from the monolithic impact. It was as if the power of an entire mountain was concentrated into a single point and struck the earth. And yet when you open your eyes, your body is perfectly clean. Almost pristine, in fact.

The same cannot be said of Gretir. Your comparison of the mountainous strike was perfectly accurate. Hulking over the warrior, hooves carving valleys into the floor with a hand over his mouth, is Dionysus. They face away from you, but a deep purple glow radiates from his eyes. Toga fluttering from the rapid change in air pressure and hair flowing, an aura of pressure surrounds the god. The air crackles with energy, a near-miasma of sugary wine filling the air.

Gretir clutches the paw covering his mouth, somehow more offended than scared, staring at Dionysus’ clenched fist. Everyone only looks on, making no effort to move. Lobo stands at the top of the pile, his features indiscernible.

And then, the moment passes. Dionysus breathes out, the glow recedes. His hair rests once more at his shoulders. He looks at the man who assaulted Dustgale with a look of pity. “We can’t do this anymore, Gretir.”

Gretir claws at Dionysus’ to release their grip on him, digging fingernails into his fur between their red pain bracelet. Dionysus does not react to it.

Taking care to circle a wide radius around the god Pelinae rushes to Dustgale’s side to dig him out of the rubble. But perhaps from the impact, perhaps from whatever spell Dionysus invoked to fix you up, the mountain imprisoning him is no more. As if a slice was cut from a cake and lifted away. But the spell that fixed your surface level wounds didn’t extend to the dark orange fractals and shattered horn.

With Pelinae at his side he finally croaks and wretches. A torn scrap of the robe Dustgale was wearing is thrown up. You feel sick.

“Mm mmrmm mn mmph.” Gretir forces out between Dionysus’ grasp, barely sounding that serious.

“Maybe he wasn’t in pain. But we both know what would have happened if you finished that sentence.” Dionysus looks tired. “I have tried for decades upon decades to show you that our world doesn’t work like yours. That you don’t have to do these cruel things anymore. But you don’t listen. You… never listened.”

Amora is at your side, helping you up with her large paws. For her size and general demeanor she is surprisingly soft when she wants to be. “Any cracks?” She whispers.

“I… no.” You give her a glance before looking back to Dustgale. “What happened…?”

The wolf huffs, her eyes held back as she glares at Gretir. “A killphrase. He already beat down Dusty that much to the point of fracture. If Gretir kept talking… he would’ve been gone.”

Several new words on your platter now. But gazing into the spiraling fractals within Dustgale’s horns, the meaning dawns upon you. The sound of metal tearing and cracking. Dave the Profimancer let out that same sound as he burned within Lobo’s flames. He continued to suffer within there as long as Lobo wanted, until the wolf spoke. ‘I will not remember you.’ And then he was gone. Just a few, simple words.

You realize just how close you were from witnessing an assault turn to murder. And suddenly feel very, very fragile.

“Roughhousing between friends is fine. The occasional bar fight? Fine. I thought you were doing better, thought this would help you manage your… tendencies.” Dionysus lifts Gretir up by the mouth as if he were weightless. “But I warned you last time. No more excuses. For either of us.”

Dionysus raises a single finger on his other hand, then traces a finger down Gretir’s right arm covered in wristbands. All three snap away, cut perfectly clean down the middle.

Gretir’s muffled screams of rage fill the room He kicks his god’s chest and pounds against his grasp with a blind fury you thought only belonged to a man who watched another kill his family. Each hit, however, lessens in impact. What starts as a battering ram crashing against the gates to a castle turn into a hammer against a boulder, turning into firm knocks on a door. Before your eyes Gretir’s bulk shrinks away back into himself, turning the warrior from a mass of muscle into… a still decently muscular man. Just not as much as before.

“MMPH MMRMMN MMNRNPH RRPHHRRR!! MMPH MN MRN MRRPN MRRP MRPHRHRMNMN MPHRM?!”

“I… I’m sorry. I can’t anymore.” Dionysus, genuine sorrow in his voice, snaps his fingers. A perfectly circular hole in reality opens in front of him into what appears to be a simple empty bedroom. Decently furnished, but certainly not lavish like the rooms of this palace. “Stay here, think about what you’ve done. We’ll talk later.”

With the delicacy of a child placing his favorite stuffed animal onto a bed, Dionysus lifts Gretir through the portal and onto the ground. He tumbles back with a grunt of pain. The god pulls his hand back, steps away, then lifts up his fingers. Gretir scrambles towards the portal, animalistic rage bleeding from every pore of his face. “I HATE YO–”

Dionysus snaps his fingers. The hole vanishes. Gretir is gone.

For many long moments the room is silent. You watch as the God of Good Times closes his eyes, pinches his nose, and breathes with an exhaustion of an eighty year old man. Gretir was horrible and those insults rolled right over you, but he seems genuinely affected by them. “Fifth one this decade… What am I doing wrong…?”

Amora, after growling good riddance to the maniac, finishes helping you up to your feet. Brulo awkwardly rubs his arm. Dustgale keeps his head low in shame.

Pelinae raises her hand and breaks the silence. “Um, my lord?”

Dionysus remembers that other people exist in this room and turns towards the two Relivers. He straightens his back up nice and high.

“R-right! Dustgale my deepest apologies for what happened, I should have been more focused.” The god briskly walks to the dragon and rubs his cheek to comfort him. Pelinae gives them both of the fractured horns, to which Dionysus places them back in their proper spots like a puzzle piece. A muttered chant and a delicate touch later, the horns are reattached and his wings are patched up. Glimmers of dark orange continue to seep through the cracks, however. “Get some rest for now, let your fractures mend. Would you like me to manifest charcoal fired Chidurkey for you back in your room?”

Lobo, having watched the entire scene unfold from up high, walks down the mound. He sheathes his sickles (you never realized that he had them out in the first place) on his way down and as he passes Dionysus comforting Dustgale. You hear him whisper as he passes by Dionysus.“The problem was that you chose him.”

The goat glares while he passes, as does Pelinae. Dustgale croaks with his tail tucked between his legs and Dionysus returns their focus to him. “Yes, I can do that. Good times be with you.”

With a wave of Dionysus’ hand a portion of the rubble mountain shifts and churns. A hole appears that is just Dustgale’s size. The other side leads out into a wide open starlit field, wind rustling tall blades of grass and lifting fireflies out from their hiding place. A gust of that wind flows through. It smells natural, fresh. But if it’s a part of Dionysus’ realm you wonder how true that is.

You look past the wolf to Dustgale creeping into the hole, to some semblance of home and comfort built just for him. But not before he looks your way and chirps a gentle trill. A thank you, perhaps? You don’t know. He slinks through the hole and into flowing grass before the hole closes behind him.

“You okay perrita?” Lobo asks when he arrives, little concern in his voice. Amora backs off when he arrives. They trade glares as Amora leaves to rejoin with

You know the reason why is because he say Dionysus’ spell take place and he can see the green bracelet on your wrist. But it takes effort to put a smile on your face. “Yeah. I’m alright.”

Dionysus breathes in deeeeep then claps his hands. More than one of you all jump as Dionysus turns to you. “Okay! That may not have been the best introduction to how we do things here. But I hope you’ll understand that was the exception and not the rule, Fuilana.”

“It was definitely a little… much, at the end there.” You crook your neck to the side as you admit that part. “But it was still a great time. Thanks for hosting this Brulo.”

The hardy man gets his mojo back from your compliment, shooting a crisp thumbs-up your way.

“There are plenty of other events we have planned for tonight too! Definitely not as destructive as our little crash convention here, but I feel we all need a cool down regardless, don’t you think?”

Lobo says nothing but you can feel his eyes on you. He’s not going to bother going through your usual song and dance of yes and no. Whether he wants to admit it or not he was smiling wide during your rally together. It was both of your choices to be here, and there’s still time before Lobo has to resume his reaping. And there are other pieces of this realm you still want to do some experimenting with.

“Yeah. Something a bit more calm sounds great right now.” You hold your hands and lace your fingers together behind your back. “We can’t let one asshole ruin the entire night, can we? Otherwise he wins.”

Dio tries to hide it, but you spot his ears starting to slide backwards before snapping back to the upright position. “Great! I have a few ideas in mind. This time I’ll show you the options, and then you can choose. That sound good for you both?”

Lobo waves a paw along. No doubt interested to see how much more of a disaster Dionysus’ realm will turn out to be. “Lead the way.”

Dionysus leads and you both follow. Brulo salutes you both off as he grabs a broom and dustpan (how many times does he do this per day?). Pelinae and Amora both wave goodbye with warm smiles beamed your way. It doesn’t take any effort to return that right back to them.

You watch as you round the corner, Brulo begin his cleaning by sweeping up Gretir’s colored wristbands. They’re all sliced in half, but still retain their colors. Purple for inebriation, blue for bodily changes, and green for pain nullification.

Hands behind your back, you pinch your middle orange wristband between your fingers. Making sure you don’t forget its location.

Chapter Text

[Drawn by TheGalleonsNest on Tumblr]
[https://www.tumblr.com/thegalleonsnest/773584737660960768/commission-for-twilightprince101-a-take-on?source=share]

As the God of Revelry had promised, his realm is eternally accommodating for those who step foot inside. But even still, those accommodations are quite beyond what you could have expected.

In a literal sense, any activity could be considered a “cool-down” compared to the wreck-a-statue-with-sledgehammers party where you almost witnessed a murder. But the energy you’re met with when you walk into the Descolius Royal Wardrobe was unmatched: at least a dozen, maybe two dozen different Relivers giving enthusiastic and playful greetings upon your arrivals. Many are quite literally buried under extravagant and frilly-looking clothes; others were tearing that same clothing apart for refitting, helping themselves to the royal stash. Dionysus explains to them all that you and Lobo are first-time guests, and as first-time guests, you deserve some souvenirs to take home for yourselves.

Almost immediately a small swarm ushers both you and Lobo deeper in, bringing over gowns and cloaks to try on and doing their best to compliment your ragged and tired features. While you aren’t normally one to worry about having “presentable looking clothes” (a regular tavern once patron asked if you needed money because your outfits were always wrinkled and stained), you won’t deny that you’ve been in the market for a wardrobe change. The fabrics are pristine with intricate patterns and silky smooth lining. You aren’t going to wear high heels or a corset anytime soon, but the poofy part of a ballgown could make for an excellent blanket.

Relivers try their best to recommend Lobo different accessories and makeup that could pair with his bringer of death look, but that proves a challenge all its own when the wolf hosts a presentation at the flammability of the average royal wardrobe. Suits, wigs, makeup, they all became fuel for his little light show. Dio objects to the fact that he’s scaring some of the Mortems, but Lobo teases back at how he’s allowed to “do whatever we wanted” with his souvenirs. While you’re a little frustrated at his continuous teasing of Dio, you won’t deny that the surprise bonfire is a fun sight. You toss a dress or two yourself.

Dio, biting his tongue, digs through the outfits and throws on some of the fancy clothes, waving around a foldable fan. Seeing them do so, Relivers follow suit into their own suits and release their best hoity-toity rich person laughs. With every “ooh hoh hoh!” a louder “OOOH HOH HOH!!” comes not long after. Clearly some sort of inside joke game they’ve done before. One particularly energetic girl bends backwards to screech and cackle as loud as she could. Dionysus waves you over, trying to get you to join in and have some fun. Though you appreciate the gesture and would jump at the chance to spit on a rich person’s grave, having over two dozen people’s eyes on you didn’t help your performance too much.

When you walk away from it all you hold your arms wide to carry a small collection of dresses, bracelets, necklaces and tunics. Lobo stuffs them all into a pocket space in his cloak to save on time (you knew that he could hold a lot, but watching him drag dress after dress into the void of his clothes is a little hypnotizing). As much as he tried to play it off, you could see a few extra items of his own getting transported back home.

A breather sufficiently taken, Dionysus re-suggests one of the activities from the start of the night. Six minutes later, Dio ushers you both into the grand ballroom as Relivers lock arms and swing each other around for the folk dancing meetup.

The venue does its duty well, projecting the whistling flutes and wailing violins across its painted marble floor. Every note the band conjures flies and soars through the hall like the wind through the trees on a bright spring morning. Dio mentions that the band used to be a traveling caravan, bringing revelry wherever they went until they entered a batch of fey woods, where they became fey themselves. Whoever they are, seeing, hearing and feeling a band in person again is something you make sure to not take for granted.
[https://youtu.be/n8i_IH5b7HM?si=YX2W6v0mmnUz6u74]

Tragically, enjoying the song and moving to the rhythm are two very different things. Dancing is a fun outlet from time to time but you rarely do so with a partner. Your skirt and boots work well for twirling and stomping but the legs attached to those boots prove themselves uncooperative. There are just too many steps to fully jump into: spin clockwise with elbows locked, the other way, back again, then groups of four spin in a circle but only if they’re in the middle, make an archway for people to run through – it’s a lot to memorize, and you keep on disrupting the flow and stepping on people’s toes.

The God of Revelry, graciously, is quick to help your two left feet issue. They slip in and grab your hands, leading you in for every new move in the dance. His hoofed steps on stone make loud clops, which helps to keep track of the beat of the crowd. Dionysus sticks with you for a few go arounds of the dance, not even complaining as you step on his hooves for the sixth time. Your skirt flutters wide with every spin and your own hair bounces against your shoulders with each skip and hop, and though your stomach clenches with the occasional misstep, Dionysus rubs his furred fingers across your palms to help ground you again.

Lobo, during all of this, lurks off in the shadows of one of the pillars. Try as you might, that wolf could not be convinced to dance. You can feel his glare as Dionysus makes it a point to pair up with you.

Once you’ve gotten a grasp of the routine, he pairs you off with one of his Mortems, who is more than accommodating for you. You actually manage to keep up well with the others, surprisingly well! You hop and leap and skip like your boots are working all on their own, twirling the night away. It is around this point, however, that the graceful folk dance starts to become congested, people suddenly stopping or moving out of their usual circles. Mostly due in part to a certain wolf, simply introducing himself toe the dance floor. Relivers back away, uncomfortable at their sudden reunion with the reaper.

The dance gets called off not long after due to too many people leaving. And your boots, even without a partner, keep moving on their own. He catches you as a light purple sparkle you hadn’t noticed before is dispelled, and your feet are your own again.

Redness flushes to you face and you ask to go somewhere else. Dionysus, grumbling while glaring at the wolf, obliges.

“–and her choice to stay with Aria despite knowing she’d be afflicted by the curse too?!” You cheer and nearly spill your cup of water across the table as you gesticulate. “Oh my god, how do you write stuff like that it’s so good!”

“I know, right?! And it makes sense, because Aria was the one who inspired Sylvain in the first place, helped her find purpose after losing her ability to paint.” Dionysus nods gleefully across the table, pointing and definitely spilling wine on the table (which magically cleans itself up seconds later). “They gave each other their new purpose!”

“Uuuugghhhh, sooo gooood...” You lean your head back and take a long breath after gushing about Requiem for an Earthen Heart for almost twenty minutes straight. “And all of that was ONE BOOK! I need to read the rest of that guy’s work, I don’t think I’ve cried from a book since… man, when I was nine?”

“I’ll pass that along, I’m sure ‘Nansi would be glad to lend you some more of his stuff.” Dio takes another sip from his glass, then tips it to the reaper, who is sitting at your side at the dinner table. “What did you think of it, Muerte?”

“I didn’t read it.” Lobo picks at some of the food of his own, Kalderetang kambing, while sitting on your left. He just sits and listens to the stories, keeping a trained eye on Dio’s behavior for any sort of foul play.

“I keep telling you, you’d enjoy it if you gave it a chance.” You lightly knock against Lobo’s elbow. “It’s sad, the world is depressing, but it’s got really good characters in it.”

“Sorry to burst your bubble perrita, but that comes from a special genre called reality.”

You roll your eyes with a huff, shoving grilled vegetables in your mouth. You know he’d enjoy it if he weren’t so stuborn.

As to be expected in an afterlife dedicated to decadence, the banquet hall is stuffed to the brim with Relivers stuffing their face with food. Tables upon tables with lace cloths and gilded ceramic plates, repurposed into the world’s largest all-you-can-eat buffet. Trays of glistening and savory smelling meals from countless cultures decorate each table. Some type of noodle dish steeped in broth and herbs, crispy flaky bread bites filled with meat, fried dough balls stuffed with potatoes and spices and countless more. And when one tray is empty, a flash of purple glitter fills it right back up. Along the back, casks of every type of drink there is to think of are stacked on the fancy tables, making them buckle from weight.

You stab your fork into one of the veggie-filled dough balls. You had grabbed a small collection of whatever you could, with Dio passing over samples to try. Before you knew it your plate was the size of a mountain. With the generosity of a queen, you allow Lobo to steal food off your plate to help finish it off.

Dionysus takes a big bite out of what appears to be a berry-cream drizzled over a pie. “Rrr vvp y’vve b’n nnjyyng ryffelf?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah, definitely.” You nod, lifting up broth-soaked noodles with your fork. “This food is amazing, especially whatever this is. Maybe I could take some of this home? I’d love to try and make some myself.”

“Mmn?” Dionysus gulps and wipes some of the sauce from his cheek. “Oh, absolutely. We can give you a box or two. But what I meant was, have you been having fun here? Both of you?” The god waggles his fork in both of your directions.

“It was about what I expected.” Lobo says bluntly, taking a bit without even looking in his direction. He refuses to elaborate.

“It’s been really fun!” You smile. The two’s bickering has been getting on your nerves a little bit, but… “The food, the gifts, meeting all these people. This is the kind of thing I always wished I could go to when I was alive. Things were a little rocky at the start, but I really appreciate this Dio. I even have some people I have some other people to talk to when Lobo is out.”

“I hope you’re not saying I’ll let my realm become a hot spot for these people.” Lobo looks to the wall of casks, watching a living slime pour alcohol into itself from the tap, its consistency becoming more slick and slimy. “I already have enough people coming and going as it is.”

“You mean your sister and myself?” You bite your lip and ask. Dave doesn’t count, he’s a normal factor in Lobo’s life. “It’s only a few people, Lobo. You’re not going to walk back one day and find a dozen dudes making out on your bed.”

“You’ve only just met these people. Say what you will, but give one of these irresponsible children a key and they’ll share it with everyone else.”

“Muerte, I’ll have you know that many of my Relivers indulge themselves responsibly and are mindful of other people’s limits.” Dionysus pipes up. “Also why do you have to do a background check on who Fuilana can and cannot spend time with? You’re not her father.”

Lobo opens his mouth, but then stuffs it with food before he lets another insult slip. You hold in the grimace. While the assist was kind, Dionysus keeps on stoking the flames and their satisfied sipping of wine isn’t helping either.

“Regardless Fuilana, I’m happy that you’ve met new people here. Nobody likes a one-man party, and loneliness is the worst form of starvation. You’re welcome back here any time.” Dionysus raises his cup for a toast.

You reach for your own mug of water, finding yourself bracing for a retort from the wolf that doesn’t come. He’s holding his tongue for your sake. But would Lobo allow your own coming and going? Both of the gods have a clearly thorny history that has been continuously scraping against your night tonight. Not to mention that Lobo made an active effort to push Dio away. There is a very real possibility that, out of spite or protection, Lobo would shut off this new connection you’ve made the moment you both return to The Mist. He’s already done that before with the mirror.

‘No.’ You rub a thumb over your skirt’s cat. ‘Dio has been on good behavior tonight, following Lobo’s rule. And the two of us have been getting along better. Lobo might hate Dionysus, but he’s been more understanding lately. He wouldn’t do that.’

You tap your mug against Dio’s wine glass, savoring the smooth, cold water against your lips. Tastes like fresh springwater, just a slight tinge of earthiness from the grass and stones it would have washed against.

“Well. I can’t say it was a fun time,” Lobo swallows the last bite of curry and wipes his snout, “but you did the bare minimum to be expected. We both should be going soon, I have get back to my responsibilities.”

“Yeah yeah, go make the Styx and swim in it Muerte.” Dionysus rolls his eyes. “I’ll make sure to add the corpses of the lords for you to cut up with as party favors at the next venue.”

“You don’t worry about me, kid. I’ve had my fill of your realm for this century. You won’t see me ‘terrorizing your innocent addicts’ in your realm unless I can help it.” Lobo pushes his chair out and stands up. Oh gods, an unspoken social cue. Do you both have to go right now? All of the noise around you has been a bit chaotic, but can’t you stay five more minutes?

“Mm. Well, can’t say I didn’t try.” Dionysus shrugs indifferently and takes another sip with eyes closed. “You at least want me to bring a certain wine to the banquet this year? I’m catering.”

“Don’t bother.” Lobo wipes some crumbs off his cloak.

“Mmph, B’nquet? What banquet?” You ask, shoveling another bite of the stuffed dough into your mouth. It sounds familiar, but you can’t quite place it.

Dionysus peeks an eye open, eyebrow raised. “What? You know, the Centennial Banquet? The one Life is designing the hall for?”

“Oh, that one. I thought that was something for their own Mortems.” Vida had brought up the topic here and there, but she always seemed so stressed about it so you didn’t want to add onto that. “Did she also invite the both of you?”

Not for the first time tonight, Dionysus’ eyes widen and spark with a purple shimmer. The god leans forward and rests the mug back on the table, astonished. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?” You lower your fork down to your plate and sit up. You’re about to turn and ask your roommate ‘Is it something important?’ But it’s then you notice: Lobo is frozen still, hands on his chest mid-wipe. In the split second before he recomposes himself, you catch his eyes staring down, wide. Caught.

“The banquet is a waste of time.” Lobo turns away. “I didn’t go all the previous times, I’m not coming this time. And neither is she.”

You recoil at Lobo’s sudden possessiveness. “Lobo, what–?”

“Muerte, are you serious?! Just how little are you telling this girl?” Dionysus slams his cup on the table and stands up, utterly baffled at your apparent lack of information.

“Apparently, not that much.” You interrupt the wolf before he speaks, looking the wolf up and down. “What sort of banquet is this?”

“One that The Nine has been doing even before it was The Nine.” Dionysus snaps his fingers and poofs his own food away to plant his elbows on the table. “Before I was even created. Back when everything wasn’t com–”

“It’s a dinner party.” Lobo cuts Dio off before they say whatever they were about to say. “One that we keep on doing for the sake of tradition and showing off mortals like a pet show. Stop trying to make it sound more important than it is.”

“Wow. Okay, I’ll make sure to let Life know you said that.” Dio recoils at the bile Lobo spits at him. Grey furred ears lower at the mention of Vida, but shoot back up as Lobo grips his cloak.

“The other gods will be there? And other mortals?” You look between them both. With how Lobo described the banquet it seems innocent enough, so why would he go out of his way to make sure you weren’t told about it? You know he doesn’t like talking about the rest of The Nine. But he’s actively stopping Dionysus from talking about it. Even now, he’s trying to keep things from you?

“All of The Nine, plus a small group of Mortems from each. It’s like a cultural exchange, each group giving a collection of gifts and presentations–”

“And self-proclaimed gods patting themselves on the back for things they didn’t do themselves.” Lobo interrupts again, a growl starting to rise out of his throat.

“You know, you give the rest of us a lot of heces for treating them like ‘pets,’ but at least we give them things to do and people to talk with instead of leaving them home alone all day!” Dio stands up from his stool and presses both of his palms against the table.

“Ooooooooh...”

Around the three of you, more and more Relivers overhear the godly squabble and go silent, listening in as to what has the God of Merriment so upset. All of their eyes on you digs deep pores into your stomach even though you’re not the one actively making a scene, talking about you as if you’re some little perrita…

…you push it aside for now.

“Ah, lo siento, how could I forget? Letting your pets run around with unfiltered access to magic and destroying themselves is much more responsible!”

“You were going to kill Fuilana over nothing! At least I actually clearly care about the people I brought here, listen to her interests. Can you even tell me what her three favorite foods are? ”

“I’m thought it’s already been made clear, since you all have been talking about us behind our backs: I did not want–”

You grab the reaper’s cloak before he finishes that train of thought. He turns, looking down at you with your own eyes trained on the table. Your voice is down to a whisper, not out of sadness but embarrassment. “Lobo. You don’t have to keep saying it.”

Inside his dark blood moons, something flashes: shame, yes, but something else. A recognition of something you don’t know. His balled fists loosen. The banquet hall buffet has gone entirely silent.

“…perrita, I’m–”

“There!!” Dionysus yells, his hands SLAM on the table. “Do you see Fuilana? He couldn’t even answer the question! All these years he’s given us feces for having Mortems, but at least we care about mortals in the first place!”

Grey fists tighten once more. The God of Death, fire burning in his eyes, rips himself out of your grasp and turns back to Dionysus. “¡No me importa como mucho tú tiene amor para su mascotas! Every last inch of this realm is to make yourself a savior! It’s nothing but self aggrandizing nonsense, for all of you! I should have ensured this concept was never possible from the start!”

You feel a wall slam down between you and the God of Death.

“Well considering how you treat any mortal, even one you claim to care about, sometimes that’s necessary! Mortals like her ”

“Grah, of course! This entire visit was so you could just save another helpless mortal and add her to your collection. Why did I even entertain this nonsense?!”

“I–!! –S-so what?! Fuilana deserves to live somewhere better, and your realm–!!”

“No, that’s it! I’m done with this circus!” Lobo bares his claws against his head, then turns back to where you were standing. “Fuilana, we’re leaving–!”

But you’re not standing in that spot anymore. Pushing past the audience of the godly screaming match, you’re marching out of the room and away from those two.

“Perrita–!”
“Ah baño, Fuilana–!”

As you dive back into the crowd in the hallways their voices are blotted out by the murmur of the crowd. You don’t want to listen to either of them right now. You’ve put up with their arguing and bickering the entire night and if you have to bear it for another second you’re going to punch someone. Even with the large amount of people roaming the halls you don’t bother trying to weave through, you just walk.

One night. Just one night socializing with other people, experiencing something new, without Lobo insulting you and having fun for a change; is that too much to ask? Apparently so, with how much Lobo keeps on twisting the knife. Sure, he’s using it against Dio now instead of you, but he keeps bringing up all of those mistakes! Sure, he’s right about you lying and making stupid choices behind his back, but he’s no better! You saw how shocked he looked, how he kept Dionysus from explaining the banquet, and the moment he gets caught he snaps like YOU did something wrong?! How many more times are you going to have to hear him clarify that you were a mistake?!

Dionysus isn’t innocent in this either. He invited you here, gave you this space to socialize, but making their argument into a show like that with all of his Relivers watching? Even when you clearly didn’t want to be there anymore? And apparently, haha, all of this was so he could whisk you away across a river of honey and ukoy~! But he’s been just as antagonizing to the wolf in return, causing even more trouble! Is that why? Did he plan all of this to spite a god he hadn’t even talked to in who knows how long? Was all of his politeness to you just out of spite to Lobo?!

Somewhere in the wake of your stomping you hear a commotion build, someone calling your name. One, maybe both of the gods. You pick up the pace and push your way through people and doors, you don’t want to talk to either of them right now, you just want some gods-damned space to think–

“Hey! Watch it!” You try to push another party-goer out of the way but are quickly swatted backwards by a furred forearm. “I almost spilled my ch– Lana?”

As you regain your balance and are snapped out of your haze, the figure before you becomes recognizable. It’s Amora. Holding a few bowls of assorted snacks in her arms and a drink in her paw. Her ears were back and heckles raised, but upon recognition she stops, switching from anger to immediate concern while looking you over.

“Miss Cortez, is something the matter?” Pelinae is right behind her, with a plate of food for herself. She looks down at your hands, curled into fits that you hadn’t realized you made.

“Uh, hey! You two!” You try to wipe away the rage from your face for what you’re going to ask next. “Do you want to, uh, do something? Go somewhere? Maybe right now, away from here?”

Pelinae comes closer, inspecting your burning face and haggard breathing. But Amora’s ears flick and she looks down the corner that you emerged from. More sounds of bickering and arguing draw closer with soft footsteps and clopping hooves. Her expression becomes serious as she tosses several bowls to the floor to shatter, then grabs your hand.

“This way.”

Amora breaks into a wide stride that is difficult for you to keep up with, nearly dragging you down the halls with Pelinae jogging behind. Hall after hall you twist and wind down, the voices of the two gods getting farther and farther, until the three of you abruptly come to a stop and you slam into her broad back. Right in front of a closed door.

Amora raises a fist. Knoknoknoknok knock knoknock. Then with a BANG she shoves the door open without even turning the handle into a very dimly lit room, the smell of rosewater and something sweet wafting through. Pelinae hurries in and waves you through.

Far away you hear Lobo calling your name. You enter the room and Amora closes it behind you.

Outside, in the rest of the mansion, the areas were well lit with numerous candles and light spells and other magical artifacts like eternally burning curtains. In this room, wherever it is, your eyes struggle to adjust with the darkness. Amora brushes past you carefully and you can only see the general shape of the giant wolfess when she walks by.

“I hope you don’t mind the mess,” Pelinae says, somewhere deeper in. “Amora and myself were out getting refreshments for some… private time, when we ran into you. I promise it isn’t normally like this.”

“I’ll grab a chair for ya hon, hang on…” Wood skirting and scratching along the floor, then FWUMPED right next to you. That honey smell is suddenly even stronger. Amora leads you with a paw and allows you to sit down. There’s some sort of cloth on the chair, it’s almost, furry?

“Is there something you need? Water, a blanket? Food?” Pelinae asks. Something rustles in a ceramic bowl close to you.

“Um… if it isn’t too much trouble, a bit of light?” You ask, squinting as hard as you can.

Both of the moving shadows stop in place. You can feel their eyes on you.

“Can she not…?”
“Ah, right. She doesn’t have darkvision.”
“Then, can she not see your–?”
“Doesn’t seem like it.”
“Oh, oh thank goodness. My apologies Miss Cortez, I’ll just…”

All around you there is a flurry of claps and snaps and poofs of magical energy across the room. Whatever furry thing you were holding disappears in your grasp, the honeyed scent vanishing with it. Five seconds and a clap clap later, small orbs of light flash from Pelinae’s hands and shoot across the scene.

Amora, going off of her knocking on the door, has brought you to her bedroom. Everything here is scaled for royalty, which was to be expected given who sits on them. The bed alone is probably three queens stacked together, draped with a deep wine-red blanket and curtains, which is finished being properly folded by Pelinae when you register it. Her clothes are strewn across the room, thin-fitting for her but close to a blanket for you. A dresser does exist, but is overflowing with other accessories and knick-knacks like bracelets, pine cones, some clothes that look closer to Pelinae’s style. Whatever space is not filled by containers of snacks and drinks are covered with portraits, paintings, and – oh, you’ve heard about these being invented in Far Far Away recently – photographs of Amora and Pelinae together. Though there are a number of holes punched into the walls and claw marks here and there.

The room gives you a similar impression to the ransacked castle party venue outside: a well-furnished place overtaken by something that has claimed it to be her own.

Pelinae sits in a chair next to yours while Amora hops onto the raised bed across from you, dangling her feet off the sides. She grabs one of the bowls of fries and offers them to you, but you shake your head. You already had your fill today.

“So what did we catch you in the middle of out there?” Amora raises a leg up. “Lovers quarrel?”

“Don’t.” You grumble, nestling deeper into the sofa-sized chair. You take a pillow offered by Pelinae and shove your face into it. “I don’t wanna think about either of those two right now.”

In the plushness of the pillow you can hear Pelinae shuffle around closer to you. “I can imagine my god’s ‘flair for the dramatic’ flared up again?”

You nod, still in the pillow. Hugging it close like this is helping you calm down and ground yourself from your paranoid spiral earlier. It smells like peaches.

“Well, you can stay here as long as you need, pup.” Amora says, reassuring and kind. No hints of flirting from earlier. “Those two have been alive for who knows how long. They can wait a few for you, if they really care.”

You groan into the pillow and sink deep into it. Maybe you could stay here forever. Dealing with whatever argument that’ll come from meeting Lobo again makes you want to burrow into that giant bed and live there for a year or two. This entire outing was a bust that blew up in your face. You know Lobo and Dio were the reasons why, but somehow you feel stupid for thinking it would sail smoothly until the end. Though, maybe it’s better that this happened now instead of later down the line. Now you know Dionysus did all of this out of hatred rather than wanting to help.

“Um, pup? Your neck’s, glowing.”

You start to peek up to see what Amora’s asking about, then find a glowing grey strand shimmering on your neck. It’s not tight, but a line trails away from it and out to the door. It shimmers, flickering in and out of existence, as if it were reminding you of its existence. Right. The Vow.

“I’m not going to stay here,” you speak down to your new collar as if Lobo were listening, “I just need a break. I’d need to go back to grab my things from there anyways.”

With another flicker, the Binding Vow vanishes, seemingly satisfied with your answer. It was like that too back when you forced Lobo to take you in, as if the Vow could be convinced. You slink back down into the pillow and rub your face against it. What you would give to have the ability to sleep all this off and away.

“…god.” You whisper to nobody in particular. “This was all so stupid. Why did I do this…?”

“Come now Miss Cortez, don’t say these things about yourself.” Pelinae places a hand on the shoulder of your chair, unsure if it’s right to touch you at the moment.

“Yeah, you had no way of knowing where the night went. You only wanted to meet some peeps, didn’t you?”

“I mean, yeah. But…” You gesture vaguely with your hands, your arms still hugging the pillow. “All of this. Trying to feel alive again. Every time I try it just makes things worse. Watching people through the mirror, coming here. Even making that stupid deal.”

“Deal?” Amora tilts her head to the side.

You don’t have the energy to explain everything that lead up to your choices, so you give them both the abridged version: Back alley deal to get rich quick and do art again, death, magic mirror, cool older woman, hating yourself even more.

“And now I’m here, trying to do all these crazy things, eat all these foods, and for what? To try and feel alive again? Even though I threw it away?” You dig into the fabric with your fingertips. The threading and decoration is fine, small, barely enough to poke your nails through. “What am I even doing he–”

A soft mass thumps against your head. Cushiony fabric falls from your face and onto the floor. Amora, paw outstretched and wearing a frown, appears to be the culprit.

“Amora!” Pelinae hisses.

“Sorry Pel.” Amora keeps looking at you, her arms crossed. “That kind of talk has no place here. We both know where that leads.”

“Uh,” You feel somehow guilty about your being guilty seeing her like this, “I’m so–”

“Lana.” Amora sits up straight, though her clothes struggle at that movement. You feel compelled to sit up as well. “What do you think my life was like when I was alive?”

“Um…?” You stutter, processing the question. When she’s dressed like that… “…loud?”

“Heh, you’d think so. A lotta people would.” Amora shrugs casually. “But no, was a tooooootal opposite. Would you believe me if I told you I used to be a secretary?”

The idea slaps you across the face so hard you completely forget what you were spiraling about. You lean forward. “A secretary for who?”

“Imagine, if you will, a beanpole of a woman. Even moreso than both of you.” Amora smirks as she tells the tale, drawing a straight line in the air. “Long hair, tight dress, corset. Human. Working as the personal assistant of a walking stereotype of Corrupt Mayor. Whatever came to your mind when I said that, he did it. And that includes, naturally, wanting a meek little girl he could be the big tough daddy for. I cursed at myself every day I walked into that building. But we were a small town in the middle bumfuck nowhere, I needed money, and as it turns out, I was exactly his type of ‘so thin you can see her ribcage.’ So I kept working there. My friends and family knew what was going on, but kept quiet about it because they were scared for themselves. So I grinned, I beared it, and made sure to keep a stick to bite down on. Until one day…” Amora licks her fanged teeth. “A pack of lycans passed through.”

“Were they… all like you?” You try not to look at her curvy figure.

“Big? Muscular? Hot? Well, not as much.” Amora leans back and basks in your indirect compliment. “They didn’t even attack first. We were hunting and thought they were big dogs and things escalated from there. Even though our town was small, we were well fortified. It was our home turf. We knew the woods more than they did and staved them off. They wouldn’t get in. But after all the bullshit I forced myself through in life I was at my breaking point. So one night, I snuck out of the village to meet them. They were suspicious of me of course, but when I told them I could get revenge for their packmate? They listened well. A particularly well-built lycan-ess took a liking to me especially, and… well, people were right about first times being special~” Amora rubs a section of her neck with a special fondness in her smile.

Your face goes flushed when you can spot a bite mark beneath the pink fur. But also, something else prickles underneath your skin. You keep looking at her blue “Bodily Modifications” wristband.

“That night was good, but the next one with my darling daddy dearest? Inviting him back to his office, him slipping my clothes off, biting off his gilded jewels, watching the look on my face as I grew tenfold, feeling my new claws and fur grow in, hearing him scream for mercy as I felt his blood drizzle down my maw… It was like it all, clicked. I found what I was missing.” Amora holds her arms tight and shivers in the afterglow of the memory. “The entire town heard it, of course. As did the hunters. They were onto me soon enough, and I was too wasted blood drunk to notice the danger. But even with all their silver bullets coursing poison through my nervous system, even as they tore into me as revenge for disrupting that suffocating stillness they all hated but couldn’t live without, they couldn’t take away those long, precious minutes I had with their dearly departed mayor. That one, final, moment of clarity where after so so long, I was finally myself. Finally whole.”

With one final sigh, Amora blinks and returns to the room after her long journey through that memory. “You’re scared that you’re just trying to recreate your life. I get it. But this world? This afterlife we were given? It’s a gift. Let’s just be honest here: The world sucks. It screwed over all of us, left us only scraps of a life. But here, we can make up for lost time. Discover who we are again. Love ourselves again. And of course,” Amora curls her toes and sends Pelinae a loving and playful smirk, “love other people again. Find that missing piece.”

Pelinae giggles and rolls her eyes with a hand cupping her cheek. She listened to Amora’s story with the smile of someone who has heard it dozens of times before, but loves hearing it every time. She’s wearing a blue wristband too.

You push past the tingling feeling in your chest and your burning cheeks, you have a hotter burning question to ask your fellow human. “Are you also… like her?”

“Hm? Oh, no, nothing quite as climactic as my darling Amora.” Pelinae waves away the thought. “I merely got tired of Greece’s overbearing masculinity, discovered a recipe for a potion or two, then one two three, I’m how you see me now.”

“And then she ran through the central plaza giving everyone a glimpse of her new full moons.” Amora pushes up her chest and man you need to work on this habit of staring at wolf chests.

“So wait, you’re…?” You look Pelinae up and down. It shouldn’t be this much of a surprise, considering what Amora just described. But, “all by yourself? You can just do that?”

Pelinae, though a little tired at being the subject of surprise for the Nth time, nods. “It took me years, trying to figure out what to do behind the backs of the men I was tied to. So much time, trying to brew the key that would unlock a piece of myself that was locked away. Gracefully it is much easier here, request a potion or two. That’s why I can forgive my God’s theatrical tendencies. He permits a freedom few could afford while alive. Seeking to fill a hole in your heart is never shameful, Miss Cortez.”

Inside of you, something bristles. You hadn’t even noticed that feeling before, it came so naturally to you that it almost felt like second nature. Using a limb. It’s the same feeling you experienced when you think about Lobo and Vida’s shapeshifting powers for too long, how they present.

These two… they uprooted their entire lives for a change that would sacrifice them so much, to become someone else. And now, here with Dionysus, they’re both living the lives they’ve always wanted. Left their pasts behind entirely, left their bodies behind entirely. Every day when they spot themselves in a reflection in a pool of water or a glass, when they look down at their hands, they don’t see a face that they’re stuck wearing all the time that reminds them of the mistakes they’ve made. They’re free from all of that. They’re…

“.....could I… try?”

Both the wolf and the human turn as the words leave your mouth. There’s a look in Amora’s eyes that’s expectant, hopeful. “Try what, exactly?”

You’re not quite sure what compelled you to say it. Eyes fixed down you dig your fingers into your skirt’s knit cat, tugging at the loose strands. If it worked for them, if they’re happier after doing this… “…try..... being someone else?”

The demeanors and postures of your two hosts shift before your eyes. Amora’s ears perk up. Pelinae inhales as she sits upright. Amora’s tail thwump thwump thwumps against the bed. Pelinae inhales as her eyes sparkle.

Then in a blink both are across the room and each take one of your hands in their own.

“Oh, absolutely Miss Cortez absolutely!!”
“I thought you’d NEVER ASK!!!”
“I could gather one of the potions I’ve set out for people–!”
“You have your pain bracelet off, I promise you won’t feel a thing–!”
“It’s an honor to help you Miss Cortez, I’m so happy I could be the one–!”
“We can introduce you to my pack and you can come with us for Lunar Howl Nights and–!”

Pelinae and Amora gush on and on, their excitement palpable as they bounce with each sentence without so much as a breath. In their joyous anticipation alone the ‘all-eyes-on-you’ feeling from the entrance hall returns in full force, but certainly not a bad feeling coming from these two. It takes at least a solid half minute before either of them calm down and curb their excitement.

“Right. My apologies. I forgot myself for a moment.” Pelinae backs off, hands rising and falling while she recenters her breath. She tugs against Amora’s fur to help the wolf take the hint as well.

“Bites can be overwhelming for some. I-I get it. But if you want it done in any other way, just ask!” In complete contrast to earlier, Amora seems like a stuttering and nervous mess. Like she didn’t want to come off too strong, even though she quite literally pushed her heft up against you just a moment ago.

“U-uh, yeah, sure thing, haha…” You wipe the blush off your face, follow Pelinae’s slow breaths, and then look to the both of them. You’re still a bit nervous about whatever this may be, but both of them are so excited to help. It should be okay, right? You can try this. Lobo’s going to be upset at you either way, and they said they felt more fulfilled after it, right? Maybe this would help you too…? “So… where do we start? With this?”

Amora sneaks a paw behind your back and lifts you out of the chair by your shirt collar. She walks you to the door as Pelinae knocks against it in yet another rhythm. Knock… knock… knocknocknock knock… With a creak, a waft of old, wet stone comes through. Like an old stone basement – your basement during a rainy day. It feels much different than this room, or the one from back in the Descolious castle. It’s dark, only a few beams of sunlight(?) peeking through the stone.

Pelinae rushes in to prepare whatever you’re looking for and Amora gleefully pulls you along (leaving you skipping behind since her strides are much wider). Air shifts, a chill ripples across your skin. Oh this air will make your hair frizz up quickly.

“My dearest sister in sorcery… my colleague in change…” Pelinae announces in the dark of the cellar-like place. Her demure yet articulate phrasing now given way for that which you’d find at a magic show. “Allow me to welcome you to my pride and joy…”

Clap clap! Candlewicks ignite all at once hanging upon the walls and floating in the air. Pelinae, sitting atop a large cauldron, shoots her arms out, her smile wide and strong enough to light up the room by itself. “The Chamber of Chransmogrification~!!”

“Also called The Changing Room.”Amora snickers at the name but does her best to hide it as you look around what feels like a repurposed storage room.

“We have everything you might need for your transformation needs!” With all the flair of a showman Pelinae hops down and jogs to the left wall, lined with a staggering amount of sparkling bottles, organized in neat and tidy rows with some sort of symbol-based filing system. “Our catalogue contains every type of body type, species and additional effects you may desire. Slender pig with wings? Wide wolf with night vision? With but a mere sip you’ll have your desired form in seconds, included with a pleasant floral aftertaste.

“Don’t wish for a full time commitment? Not to worry!” Pelinae runs to the back wall, where a push sends spinning racks of cloaks, coats, wigs, rings, masks and other accessories spin out from behind the wall. “Imbued into a piece of cloth, you may moonlight as someone new with a simple don of a cloak! Like the majestic selkies or trickster foxes of far corners of the world, you’re free to wear your heart on any sleeve to your liking!”

“Whatever happened to her critiquing D’s ‘flair for the dramatic?’” You whisper to Amora, admittedly a bit entertained.

“She studies this a lot even before she croaked, let her have this.” Amora doesn’t take her eyes off her partner, waving a hand across the various enchanted pieces of clothing and barely containing an excited squeal.

“But of course! There is no fault for wishing for something more situational!” Pelinae runs over to the right wall and lugs out a giant leather-bound tome from a shelf. It sits next to a large silver mirror, hovering weightlessly in the air. She struggles to carry it and waddles over to the cauldron with a SLAM! “The option for a minor curse is always available! Enchanted tattoos that react to bodily gestures, self-portraits wherein modifications to the painting affect its bound partner, perhaps a cursed amulet that activates with a command phrase–”

“O-okay, okay, that’s good, Pelinae.” You step forward before she can continue with that last hypothetical. “I appreciate the options.”

Pelinae flinches lightly and looks away, bashful. “M-my apologies.”

“No, seriously, all of this is impressive.” You look around the room, feeling the warm iron of the cauldron. Every last piece here feels like its own life’s work, what an adventurer would take decades to find. This is clearly something she loves with her whole being, like you do with your art. “Did you make all of these yourself? I’m surprised, since it seems like here you could just as easily snap your fingers and have all these happen, right?”

“You are not incorrect, but!” Pelinae leans across the cauldron to you with a fierce look in her eyes. “Did you know that in many cultures, transmogrative curses are often used for self expression? And also that enchanted creatures are most often brought in as Relivers? Our magic here is convenient, but for those who wish to follow in their footsteps, a mere snap won’t do at all! And also… all this is quite fascinating, is it not?”

Curses as a form of self expression? Well, Amora is standing nearby, inspecting her appearance by the large mirror, her bite mark still glowing. She taps her claw against certain spots around her nose, and with a little sparkle, she forms freckles. “Honestly, yeah. This is incredible. I didn’t even think a lot of these things existed. Wasn’t there a bunch of people who killed women for ‘witchcraft’ but were just, living life?”

“Oh, now the thing about THAT–!”

“Now now honey,” Amora gently pats Pelinae’s shoulder before she goes off on another tangent, “let the pup decide what she wants first. You can tell me about the witches later.”

Pelinae placated, you let the damp air breeze down your throat and into your non-existent lungs. “Alright then. So, where do we start? Anything you recommend, or…?”

“I mean, you already know what my answer would be…” Amora licks her lips, but then waves her hand away. “This journey is yours, Lana. No right way to start. What’s calling your name right now?”

“Mm… my first instinct.....”

You step back, taking a slow survey of the Changing Room’s stock. Some kind of flame spirit, perhaps? A cat, maybe? You always wondered how it felt to be Puss in Boots. Amora’s offer for lycanthropy is always on the table. You could always pick a potion at random and chug it, see where things lead.

But your eye is drawn back to the various cloaks and fabrics in the back. In the spin from earlier, something caught your eye. You rotate the large clothes rack back around until you find it: a light, white shawl. The fabric feels like a bird’s down, far too light for you to wear as a jacket or overcoat.

You bring it back over to Pelinae, who adjusts her glasses to get a better look at what you’ve brought. “Any chance you have essence of… swan person?”

“More person than swan or more swan than person?”

“Uh… the second one?” You hand the cloth over to her as she grabs a rolling ladder to pick out potions. “There was this one girl that came into the tavern I worked at. She had long, beautiful golden hair and amazing makeup, wearing some kind of coat like this. She didn’t have any money, but my boss let her work there in exchange for some food. We talked the whole day, she apparently travelled all over the world with her family, but broke away to explore on her own. She had to leave at the end of the shift so I walked her out, and…”

The memory is still vivid. The moon’s glow seemed to make her hair and coat shimmer, almost ghost-like. You don’t remember why you walked her out, it just seemed natural since you were also closing shop. She asked you what you were going to do, where you were going to go. All you could come up with were some half baked phrases you had been repeating for that past half year about traveling to the art academy you had been eyeing on the other side of the country but haven’t moved any closer to. You started to wave her goodbye, but then she took your hand in her own. Held it tight. Wished you safe travels, ‘wherever your heart may lead you,’ with a type of earnestness you had never seen before. She believed your words even when you didn’t yourself. And then she stepped away, wrapped the coat around her body. Arms turned to wings, hair into feathers. You stood outside for as long as you could, watching her fly off into the woods you daydreamed about every day, soaring over the trees until she was out of sight. Then went back inside to finish mopping the booze stained floors.

You never saw her again. “She must have had some sort of clothing enchantment, I think.”

“Hm… voluntary donning and doffing, bodily transmogrification… flight…” Pelinae mumbles flips through another book (a notes journal?) while collecting the labeled vials and handing them to Amora. “This shouldn’t take long! Allow me just a few moments…”

What follows is, frankly, a process that you can only describe as “some sort of witchcraft.” Spreading the shawl across a countertop underneath the potions, Pelinae takes all of the vials from Amora’s arms (staggering to keep them from dropping to the floor). She uncorks five at once, each held between her fingers, pouring multicolored and glowing magical materials across the cloth with a masterful delicacy. Tiny pinpricks of twitches in each finger, twisting like a marionette to match a steady rhythm as she hunches over it with the posture of a mad scientist. A drop of orange to make it glow, splashes of pink and blue along the sides, draping a shimmering silver cloud across its surface. Among it all, an eldritch chanting of some unknown tongue dances across the room, merged with an eager and crazed giggling.

A mere three minutes later, Pelinae wipes the sweat of her brow with a robe covered in multicolored splatters and glitter. She lifts it up the shawl in both hands then turns to offer it to you, now bearing a translucent shimmer. “I added an enchantment to prevent pain, but you may want to keep your bracelet to green just in case.”

Right, your bracelets. The pain one is set to green, your mind is clean on yellow, but the bodily changes is on orange. It sticks against your thumb, some sort of rubbery substance, clinging with the weight of a heavy door. Your mind will be unchanged, you’ll still be Fuilana…

‘But it doesn’t count,’ the memory rings in your mind, ‘because I didn’t ask for this.’

…but maybe being a little not-Fuilana is good too.

You swipe the bracelet, changing it from orange to blue. With a deep breath, you drape the shawl across your back.

As it settles, a dulled sensation prickles along your skin (would “goosebumps” be too on the nose?), a full bodily awareness as a warm, white, sludge-like material slinks through your clothes and spreads across your body. Instincts start to take hold and you start to wipe the material off, but Pelinae delicately takes your hand with a calm, reassuring smile that she likely has given to hundreds of Relivers. She closes her eyes, breathes in and tilts her head back. You follow her lead, welcoming the change into your body as the warm sensation creeps along your cheeks.

Your hair and clothes coalesce together in the sludge and press against your skin as if emerging from a mud bath. Behind your eyes a bizarre poking sensation can be felt, something within you shifting around. You hold your breath for as long as you can, but when you exhale through your nose the air flows to somewhere else. Thinking your mouth will be better you part your lips, but find them more stiff than they had been before. You raise your hands to feel them, feeling a greater weight than you had once felt.

As the shifting sludge finally ceases, you open your eyes, finding a new faded orange and black-tipped beak plastered in your line of sight. Now looking down on an excited Pelinae with hands clasped together, and eye-to-eye with Amora who stares close with a thumb on her chin, as an art critic would judge a painting.

“Not bad,” Amora nods, “how do ya feel, pup?”

“It’s… differ…” Your voice sounds the same coming out of your beak, but the little impact when your upper and lower beak clacks together feels strange. You look down, flexing your different fingers, now elongated into wide white feathers that come together to make hands. Stepping back, webbed feet slink against stone with your new legs. They don’t feel alien, but it’s a new sensation. Something flicks against your behind, a large fan of feathers.

Glancing to the mirror nearby you take a moment to appraise your new, unfamiliar self. You’re much less… swan-like than you expected. Posture is much taller than before, your torso more slender without the usual belly fat. Your body is covered in pure white feathers. But looking into your face you see something crossed between a swan and who you were. A beak is slapped onto your mouth, but it’s more flexible and stretched than the swan girl you met. Frowning, smiling and grimacing are all still possible. Your eyes have drifted apart and black feathers act as a natural makeup, but they’re still wide, green as they once were. Tired, as they once were.

“…it’s different, for sure.” You say, clack clack clack. You stretch out your wings and spin around in a circle, but for the life of you the person on the other side doesn’t quite match up. “Neat, but different.”

“It can take time to adjust, for some.” Pelinae walks and holds bits of your new feathers. New hairs on your forearms bristle.

“But you both said that that your new bodies just, clicked for you.” Your gaze returns to the mirror. They felt at home in their new bodies the moment they changed. Did it take time for them to get used to their reflections too? Stop looking for things they saw every day? “How do I know if it’s right?”

“Well…” Pelinae says, her eyeglasses reflecting a sheen of light from the cracks. “There’s one idea I can think of.”

“A-ARE YOU SURE THIS IS A GOOD IDEA?!” You honk as loud as you can as the wind buffets against you and actively shoving you off while hugging the railing with your entire arms.

“JUST GO FOR IT!!” Amora yells with a thumbs up right behind you, standing on the other side of the tower window, not standing a few feet away from a monumental drop. “BEST WAY TO LEARN IS TO DIVE RIGHT IN!!”

“THE WIND IS DESIGNED TO CATCH YOU IF YOU FALL TOO FAST!!” Pelinae cheers with a concerned look as her purple hair keeps slapping against her face. “THERE’S NOTHING TO FEAR!!!”

“Yeah, you say that…” You mutter, webbed feet against the tiled roof of the tower’s spire that’s poking through the gods-damned clouds. “But I’M the one out HERE!”

Apparently, for whatever reason, a person in these infinite castle-manor-mansion halls someone decided to commission a GIANT FREE-FALL ROOM SEVERAL STORIES HIGH!!! The sky is blindingly blue in a way that hurts your eyes and a thick layer of puffy clouds lie beneath you, obscuring just how steep of a drop it is, but with the wind pressure up here you can hazard a guess! Pelinae says she comes here often, “relaxing” even, but IN WHAT AFTERLIFE IS THIS CALMING?! HOW CAN ANY OF THIS–?!

“Hey there honeypie! You need help?”

A new voice shoves its way through the wind to meet your ears. You peek open, being met with some sort of… flamingo? She has a build somewhat like yours, though her pink and puffy down is covered loosely by brightly colored green and purple clothing, similar to Amora’s. A sky blue scarf around her head. Her talons cling limply against the iron bar that you’re clinging to, and she gives a two fingered salute when you finally notice her.

“I DON’T… I DON’T THINK I CAN DO THIS!” You yell. “I’VE ONLY BEEN LIKE THIS FOR–”

“It’s alright, it’s alright!” The flamingo lady giggles with a wing to her pointed beak. “Pel told me that a newbie needed help with their wings for the first time.”

“With my… So, are you…?”

The bird woman lifts a wing to adjust the scarf and lift it a peek above her beak. Beneath the fabric, you spot human skin. A grizzled man with plentiful facial hair underneath winks, then lowers the scarf to smooth away that part of himself.

From back in the window, Pelinae smiles proudly with a hand on her hip, adjusting her glasses.

“Now listen darlin’, it’s real simple!” The flamingirl spreads out her wings. “Keep your wings wide; start turns tiny with wrists and hips; and above all, trust in the wind!”

“…wide, wrists, wind. Alright. Alright yeah. I can do that.” You nod, taking an offered wing to stand. With her guidance you step right up against the edge, back facing the fall. Your legs are still incredibly shaky and your stance needs to be kept wide as the wind keeps catching against your massive wings. Pelinae has told you over and over about how safe it was but you need to fight against the simple mortal instinct of “big fall run away.” It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re trying new things and you are not about to start crying.

“Now, on three sweetie, just lean backwards! The rest will come easy!” You force a smile to her in response and press the top and bottom of your beak tight in place of teeth to grit. This is to try new things, this is to try, this is to change. “Ready? One! Two!”

“Aaaahahahaaaaah…!” The pounding wind thankfully works well to hide your whimpering as the tiled roof slips away.

Free fall, as you had predicted, is not something the human body is accustomed to. FlaminGina next to you is squawking happily while pirouetting in the air but inside of your stomach is the same feeling you get when you miss a step while descending a staircase. Everything is on red alert searching for something to hold onto and your weight keeps shifting, feathers flapping, legs kicking all over the place as the high winds siphon the air out of your lungs!

The layer of clouds folds open as you fall, droplets of water collect on your wings and in your scattered mind you try to focus on the advice: wings stretched out with your fingers as straight and stiff as possible, with legs pointed out behind. It takes some strength to fight against the wind and keep your body this way, you are a parasol caught against the wind and each of your feathered flaps straining to stay in place.

And then the clouds break again, and you are steady. Remaining wisps of clouds course between your feathers, an inverted stream. And the world explodes into your eyes. Expanding far out into the distance, a bright green and flat prairie stretches on for miles around the central wizard’s tower. In the distance, scrags of mountains jut out and the ponds that were formed from the rain trickle down into rivers and ponds the size of your thumb. You are falling into an ocean of green from the clear deep blue above dotted by clouds the same pure white as your feathers.

It’s all artificial, you know it is. But fromall those dreams you had, imagining what that golden-haired guest saw from up this high, you never would have imagined something like this.

A pink blur wooshes by your vision. The flamingo, her clothes flapping violently in the fall, smiles to you before she folds her wings in to dive, then extend them again with a strong gust to soar. You lean forward to follow her down, overextending a little too much to go into a beak-dive straight down. But with her guidance you follow through well enough, dipping and coasting and gliding through the chilled space between sky and earth. Your body is still screaming alarm bells, but doing so in a sustained state while having moderate control… it really is a certain type of serene.

Eventually, circling around the wizard’s tower, the ground catches up to you both. The flamingo tries to guide your landing but you end up rolling and tumbling onto your back. Footsteps approach and two shadows blot out the ball of light above you.

“So?” Amora asks in a ‘I told you so’ tone. “Wasn’t that bad, right?”

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Pelinae squeezes her palms together.

“Yuh… yeah! It was fun.” You pant as you recover to the feeling of solid ground. “Fun time.”

...just fun? Is… is that it?

Amora and Pelinae help you up to your webbed feet. As nice as that was, you aren’t in the mood for another round. The flamingo girl gives you a quick compliment on how well you did, letting you know that you can go to her any time for proper flight instruction. Then she gives a two-feather salute and enters the tower to throw herself off the roof again, ready in body and soul.

She seemed so happy…

“Aaaaaahhhhh~ This place never gets old~” Amora leans back into a steaming stream of water, letting it cascade across her face and down her now unclothed body. However tense giant lycans like her can get, the heat seems to be doing wonders. “You enjoyin’ yourself over there, Lana?”

“Y-yeah, totally.” You do your best to keep your gaze away from Amora’s general direction for no particular reason whatsoever.

Despite the… circumstances, the steaming water does feel amazing. After the excitement you’ve been through, and learning you haven’t really taken a bath in months, Pelinae and Amora practically carried you into a bathhouse room. Yet again it looks completely different architecturally to the past few rooms: an open air area with a basin of steaming water contained in stone, surrounded carefully polished wood floors and paper dividers with sliding doors. According to Pelinae this is called an “Own-Sen.” Communal hot spring baths. You breathed a sigh of relief upon realizing the three of you would be alone in here.

“Are you sure you don’t want to try wearing the shawl, Miss Cortez?” Pelinae asks as she sits beside you, carefully unweaving the boundless puzzle that is your tangled hair. “I designed it so you can switch when your feathers are water resistant.”

“No, no it’s okay Pel.” You glance to the shawl, lying on a bench next to your clothes. “I appreciate you making that for me. Flying up there, it was really fun.”

“…You’re not saying something.” Pelinae says, simply as a matter of fact. “To spare my feelings?”

You stay silent.

“Miss Cortez, please, don’t suppress your feelings on my account. I can handle criticism, whatever it may be.” Pelinae continues unweaving your hair with the same care as before.

…the steam warms up your nonexistant lungs as you breathe. “Flying around like that. Being a bird, trying a new body. It was fun. I enjoyed it.”

“Did you dislike the form itself?”

“No, not that. I just…” You lock eyes with your hazy reflection, distorted by the bubbling water. “It wasn’t like either of you had said with your bodies. It didn’t… ‘click.’ It was cool to try it, but I don’t… think I want to be a bird for the rest of my afterlife.”

Pelinae giggles. “Is that all? Miss Cortez, that’s fine. There are countless species in the world. Thousands, even. If a swan is not to your liking, there are other avenues available. We’ll help you find what it is you’re looking for. We have nothing but time now, after all.”

She says these words with a pleasant, cheerful kindness as if were a certainty. But you know. You don’t have time. Eventually by your hand or Dio’s or Lobo’s you’ll have to return to The Mist. Then, because of the argument back in the dining hall, the link between there and Dio’s will be severed and you won’t have access to this magic anymore. Not to mention the question of whether it’ll stick when you return.

You can sense it inside of you now a bit more clearly than before. There’s something missing, something lacking that you’ve been carrying inside of you for a while now. These two might be the only way of figuring out what that is. “Pel… I don’t know if–”

“GRAAAAHHH!!”
“AAAGH!!”

Water splashes across your and Pelinae’s faces as Amora jumps out from under the water! Instincts grab the reigns and kick you away from the wall before Amora can grapple you into a headlock. “You best be careful not to be stuck in your head, or else you’ll be fresh meat… TO THE WOLF!!”

Amora bares her fangs, delicately strangles her lover and rushes in pretend-bites Pelinae’s neck and shoulders. Pel shrieks and kicks and laughs while trying to escape and you do best to push certain thoughts out of your head because now isn’t the time.

“Lana, you’re thinking too hard about a lot of this!” Amora pats Pel’s purple hair and lets her go, leaning against the stone circle with arms against the back. Her pink fur is slicked down, covering one of her eyes until she flicks it away yeah that’s right Lana keep your eyes up top. “This is Dionysus’ realm. It’s made to help people feel good. What you did was fun, but it didn’t help you feel good. So…”

That’s, a bit of an oversimplification of your problem. But. “…don’t do it?”

“We can move on to the next thing. Cats, minotaurs, centaurs even? And of course,” her fangs look extra white from all the steam, “offer’s still on the table here~”

Okay at this point she is goading you this is UNFAIR–

‘Self righteous, self pitying and self serving to a fault. You’re the pinnacle of all mortal life, Fuilana.’

…

“Buuuuut in the meantime, we can always just enjoy ourselves here–”

“Let’s do it.”

Amora blinks, her grin drowned out by surprise. “Oh… wait, really?”

You wade through the water, pushing the steam out of the way, until you’re almost right up against her chest. Looking into her eyes directly. And tilting your head to the side to provide better access to your neck.

Amora’s eyes glimmer, a predator in the night that finally found what she was looking for. She leans forward, her hair and chest sagging into the water, the surface rippling from a deep and eager growl. “I knew you were lycan material~”

“Miss Cortez, are you sure?” Pelinae wades closer as well, her eyebrows pressed together. “We don’t have to immediately try something else, we can take a rest if you–”

“Both my pain and mind effects bracelets are off.” You state and give her your most confident expression possible with a quivering lip. “New experiences, right?”

Pelinae looks at you, holding her forearms as she tries to decipher your answer for some sort of hidden meaning. But whatever she was hunting for can’t be found; she relaxes herself perks her mouth into a smile. “Make sure to take deep breaths, alright?”

“Deep breaths? Why–”

“Hey. Eyes on me, pup.”

Amora pinches your face, thumb and pointer finger on each of your cheeks, redirecting your gaze to her own. Fangs creep up into a shining snarl as she guides your back closer with her other hand until you are pressed tight against her naked chest. Even in a steaming Own-Sen her body radiates a heat, power, condensation prickling and sliding down your skin. Forcing your head further to one side, her mouth opens with a cloud of hot air wafting against your face.

She bends her neck lower until her freckled cheek is pressed against yours. Her deep, growling voice ripples through you as well. “Don’t be afraid to grab whatever you need~”

The bite is sharp, clean, and scalding. You gasp, not from pain but as heat is injected into the now glowing wounds in your neck. A clean incision from a knife so hot it’s enough to cut away all your nerve endings. Hot air falters in your throat but digging your fingers into the knots of Amora’s hair provides leverage for a breath. Her folds and fur are slick from the bath and you have to keep readjusting your grip, but Amora seems to catch on and yanks you tighter against her so you may have more to grab.

Even then, keeping a tight hold is difficult as your mind is consumed by the warmth. It’s not any mind altering effects, your body is overheating as Amora’s lycanthropy spreads with the power of a wildfire. You force your breath’s to be long and deep but it keeps hitching and every exhale is a trembling groan. Your hands against her neck, pouring down your chest, draping over your head; a flash of a fever or heatstroke doesn’t compare to anything like this. And Amora. You can feel her laughs in your stomach as you grip her hair, delighting in your discomfort and fear swirling with.....

‘Oh gods fucking damn it I have a type.’

That one coherent thought is pushed back under the boiling waves of the bath. Amora gorges away on your essence, her arms wrapped tight around your much smaller and frailer form with a fierce gentleness. Like a wolf that bites and claws as a way of playing with its mates, never using too much power, but still carrying weight behind each movement. You press your chin deeper into her shoulder, hands gripping tighter to her hair, legs curling upwards all while you’re shoved deeper into her, swallowed by the warmth in her curves and fighting to focus and pull air into your lungs, grinding your jaw to stay above water as your nose fills with the scent of something honey–

And then, as fast as it had come, the heat flash dissipates. Your body, though it’s still boiling, feels the air of the oasis with a newfound chilled freshness. Amora releases her clamp on your neck and releases you from the confines of her arms and bust, holding your back tenderly so you can look up at her. She licks her fangs and snout to clean it up after her meal, sizing up the leftovers. “Well well,” her voice still rumbles in your chest, “looks like a cutie fell right into my lap~”

“I… y-yhou…” You struggle to form the words into complete sentences, but notice quickly that, once again, the mouth they’re coming out of is different. Resting at the bottom of your vision is a newly grown snout colored a faded but saturated pink. Definitely not as long as Lobo’s, but a bit longer than the swan bill. You’ve grown new teeth and the old ones became sharper, canines more pronounced but familiar enough to not feel uncomfortable. What few gusts of cold air waft by tickle the top of your nose.

Amora lowers you back down to sit atop the slick stones. You notice, planting both paws against the ground for balance, how their white fur with faded pink flairs is close to matching Amora’s. Claws scrape lightly against the rock as you adjust and spot your newly, naturally, curved legs. Not just fat and muscle-wise (though that’s definitely there, has your waist expanded a bit from muscle?), but literally curved in a way similar to Amora and Lobo’s. The white with pink stripes pattern extends down there as well.

“Here, Miss Cortez. For your energy.” Pelinae hands you a glass of water with some sort of purple flakes mixed in. You don’t care enough to ask what it is; you grab the cup and chug it. Tastes… purple. Apparently the muscles in your arms have become more pronounced as well. No such luck in the chest department, but you don’t think you could outclass Amora’s bust anytime soon anyway. Most of the pink fur centralizes there: a pink flame that is more vibrant at the center then fades the further it travels across your body.

“Th… thanks.” You exhale. Your mind is starting to become a bit more clear now. Pelinae lifts the glass from her hands and then claps it away with a purple puff of glitter.

“So Lana, how d’ya feel?” Amora peers over after taking a drink from a glass of her own. She’s grinning, but either from your new wolf-like senses or general retail experience, you see her thumb rubbing against the outside of the glass, claw lightly scraping up and down. “Hope your first transformation was as magical for you as it was for me~”

“Yuh… yeah, it felt, good. Really good.”

.....is that all?

Amora’s grip relaxes and smile widens. She hops up out of the water right next to you and wraps an arm around you for a hug. “Let’s get out of this heat for a bit, cool your head. I got a few ideas for what we can do next with that new body of yours–”

“Down girl.” Pelinae reaches and tugs at Amora’s hair. “Give Miss Cortez some room to breathe before you take her to the royal quarters or I’ll have to put you on a leash.”

“Y-yes ma’am.”

“Whatever we do… maybe we could just have it be, low energy?” You pull your new legs up and out of the water while Amora summons a towel for you to dry off with.

“More than reasonable.” Amora pulls herself up to her feet with a few stretches before summoning a towel for herself. Once all three of you are out, the wolf crouches beside the pool to clap, then tap the water. A single ring expands from that point and when it touches all of the pond, the surface is calm and clear. Any trace of your being here is erased, neat and tidy for the next person.

With that done, Ama and Pel move to dry and discuss where they could take you next. You stay behind for a few longer moments. The surface of the pool is much more clear now, you can see your face. Your gordian-knotted hair has turned a vibrant shade of pink fur, trading tangled strands for matted clumps. Both ears have shifted to the corners of your head, which definitely feels weird, but they’re more on the floppy side than pointy. What stands out against it all is the large glowing pink bite mark on your shoulder, newly made, similar to the one Amora wears. It still feels warm when you touch it.

The bags under your eyes still haven’t gone away. You look just as exhausted as before, and feel…

“’Ey pup! You comin’? I got your clothes and they should still fit ya!”

“…yeah. Yeah I’m coming.”

“I woouould ofteenn gooo thehree… to tha tiineey chaarch thhrere…”
[https://youtu.be/jn2x9CSSvhs?si=3DRzmwwEccD0jhs0]

“Oh Gods he’s singing it again…” You hunch your head down against the bar countertop and cover your ears to duck from the trash fire’s smoke.

“C’mon pup, it isn’t that bad. He’s got the heart.”

Amora shrugs as she watches the stage. Atop crudely carved stone and filtered through the glittering multicolored lights of crystals, a mangy and bulky werewolf man looms over and howls into a microphone stand. As he has been doing for the past ten minutes, since he booked several time slots back to back (Stubbs always wanted karaoke for the tavern but couldn’t afford the import costs for magical artifacts). The song itself is good, slow and somber with hollow and haunted guitars, but whatever potential it had is now weighed down by ten tons of emotional baggage the singer lugged on stage.

“Oh my… I think he’s crying…” Pelinae watches, hand over mouth, as the wolf man’s eyes become puffy and red, his voice hitching more and more.

“And that’s how you know they’re being authentic.” Amora points at Pel with a cooked drumstick. “His heart is in the song, he’s not trying to make it a show for popularity. Tell me: what’s worse? A wolf who sings emotionally, or a wolf that is searching for applause?”

You hold your ears down with one hand and dump a few fries in your mouth with the other. Of all the places the two could have taken you, they brought you to a tavern. One of their favorite locales, they said, a real “hole in the wall.” It isn’t that bad, even with how literal that phrase was: a former werewolf warlord den transformed into a restaurant, sunlight outside reflected between hundreds of crystals to bring a glow inside. Though Mortems don’t need to eat and they can clap for whatever they’d like, some Relivers still crave a homestyle meal with imperfection.

Today happened to be a “Lunar Howl Night,” and it’s certainly living up to the name. Every table has at least two wolves that dwarf the tables, but talk amicably with one another and chum it up. You notice now that some of them have a fur coloration similar to Amora’s, with glowing bite marks shining in the dark.

This place isn’t bad necessarily (barring the sobbing wolf on stage), but the smell of grease and ale swirling together has triggered a lot of very awkward and painful memories of the last year or so of your life. You’re already here though, at the table, eating. If there is one blessing in this, it’s the discomfort from the howling man is masking your discomfort for the place at large. Of all the places, of all the luck to have…

“Did you not take part in these things in life, Miss Cortez?” Pelinae sips from her wine, doing a tremendous job at pretending the singer hasn’t broken down into active sobs. “Were I alive during your time, I would have loved to do these things more often.”

“My time?” You ask, lifting up one of your ears.

“Oh yes! There were plenty songs when I was alive, but many of them were quite long and… patriotic, to say the least. The world is full of quite many perspectives now, is it not?” Pel smiles politely in a general gesture to the wolf on stage.

Perhaps sensing your confusion or seeing the tilt of your head, Amora wraps a paw around Pelinae’s shoulder. “I’ve been introducing her to what she’s been missing out on the past few thousand years. Little singing, little dancing, some new foods every now and then. She’s been an eager learner, especially about everything revolving ‘round our time~” Amora smirks and plants kisses on the top of Pelinae’s head.

So that would mean Pel is older than… huh. The more you know. “N-no. I mean, I sing every now and then, but I never did stuff like this. Didn’t really do much of, anything really. Just sat on my ass most of the time.”

“Reading? Pursuing a craft?” Pelinae asks genuinely.

“Kind of. I mean, I loved to draw. And paint. Pretty much anything involving design. That’s where this skirt came from.” You flutter your skirt around, showing off your self-stitched designs. Purple stars on black on the bottom, a bee and a beehive in red, then pets in blue up top. “I couldn’t make an entirely new set of clothes, but I could stitch in a new pattern or patch things up.”

“Heyhey, not bad.” Amora inspects the patterns with a discerning eye. “Wish I coulda done things like that more when I was around. The uniform I had to wear was very… you know.”

You don’t, actually. But you can imagine, spotting Amora’s lowering ears.

“I don’t think you’d wanna be like me when I was alive. It was handy to learn, and I am good at it. But I travelled across an entire ocean, just to get stuck at a dead end job, and–“

“Am now a statue-destroying skydiver who also likes to stitch and paint?” Amora cuts in casually.

“I… yeah, but–” You adjust the chair to regain your footing with these awkward new legs.

“I’m just gonna stop you right there, pup.” Amora points a claw your way. “It’s pointless and disrespectful to yourself to beat yourself up over things at this point. Especially where you are now. You already heard me and Pel’s stories, you think either of us got anywhere feeling bad for ourselves? You think that’s what this place is made for?”

…you glance at the werewolf man who is on his knees, howl-crying the lyrics to the rest of his song.

“Harrier is a special case he just went through a breakup.” Amora waves the dog away. “If you still gotta grieve, that’s fine. Everyone needs to do that from time to time. But there’s no point in dwelling over mistakes from when you were alive. It’s like we said, this is a realm for reinvention. And today was your first real day of that.”

Amora rips the turkey leg clean of all remaining meat and taps it against your snout. Her eyes hold a gentle smile. “You’re a cool gal, pup. And I can’t wait to get to continue getting to know ya going forward. Every last piece. And this time, I’m not talking with my pussy.”

The comment bap on your newly sensitive mouthpiece help draw you out of your head. Your body belts out a laugh, but new vocal chords spit it out as a doggish “Brough!” before giggling a bit more.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself, pup~” The large hound laughs with you, Pelinae following short behind.

“If at any time you need someone to talk to, we’ll always be here.” Pelinae places a hand on your paw and lightly squeezes your fingers, an aura of earnestness radiating off the one action alone. You can’t help but wag your tail.

‘Just for today though…’

.....

“Thank you for that… touching performance, Harrier.” A different blue and white patterned wolf speaks into a microphone as two of the howling wolf’s friends help carry him back to his seat. “Now, for a duo that certainly needs no introduction here, leader of the pack and honorary wolf, Amora and Pelinae!”

Claps and howls and arooo’s echo inside the cave. Both of your friends get up from their seats to head on stage.

“You sure you don’t want to go up and howl with us, Lana?” Amora wipes her cheek to look a bit more presentable, flecks of meat and cornbread on her chest. “We’re fine taking our duo act into a trio if ya got stage fright.”

“N-no thank you.” You smile with your new teeth covered in sauce. “Destroying that statue was fun, but performing for a crowd is… no thank you.”

Pel gives your hand one last squeeze and then jogs up on stage with her lover. Leaving you alone at the tavern table. With the smell of greasy food that you were stuck with for months upon months. Surrounded by a bunch of people wolves you don’t know.

“Woowoooooo! Hope all a’ y’all are feeling good tonight!” Amora bounces around on stage and scoops up the mic stand like a baton. Pelinae coughs and breathes deep to prepare her vocal chords. “I’m sure you all are probably sick of seeing my face up here at this point, but even after a few hundred years I’ll never get tired of this place, and certainly not the song we’re singin’ next. But before that!”

The large pink wolf swings the microphone and directs the crowd’s attention to your table. At least two dozen glowing eyes land on you mid-bite of what remains of your food.

“This one goes out to our girl, Lana. One of the most Lycan gals I know. Make sure y’all treat her nice, aight? Can y’all give her a warm welcome or what?!”

Once more the cave erupts into wooo’s and arooooo’s, cups banging on the tables. You gulp down the mush in your mouth and do your best to smile with muscles you haven’t trained before. It doesn’t help the food in you go down any better. Pelinae seems to spot that from across the room and takes the microphone from her lover to get the attention back to her.

“A-And now, without further ado! Start the music!”

A guitar strumming cuts through the chatter, and in time with the song at least seven wolves raise their glasses in a celebratory “rrooooooo!!” More instruments cut in, completely alien and foreign but sends vibrations across your new body. And then, Pelinae starts with a form stage STOMP to demand presence.

“She was a, playboy… Brigitte Bardot…
She showed me things, I didn’t know…”
[https://youtu.be/y9Wxl9Q9lUQ?si=g9NzTWtICiQdCZWg]

Pelinae holds the microphone close, swaying her hips slowly to wave her toga back and forth every other beat of the song. Amora, flashing her teeth, sings along from behind as  she creeps up from behind. An act clearly rehearsed and one both enjoy intimately. Closer and closer the predator creeps, her eyes hungry as Pelinae “unknowingly” dances along. As the verse reaches its climax, Amora grabs Pel’s sides and trips her into a dip, fangs bared while Pel does a fake-faint.

“Put her ca-nine teeth in the side of my neck!”

You smile as you watch the two of them perform like this, a story paired along with the song’s original lyrics, whoever may have wrote them. Even if you still feel a bit awkward from that callout earlier, it’s like they’re putting on a show just for you. They look so happy, playing around with one another in a manner so open and visible and themselves and free.

“I thought it’s already been made clear, since you all have been talking about us behind our backs–” The memories cut in yet again. “–I did not want someone like her in my life!!”

.....you scooch out of your chair. The two of them are looking away right now, dancing with each other and taken in by their own performance, as is the rest of the crowd. Both of your friends had them promise to treat you well… but you don’t think this space is for you.

“…sorry Pel. Sorry Amora.” You whisper, heading for the entrance door. It’s still not quite clear in your mind, but you’ve learned the basics of this place enough from watching these two shepherd you around from room to room.

Knock… knock… knocknocknock knock…

The door shimmers and you feel the air pressure change as it creaks open. That rainwater against stone smell returns, your fur bristles at the change in humidity.

“Baaaaby~ Why don’t you come ooover~?”
You grip the door handle as you hear your friends cheerfully singing in your name behind you.
“Red wine supernoooova!” You hesitate in this border state, the darkness of the room inside feeling more tangible than before, compared to the gemstone-lit cave behind you.
“I never wanted her here!”
...you whisper one more apology as you step inside and close the door behind you, shutting off the connection.
“Fall right into meeeee~”

The Changing Room’s candles aren’t lit but you can still see the outlines of all the shapes clearly. Colors however remain a muted gray, save for the few strings of light that seep through the cracks of the stone. They gift what little they touch with saturation and color; a lone monochrome potion that was left sitting by the mirror wears a lone green dot.

This must be the darkvision Amora and Pelinae were talking about. You wonder if Lobo sees this all the same way too, and that’s why he’s comfortable with his void being pure black at times. Though considering the circumstances, the thought of Lobo’s void feels more intimidating now.

You thread the fabric of the cat between your claws. You don’t have long. You can’t linger here.

You wade through the grey across the room until you reach the large silver mirror. Even with your added height the thing is massive up close, at least a few extra heads up top. You lean in closer to see everything clearly. Standing in that reflection is “you.” At least, it’s supposed to be. The girl inside it is unfamiliar, ears shifted too high, a snout where her mouth should be. Thighs somehow even wider than before, which isn’t necessarily bad.

The one thing that carried over from your human self were your eyes. Bags discoloring the fur that lies on top of it. They weren’t fully visible when you wore the shawl, but you still felt their weight. No matter what, among all of these changes, this is the only part of the reflection that certifies the fact that you are still you.

…you reach for your middle wristband and flick your thumb across its surface. Orange to blue. The change is immediate. A few inches shorter, hips shrinking inwards, paws reverting to hands. You felt nothing. The only way you could tell the change happened at all was the fact that the grey outlines faded away into blackness.

“La puta madre. Right.’ You whisper, gripping the skirt. ‘Of course the darkvision would go away, idiota. And you can’t request any magic either or else Dionysus will catch wind of where you are too. Why didn’t you try to do grab something else before-“

You flinch at your own scowling face emerging from the darkness before you realize who it is. Within the mirror a faint grey glow is radiating, wrapped around the reflection’s neck. She reaches up to touch it, and you feel it around your throat as well. The Binding Vow. It trails off into a wall where it disappears, gently tugging against you.

…you need to keep moving.

The silver collar around your neck provides enough illumination to act as a candle light as you weave through the Changing Room’s threads of darkness. Lobo’s complete void became something of a comfort to you, a familiar, but the tiny stripes of light from outside feel pervasive. Unconsciously you’re stepping around them and ducking under their paths as if you were a thief. Appropriate, you suppose, as you grab two armful’s worth of potions from the neatly organized wall to dump against the table next to the mirror.

All of Pelinae’s filing system is a mystery to you. But maybe that’s what you need. Amora didn’t know she was missing something until she became a wolf for the first time. Roll the dice a little. Maybe a bit of random chance is what you need.

From blue to orange, a smell you didn’t identify disappears. You grab one bottle at random. Its label has a slanted rectangle with polkadots and the contents inside feel thick like honey. The cork comes off easily and an incredible salted smell hits your nose.

“…bitter medicine, right?”

You plug your nose and pour a single drop onto your tongue.

Almost immediately you feel an urge to vomit. Memories of the soul apple core smash against your brain with all of its wretched bitterness in tow. You slam the vial back down on the table and hold your mouth forcing whatever you had back at that greasy tavern back down. You don’t even have guts. This is just a reflex Lobo left in you and you’ve had worse than this. Grit your teeth, bear through it hermana. Reinvent yourself. No change comes without pain.

Gripping the desk you take one excruciating gulp to force it down. Air on your tongue is still tainted by that one drop containing all of the gods-damned ocean. But even as you grit your teeth and breathe, you feel it entering your windpipe through a different path.

Opening your eyes, you’re met with someone else. A Fuilana Cortez who has traded her skin for iridescent scales, shifting from deep blue to foamy green in the Binding Vow’s light. Her fingers are webbed together and bear more claws at their ends. Though she’s comfortable breathing, thin slats fold in and out with every breath. Her hair has become a mop of seaweed, her ears flattened into pointed fins. Some sort of fish-person, perhaps? Not quite a mermaid, she still has both of her legs (though the tips of her feet now bear fins for more agile swimming). The silver glow affects her eyes the most, reflecting it back into your own. Mythical, not like a fantastical being but a type of long forgotten beast, her small yet jagged teeth viable to tear into any prey she may catch.

The bags under her eyes weigh her down into the briny depths.

…you flick the middle wristband back to blue. You have returned, flesh and all.

“It’s fine.” You grumble as you uncork another potion. “Pelinae said that it can take time, it isn’t usually the first. Or third. So it could be this next one.”

‘She didn’t say that.’

You shove the thought away as you swipe back to orange. Bringing the thin vial (a white circle with a corner sliced away) to your nose, a deep burnt ashen smell floods into your nostrils.

A cough starts to surface and you shove your face into your sleeve to suppress it, then just as quickly draw it away. Your skin is hot, scalding hot underneath the skin with a passionate and deep orange glow. Looking into the mirror you watch a Fuilana’s skin ripple, blood bubbling inside until it sparks and ignites. Her skin is becoming flames itself, hair a dark cloud of smoke billowing behind her head, fingers and facial features becoming less distinct. Clothes and accessories untouched, thank goodness. Each breath she breathes tastes like a campfire that she could summon with the flick of her wrist. Her facial features have become less distinguishable; eyebrows and nose and ears completely gone and her eyes and mouth becoming mere holes for the vibrant light inside of her.

Her eyes billow steam from a smothered flame.

Orange to blue. The room goes dark.

“One of these has to work, hermana. Come on. Come on.”

Blue to orange. You uncork a thick topper (a black square next to a white pentagon) to reveal some sort of glitter. You take a pinch and sprinkle it onto your head. No immediate physical change is apparent in your reflection, no new sense or feeling sparks forth. Is this some sort of change to your general essence, how you smell or–

Oh. Oh god wait, no you can feel it. There’s something growing between your legs– ew, ew ew absolutely not. It works for some people but this feels disgusting on you, you switch that bracelet back immediately before it snakes any further.

“Come on. There’s got to be hundreds of these things, one of them has to ‘click.’”

‘What makes you so confident in that?’

Blue to orange. Another vial, an ointment that smells like varnish. You take a dapple and spread it across your cheeks. In minutes you meet a Fuilana that has her joints stiff and splintered and each crevice sprouting a nail or screw or hinge. Tangled and black dyed hemp sags on her shoulders. Every limb detachable and re-tachable with merely a twist of an arm. A doll maker’s masterpiece, a labor of love that would have taken thousands of hours to perfect. And yet the paint in its eyes is faded. Orange to blue.

‘How many do you think this will take?’

“I don’t know. Maybe it’ll come to me all at once, seeing myself in the mirror like this. That’s how those two felt, right? It just ‘clicked’ and they sorted through their issues.”

Blue to orange. Another vial, a sip of some sort of tea. You meet a Fuilana whose eyes play tricks on you; no matter where you look, shadows don’t touch her quite right, she defies the laws of light itself and bends the fabric of reality around her, shadows always facing one direction. She wonders why you have created her with all of the pain you carried with you. Orange to blue.

‘Lobo said we have a strong sense of self, that was why we were able to walk with him yesterday. That’s probably why this isn’t working.’

“And that’s what Pel and Amora were like too before they found out who they were. I can do this.”

Blue to orange. A glittery haze you walk through like perfume. Fuilana stares back at you in a shrunken form standing on the countertop, cat hackles raised up as she leans against the mirror and her slitted pupils plead to you for some form of release, tears prickling against her eyes. Orange to blue.

“Why?” You gnaw against the cork for another vial, biting hard enough to clench your jaw and distract with pain. “What else am I missing, how can I have this many options and none of them still feel right?”

‘…we already know why, Lana.’

The cork was a twist cap. Pulling it out reveals a long stick with a brush at the end. Nail polish? But no, the brush is wooden and intricate like a paintbrush. You bring it to Fuilana’s eyes, dappling the material against them and blotting out the years upon wasted years of baggage. The bags are gone. Your eyes still look exhausted.

“Pel used to be a human and is still human, she just changed her body. M-maybe THAT is what I need!”

‘No, Lana. You know.’

You flush the brush across Fuilana’s eyes, morphing the lime green to a deep purple, make them glow. She still looks exhausted.

‘You don’t need to like yourself to have a strong sense of self.’

You remove the wrinkles from countless work shifts wasted, soften the callouses in her hands, remove the scars from broken glass and splinters. She still looks exhausted. Her eyes sting.

‘None of this is going to work. You’re not like them. The happiness and fulfillment you’re chasing is theirs. Not yours.’

“No. No there has to be something! Why else would I feel this way every time I look in the mirror? Why do I still feel this miserable when things are finally better now?”

Paint over the cracks, spackle over sagging cheeks, dump the entire damn canister down your hair and tear through the strands to straighten out every last knot you can. The tears are smearing the paint, wipe them away and add another layer. Chest larger? Nails longer? Hide the stretch marks? What’s left?! How much do you need to do in order to feel happy in your own skin?!

‘It isn’t working, Lana. Clean this up. Go home. Save yourself the trouble.’

“No. I c-can’t go back now, I need t–”

Your canvas disappears right before your eyes. The Changing Room has been plunged into darkness, your Binding Vow has disappeared again.

“G-god damn it, of all the times–!” You reach for invisible thread around your neck, clawing, slapping at it, staring back at the mirror searching for any discerning features to pop out to

…you can feel the air shift. Someone is here.

Breath clogged in your lungs, eyes burning, you grab a vial at random and whirl around ready to splash rancid potion juice in the face of the new threat. But no attack comes. You are just met with a familiar, blood red gaze in the corner shadows. Its expression holds an exhaustion unmatched by all other Fuilanas you created tonight.

“We can’t keep doing this, perrita.”

‘Party’s over.’

A sob cracks through your shoddy craftsmanship. The vial is lowered back to the table improperly and fairy dust spills across the counter. The finality strangling your throat and stinging your eyes. You don’t say anything, as if you staying quiet enough could stop time or turn back the clock.

“I told you following Dionysus was a bad idea. And now here you are. With one more crisis of faith to your name.” The twin moons slowly blink. “How many more times will you throw yourself into an existential spiral until you realize all it does is hurt you?”

You say nothing. Focusing on a lone dot of light on the stone floor. The clock does not wind back.

“…come on.” Lobo’s paw step over it, smothering the light. “We’re leaving.”

You turn away from him, gripping the counter. “…just, five more minutes.”

“No. We’re done here.” The footsteps halt right behind you. You look into the mirror, and Lobo’s finality is staring back. Waiting for you.

You keep your eyes down, biting your lip to stop it from trembling. With just a few more vials, a few more potions, maybe you would have…

“…la puta madre, of course. It’s the same as it is for all mortals.” Lobo growls. “Even when they have everything they could ever ask for, everything they could need to be happy, they still crave more. I’ve told you before Fuilana: this is not the realm of the living anymore. Stop trying to be something you’re not. You have to accept that, stop trying to reach for whatever idea of something better that crawled its way into your brain.”

“..…I know.” A whisper is all you can manage right now.

“It’s clear that you don’t. Now come on, you don’t–”

“I already know what I am.”

Even in the dark you can feel his scowl from the interruption. But he stays quiet.

“I… I already know that I’m a screw up. Someone who, somehow, keeps on running away from any good that I have without ever managing to actually g-go anywhere. I traded by family for some far away art school, those plans for a grease bucket, my life for a god damn amulet. I know I’m doing it right now too. Amora and Pelinae will probably never talk to me again, I kn-know. And I– I hate it! I hate being this way, I hate, being this person! I don’t want to be this person anymore! Even now I have everything I asked for and I still can’t be happy with who I am, keep making mistakes that make people ashamed to even be associated with me!”

‘I didn’t ask for any of this!’
‘That I never asked for!!’
‘I thought it’s already been made clear, since you all have been talking about us behind our backs: I did not–!’

Lobo’s words keep circling around in your mind, over and over and over. Don’t cry now, Lana. You’re the one that rooted around in someone else’s stuff, doing the same shit you did when you were alive, you don’t get to do that here.

“And I– I’m trying! I really am!” You turn and look up into Lobo’s eyes. The moons are full, wide. “I tried, for months, to just relax and just do what I loved, live how I’ve always wanted, but apparently the things I dedicated my life to aren’t enough anymore either! I have time to breathe, to eat good food, read books play games talk to literal Gods and somehow that’s still not enough! There are people who can live happily like this, who would kill for this life, so why can’t I just accept that? Why am I so scared to go back?!”

Movement, in the dark. A beam of light grazes Lobo’s maw, partially hanging open, then disappears. You try to breathe but the vomit just keeps coming.

“A-and then I come here, I see all these people that are happy as they are, were happy with themselves right when they died, and reinvented themselves. They hated themselves, there was something missing, they found it, and now they’re happy. That has to be why I keep making all these stupid mistakes, right? Why I keep being an idiot that keeps throwing things away, right? Because I haven’t found whatever that thing is for me? If I find it, I’ll be a better person, right?! I can be satisfied with who I am and the life I have and can go back with you and all the decisions that lead up to it will have been worth it, because that means nobody will get hurt from me making all of these stupid choices again!” You squeeze your eyes against your palms, trying to stop all these tears that other people deserve to shed more. You’ve skydived, you were bit by a hot wolf girl, you got to be a swan and a wolf and so many other things that people could only dream of, you don’t get to cry!

“.....…I didn’t......”

“I d-don’t want to burden you, or Vida, or Amora, or Pel, or anyone else because of who I am!” You turn back to the counter, feeling around for any unopened vials, there has to be something else here. “S-so I have to keep looking, I have to find it. So I can earn all of the kindness you all keep wasting on me! And then the next time w-we meet somebody, you won’t have to be embarrassed because I’m there, and constantly have to tell people you never wanted–”

Lobo’s arms wrap around your chest. You flinch, bracing for him to pull you away, force the potions from your hands, throw them on the floor and drag you by the wrist back to his realm. But he doesn’t. He holds his arms around you, one above your right shoulder and the other below your left.

“I’m sorry.” Lobo whispers.

“......wh-what?”

“I’m sorry.” Lobo repeats, his chin presses against your shoulder. “I never should have said… never should have let you feel like this.”

......really? Now? Of all times? After you finally figured out what was wrong with you? After all the things he’s said?

Both arms reach up to try and tear his away, but when they land on his arms they barely have any strength left. It’s cold in his embrace, an invisible frost prickling into the cracks of your skin left unpainted.

“I starved you of connection, of freedom.Then judged you for wanting more. I agreed to let you stay and then denied you those facets of existence, denied you that curiosity. Even the mere act of changing clothes, self expression, I stripped that away. As if this wouldn’t happen. As if a single house would be enough to make anyone happy.” Lobo presses his paws into you. Not quite a comforting squeeze, but he goes out of his way to ensure his claws don’t touch you. “Nobody has the right to do that. Not any of us ‘gods...’ least of all me. Hypócrita… I’m sorry…”

You feel Lobo’s posture shift, and then, a glow. The Binding Vow between you and the god reappears, each of your necks tied together. His grey around yours, your white around his. A vow that the both of you would accept the outcome of the coin flip, whatever it may be.

Lobo is hunched over to have his arms embrace your body properly. He… doesn’t seem to have done this much before. But he looks tired. So, so tired. You’ve seen it before. Every time you looked in a mirror back running the tavern you saw this face, because you knew the day that would come would be just as horrible as the last. Dreading the certainty that would come.

The God of Death holds the point where white and grey meet, tied into a knot woven by your shared promise. Offering it to you. “If you… if you want to stay here, with your new friends… build a proper life for yourself… then I won’t stop you.”

Your body tenses even tighter, crushed into a vice by the weight of this choice. You realize you haven’t breathed for several minutes and can hardly breathe any more, swallowing every salty tear to let them boil in your stomach. Why now, when you never even asked in the first place? Couldn’t he have done this sooner and saved you all the trouble?

Taking the grey string of the Sacred Vow in your hands is like holding air, yet the string feels heavy. After three months, you finally have what you had asked for when you first made that deal. Friends who understand you, endless possibilities, endless things to do. Dionysus is a little frustrating considering he planned for your arrival, but does that matter with so many other Mortems here? You can reinvent yourself, find that missing piece you were looking for. Drink all these potions you want. After all this time.

And yet. Looking into the mirror, at who Lobo is holding. The person is wearing your clothes, but you struggle to recognize her. Her hair, straight, falls past her shoulders to her mid-back. Breasts push against her shirt uncomfortably, skin too smooth for any human to have. And despite stinging from held back tears her eyes are bright and open but in a way that doesn’t appear natural. There are no bags, no exhaustion, no anything.

She is a stranger.

“....…I think I want to go.” You look down at Lobo’s arms, holding this alien body. You don’t have the energy to make this choice now. You want something familiar. “I’m tired. Can we leave... please?”

The blood moon skies open wide. You can feel Lobo draw breath against your back. Shock, yet relief. Many breaths later, Lobo lets the thread go and takes your hand. The room goes dark again as his fingers lace together with yours.

“Let’s go.”

Lobo opens the door to the Changing Room, met with the architecture of the entrance hall that had begun your night. No Relivers visible, the doorway led to a side hallway leading to some sort of bathroom or closet. The sound and smell of Dio’s crappy, gag-inducing wine pool lets you know you’re in the right place.

You look back at the mess you made in Pelinae’s room, still covered in darkness. It felt dirtier to rummage through all of your friend’s things then hide it from her. You cleaned up the mess you made then left her a note by the mirror with all of the vials you took, apologizing for using her things and leaving without saying goodbye. Maybe you’ll have the chance to say so later. Maybe you won’t. One final whisper is all you can muster as you step away and close the door behind you.

Lord Cheekbones’ castle is just as bustling as it was when you first arrived. But as you walk next to Lobo, sulking through the halls and apologizing for pushing people out of the way, the atmosphere grows cold and quiet. Dancers and wallflowers and party animals stop cold when they see you and your tear stained cheeks, walking with Death’s arm against your back.

“Oy, are ya alright, lass?”
“Hey, what did you say to her?!”
“I knew that wolf ‘s trouble.”

Lobo guides you along silently.

Both of you turn a corner and are met with the pool of wine. It’s the main entranceway for Dio’s realm. One way in, one way out. The wolf raises his hand as you step closer, the dark water beginning to part. At least that’s one thing you don’t have to worry about–

“Fuilana!”

You flinch. Just hearing their voice sends all sorts of mixed feelings through you: guilt, frustration, a slight joy. That’s the God of Wine, he certainly fits that to a T.

“I was looking all over for you!” Dionysus says, voice steeped in concern and relief. “Listen, I’m really sorry about the argument back in–”

You turn to face the satyr with Lobo’s paw still against your back. Dionysus stands a short distance behind you and Lobo, panting as if he’s out of breath despite you not hearing a single hoof-fall from his run here. Dio looks at your face, tired and red-eyed and huddled close to the reaper. Observes whatever moment just occurred between you and the wolf. His face shifts and morphs wildly at the sight of you: thankful, shocked, confused.

Finally landing on ‘slighted,’ the goat stands tall and stomps forward.

“Let her go, Muerte.”

The wolf scowls at Dionysus, turning to create a barrier between you and him. “You are stepping out of line, kambing. This isn’t another damsel for you to save.”

“Oh really? Tell me then: what am I seeing here?” Dio gestures to the two of you. “You’re here, with the little lady that you’ve kept trapped in your realm, forcing her out after she just discovered you were keeping vital information from her. HOW am I supposed to see this, Muerte?!”

“He did what?”
“No surprise me.”
“To his own Reliver?”

Dionysus is raising his voice to attract the attention of even more people. You want to jump into that pool right now and be done with this. But you were the one who ran and didn’t bother to say goodbye. You at least owe that to him, and clear up the confusion around Lobo.

Lobo starts to snarl and bare his fangs, no doubt having a perfect counter-insult to slam the god with (he truly can’t help himself, can he?). But he goes quiet as you place a hand on his arm, then step past him towards the God of Wine. Both deities stand silent as you walk: it’s as if the entire Reliver realm is holding its breath.

“Dio,” you say, putting on a doubtlessly exhausting looking smile, “I appreciate you putting this together for me. Tonight was fun, even with the extra… shit that happened. It gave me a lot to think about.”

Gold and purple eyes flicker around, searching for some sort of hidden meaning in your words. He starts to reach up a hand in concern, and you take it in both hands. “Thank you for all this. I just, need to go and think for a bit. We’ll talk later, alright?”

“I… I don’t…” Something unintelligible flashes across the goat’s face, some expression or feeling unique to gods you suppose. His ears slacken, but jaw clenches.

You squeeze his hand one more time, then wave goodbye as you step back to Lobo. The God of Death is frustrated, ‘Why did you feel the need to do that?’ Says the tensed brows. But he stays quiet, giving one last look to Dionysus, then putting his arm around you again as you both walk into the wine, and–

“FUILANA CORTEZ!”

"STOP!!!"

"Fuilana?"

"Fuilana?"

"I'm sorry, Lana. When I'm done with this...
You don't have to forgive me."

"Oh my stars..."
"Did he just..."
"That cannot be comfortable."

"Grrrhhhh, you bottom feeding, self-aggrandizing--
Invoking the True Name with a command that general?!
To what depths does your depravity go?!"

"I know. What I'm doing is horrible. But at least this way,"

Clop, clop, clop, clop

"she won't be fooled by whatever guilt trip you force into her head.
I don't know what you said to her, to make her go back crying with you.
But I have the word of hundreds of Relivers for how you've treated
mortals over the past several centuries. So I can take a stab at it."

"Rrrrhhh, this is pointless! Fuilana Cortez, awa--"

"You violate the Sacred Vow."

YANK

"gHRACK?! What in the--?!"

"So long as our Vow persists, we shall never again interfere in the lives
of mortals. They shall forge their own paths and make their own choices
for how they wish to live. No matter their actions, no matter how far
God or Mortal strays from our beliefs, we shall honor their choices,
from now until the end of days."

"You dare, grrk, recite those words at me...
when you did even not exist then?! Is this what you call, 
'honoring their choices?!'"

"You didn't let her choose, you tricked her with your guilt to keep one of
your toys. I'm no better, I'm well aware. But she chose to pour my wine,
she chose to enter my realm, which means she chose to do all the steps
to become one of my Relivers.
But with how often you resort to low and underhanded tricks,
just to torture people and get your rocks off? I felt this was appropriate."

Stomp!

"You trying to take Fuilana, trying to overwrite a choice you
swore to honor, is in violation of The Sacred Vow! She is under MY care,
and I won't let you seal her off from the rest of existence anymore!"

"...y-yeah, yeah!! You can't touch us anymore, Death! Leave her alone!!"
"Yeah! She deserves better than you!"
"Oh great deity of Freedom and Relief, exorcise this demon at once!
"HE MADE HER CRY, KICK HIS ASS TO KINGDOM COME!!"

"BLOOD TO WINE!"

"BLOOD TO WINE!"

"BLOOD TO WINE!"

"BLOOD TO WINE!"

"Do you understand now, Muerte?"

"BLOOD TO WINE!"

"You are the one who doesn't belong here. You know what Fuilana needs."

"BLOOD TO WINE!"

--chkrk--

"Now turn around, go back to your reapings, and let--"

CLANG

"To think. For even a moment, I had hought you changed for the better."

"Give her back. Now."

"...Do you see this, everyone? This is the true face of Death.
He terrorizes, tortures, destroys people's lives, all in the name of the
'natural order.' Yet when he has one chance to do actual good,
he endangers all of- wOA--"

CLANG

"Heywoah!"
"S-so fast!"
"The floor... it cracked just from jumping..."

"Give. Her. Back."

"What? How're you attacking-- whatever!
You violate the Sacred Vow."

"Wh-why isn't it...?"

"Mhm, mhhahahahaha... You haven't given this 'grand plan' much thought, little goat."

"What?"

"If I can't hurt you to take back Fuilana, then I won't. But you...
Out of all of these lofty and benevolent 'Gods...' you have always disgusted me the most
And you've finally given me a chance to share these frustrations with you, personally~"

"Th-!! That's enough!!"

C R A C K L E ! ! !

"W-woah, everyone hold on!"
"Ooooh, here it comes, I never thought I'd see this in person!!"
"M-miss Cortez?!"
"Green your wristbands if you haven't yet, y'all!"

"This is MY realm, Muerte. MY home turf, MY rules! And I'm not the
same weakling from when we last met. I WILL protect my herd!
Now!"

"LET'S DO THIS!"
[https://youtu.be/yHgIYfNF8kY?si=3xjODpj9NQxIH-Es]

CLANG

CRACKLE

KRAK-

"HIT THE DECK!"

-KRAK-

-KRAKOOM

B A D R U M
B     O     O     M    -
B     A     U     M     !    !    !

"Gang, the tables! Get behind the tables"

F W O O O O --

"Grrh!! Not this time, Muerte! No fire allowed!!"

KRKCRCKHSHKR- CRACKLE

FFFRRRWEE-

KRIKOOOMM

"H-hey, lady! What're you-?!"

KRING- KLANG
CRACK- CRACKLE

"C-come on Miss Cortez, come on! GhrrrRRH!!"

"Stop, WRECKING THE PLACE!"

KRRSHHH!!

C R A S H

"Haah, haah, you can do it Pel, grit and bear it! GRRHH!"

"All of you runts, OUT OF THE WAY!!!"

"Aahh!!"

FWWI-BUUOOM!!

"Haaah, why couldn't have Amora have found-- HRRRNNNGHGH!!"

"You're scaring my Relievers, Muerte! Can't you think about
where you're FIGHTING?!"

"HHNGGRGHCOME ON!!"

"Worry about yourself first, Cabrito~"

CLASH!!

BVWOOOM!!

"Right in here, right in here Miss Cortez! HRRRGHHH!!"

"Why don't we take this-!"

C R A S H

"OUTSIDE!!"

"Come on, come on--!"

CLICK

"Haahh... haahhhh... That should do... for now..."

"...the bathroom...? Ah, right. Few come into these anymore..."

Shhff

"Miss Cortez? Can you hear me?"

"Frozen, in time? Stasis? An invocation of the True Name, most likely.
Why would... Did Death do this?"

"...No. Earlier, Dionysus. He said, 'I will protect my herd.' Did he...?"

_KRAKOOMMM

"...at least you are not conscious for any of this. Let me..."

Schuff, fwmmph, schffmf.

"Hopefully that will ease your transition upon your wake."

"...I don't understand."

Shfflf, fwip.

"Why did you disappear so suddenly? Why go through my supply?
If you merely asked, I would have provided them openly, as I do
to all Relivers. Were you scared of asking at all? Or scared of something else?"

"In Amora's room. We were discussing our lives, our final days, before you had
asked us for the first time about changing. Some sort of, tavern? And an amulet?
A mirror? But then later, when you chose the shawl, the woman you discussed.
You were fixated on her, yet you disliked the new form..."

"...you never were fixated on changing your body, were you, Miss Cortez?"

_DWWOOOOOMMMN

--kkrkck--

"Huh? What was...?"

"...Miss Corte--" 

_{"PEL?! LANA?!"}

"Amora? AMORA!! IN HERE!!"

_{Stomp, stomp, stomp,}

Stomp stomp STOMP

SLAM

"Pel!!"

"Amy!!"

Fwumf!!

"Oh, oh Blood to Wine, you're okay... Are you okay?
No scratches, burns, nothing?"

"I'm fine, I'm okay. I'm sorry for running off like that.
How are things out there?"

"It's getting crazy, Pel. Those two are tearing apart the entire mansion,
even some other venues! Dio made a giant stage with the crumbled
remains and now they're- Oh. Oh shit."

"It's okay, she's not hurt. I think... I think Dionysus did this."

"...well fuck."

"Come on, come in. Make yourself comfortable, I suppose."

_{"SEVEN SCOURGES OF-!!"}

Click.

Step, step, step

"Never thought I'd be around to get front row seats to a god fight.
Wish we didn't have to be in the splash zone for it."

"Are the rest of the Relivers safe as well?"

"Don't worry, they're fine. D put up a shield or, something, and
all of them are healed from the fight in the entrance hall.
Though a lot of them ran to the stage he set up, cheer him on. C'mere."

Schff.

"And he allowed it? Ugh, who am I fooling, of course he did. He's
voiced his displeasure at Death for centuries now, he's likely
reveling in this."

"...I mean, it does look pretty cool out there. All the lights, and
D's syncing his attacks to the music and-"

"Amora, this is serious."

"Sorry! Sorry."

"No, I'll admit I'm curious as well. But I can't just leave Miss Cortez."

"Can she hear us, like this?"

"I don't think so. Dionysus doesn't do this often, but the last time he's
done so, he reassured those in presence that it would be like the frozen
person was dreaming."

"Nice of you to give her a pillow and blankets, then."

"Even still. Invoking a True Name like this, it's not something to be taken
lightly. Our god was able to strike down Gretir with a mere hand, so what
circumstance would lead to this?"

"Was the other wolf guy she came with dragging her away, and
that stopped him?"

"No. I don't think so. There are countless ways to do that, and I was able
to drag her here. The only reason I could see as to why he would do
this would be to stop her from doing something. And if she was at the
entrance hall..."

"Hm... well, we can always ask her when she wakes up, I guess. We'll get
her to her new room, let her rest, then ask some questions."

"Her new room... what?"