[Prelude] Death on Holiday
Posted: Fri Mar 04, 2011 4:06 am
I need a vacation. We've all thought it at one point or another. Whether or not we were deserving is another matter entirely, but if anyone ever deserved a vacation it was this grim and brooding woman. Some people were workaholics, spending all their free hours making their way up a corporate ladder or some such advancement. For this femme fatale a lifelong (see: ETERNITY) workload had been hefted upon her shoulders practically at birth. It was a business that was kept in the family, and could only be managed by members of the family even if someone else wanted in- which was never the case.
At the moment thoughts of a brief respite crossed her mind, she sat in a large throne constructed of bones. Before you think too much of it, it wasn't her idea- some arrogant jerk that had come before her some two or three hundred years ago thought it would add to the "atmosphere," and this moody lady wasn't one to care much about anything one way or another. She wasn't exactly sitting, either. Her legs curled over one armrest and her back was slumped against the other- and both armrests were constructed from intertwined forearm bones, humorously enough.
The chamber which housed this throne of death was vast and arched and also held a skeletal appearance, like the ribcage of a giant. The columns that rose periodically to uphold the stone weight looked the part of strained and stretching tendons. All of this was a dim gray-yellow hue along the struts, and everything in-between tended toward a dark-red that was almost black in its deepest recesses.The lighting was dim, mostly because she preferred it that way, but partly because being able to see this room fully lit up reminded her how much she disliked the architecture. Again, it was something she could easily change in a day, but she didn't bother herself with such a thing.
Her head was lazily laid back over the throne's curvature, eyes raised upward on the slip of paper which was gripped in one hand. Her free hand hung limply over the chair. She was the epitome of boredom. Clearly distressed with this state of being, she heaved a sigh and swung her legs to the floor so that she might rise to her feet. The paper in her hand was released and disappeared in a plume of black fire. Yes, black fire.
She was nothing like what one would expect or imagine the Grim Reaper to look. Sure, her flowing hair (it fell a couple inches past her shoulders) was midnight incarnate, her eyes were simmering coals, and she had an eternally stern (and bored) expression, but that was about as far as it went. Her knee-high black boots had modest inch-and-a-half heels, and a single silver buckle on the outside of either leg. White leggings covered everything (a measly 3 inches) that were not already hidden by the boots or black skirt. This latter item was adorned with a silver chain belt which served as a place to hang any valuables she carried while away from home. That, as you can imagine, was a rarity. A dressy black long-sleeve was covered by a white corset stylized with black trimming. The corset was honestly unnecessary and existed more in name than purpose as this was a woman that could have any body that she wanted (something she regularly noted as ironic). A silk black choker held a lone pearl to her neck, and a slim white tie settled between her breasts. It was worn only to irritate those she worked with; a slap in the face to every cohort and underling and arrogant prick that went about their business with an officious aura and stick up their ass. It said, "I would play your game, but I've already won."
In the time it had taken this Grim Reaper to rise from the throne, she had decided she would take her vacation and she would take it now. Forget everyone and everything else, she needed a solid twenty-four hours to herself; The living still measure by twenty-four hours, right? She shrugged, deciding it didn't really matter. It would be a full day, in any case. She stepped onto the seat of the throne with one foot and pulled her Death Cloak down from the bone-chair's high back. With a single flourish of her right arm she'd wrapped it about herself. Enrobed as such she was much easier to recognize as a harbinger of death (which is actually a fallacy... sort of). The cloak wrapped about her shoulders in several layers, a hood overshadowed her solemn features, and the ragged hem flowed all around her form in mostly unpredictable patterns, and flapped in an exaggerated fashion when she walked as though she were always striding through a hurricane. Beyond the heavy, arched, and heavily inscribed oak doors was the Great chasm. A mere twenty feet from the door was a ledge overlooking a great number of souls huddled in confusion and awaiting their judgment. The term souls is used literally in this case, they all being orbs of varying colors and shades. She took a brief glance down before looking up- today, down had no interest to her. Her desires and yearnings were beyond that seemingly infinite ceiling. No, no time to dally. She shook her head to clear it and strode to her right, toward her own personal Soul Gate.
Before, she strode through, however, there were some menial things to address. She knew before he had arrived that a satyr stood to her left, looking almost half as solemn as she. In comparison, he almost seemed happy, but the Reaper knew he was not- and she quite liked it that way. He was a lustful and licentious creature, but he was forbidden to speak to anyone but she. In this way he was doomed forever to be denied all his pleasure-seeking and frolicking. The satyr- Smith she had nominated him, offering the most generic namesake she knew- was aware of why she'd chosen him to be her aide, and despised her for it, but had neither the strength nor courage to do anything about it.
Absentmindedly Smith groped at the air in front of him and surrounding his hands began to pulse a black-purple orb- a summoning hole. From it he drew the Reaper's scythe. Well, he started to until she raised a hand to dismiss even the thought. Now Smith was befuddled. The Grim Reaper always took her Soul Scythe with her when she left the Underworld. "My apologies, Milady Reaper." He tucked it away and the summoning hole closed up. "Will you be departing for business or pleasure, then?" Naturally he assumed it was business, and so his shock was only worsened when the answer was, "Pleasure."
"I... Very well. Where shall you be going and for what duration will be your absence?" This was so odd, the words were hardly even registering in satyr's mind.
"I'm not sure... Where did your folken call home in yore days?" The pun did not slip past Smith's sharp mind, and he couldn't repress cocking a strange smile. It was carried by one who was pleasantly surprised.
"Italy. Why?"
"I'm going to Italy. Any suggestions?"
It was only getting stranger! She had asked him a question of opinion for the first time in... well, ever! "I, um... Well, they say Corsica is pleasant."
She almost winced at that. "Napoleon was such a dreadful creature. I'd rather not spend a vacation with his filthy visage filling my mind."
Again, he gave a pleasantly surprised smile. "Ah, well, Rome is nice."
She shook her head and finally turned to face the satyr- again, not a common occurrence. The Reaper even held his gaze. "No beaches there, though."
"You'd be correct. Ah... Venice. Venice is quite a splendid place. A beach, the canals, and quite the carting of history and art."
The Reaper's firmly set thin lips did not curve into a smile- it's likely that was impossible- but they seemed to soften from their rigid blankness in such a fashion that one would be willing to call the expression by such a name. "Quite. Venice, Italy, then, and for a day."
"Twenty-fours, then?" He had to verify for record keeping.
So I was right: still twenty-four hours. "Yes."
"Enjoy your trip then, Milady Reaper." Smith the satyr found himself saying those words genuinely. Her brighter mood was strangely infectious.
"I will, Smith. You ought to do likewise sometime."
Now Smith knitted his brows inquisitively. "Excuse me? I... You've granted me no such time... e-... ever."
That seemed to strike her as strange, even though she knew it full well. "Why Smith, I sure have. Just this moment, as a matter of fact. Twenty-four hours wherever you please."
The satyr was smiling and bowed as he backed away to go make plans. "I'll see you in a day then, Milady Reaper."
The door groaned as it opened. It did so as soon as the Grim Reaper thought of passing through and from it poured a great light. Her destination was experiencing a wonderfully sunny day. For a brief moment she remarked mentally that it was quite the stroke of luck as she hadn't even consulted a calendar in her planning. "A day, Smith," was her simple response. Then she stepped through the Soul Gate without looking back. The door would shut behind her and not leave a sign that it had ever existed. By the time the room had darkened, Smith was long gone.
On the beach of Venice, Italy stood a very different woman than had only seconds earlier stood in a dim and corporate-esque dungeon of a room. Unremarkable sunglasses shielded her silently simmering orbs. A black transparent gown covered a black bikini top and shorts. Her feet were bare, and though she wasn't smiling in the traditional sense, this Grim Reaper was quite happy and her lips curved a single iota upward. The birds called for play, the water begged for her companionship, and the sand tantalized the soles of her feet so as to keep her from ever leaving that spot. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Hm. This isn't so bad," she muttered to herself.
At the moment thoughts of a brief respite crossed her mind, she sat in a large throne constructed of bones. Before you think too much of it, it wasn't her idea- some arrogant jerk that had come before her some two or three hundred years ago thought it would add to the "atmosphere," and this moody lady wasn't one to care much about anything one way or another. She wasn't exactly sitting, either. Her legs curled over one armrest and her back was slumped against the other- and both armrests were constructed from intertwined forearm bones, humorously enough.
The chamber which housed this throne of death was vast and arched and also held a skeletal appearance, like the ribcage of a giant. The columns that rose periodically to uphold the stone weight looked the part of strained and stretching tendons. All of this was a dim gray-yellow hue along the struts, and everything in-between tended toward a dark-red that was almost black in its deepest recesses.The lighting was dim, mostly because she preferred it that way, but partly because being able to see this room fully lit up reminded her how much she disliked the architecture. Again, it was something she could easily change in a day, but she didn't bother herself with such a thing.
Her head was lazily laid back over the throne's curvature, eyes raised upward on the slip of paper which was gripped in one hand. Her free hand hung limply over the chair. She was the epitome of boredom. Clearly distressed with this state of being, she heaved a sigh and swung her legs to the floor so that she might rise to her feet. The paper in her hand was released and disappeared in a plume of black fire. Yes, black fire.
She was nothing like what one would expect or imagine the Grim Reaper to look. Sure, her flowing hair (it fell a couple inches past her shoulders) was midnight incarnate, her eyes were simmering coals, and she had an eternally stern (and bored) expression, but that was about as far as it went. Her knee-high black boots had modest inch-and-a-half heels, and a single silver buckle on the outside of either leg. White leggings covered everything (a measly 3 inches) that were not already hidden by the boots or black skirt. This latter item was adorned with a silver chain belt which served as a place to hang any valuables she carried while away from home. That, as you can imagine, was a rarity. A dressy black long-sleeve was covered by a white corset stylized with black trimming. The corset was honestly unnecessary and existed more in name than purpose as this was a woman that could have any body that she wanted (something she regularly noted as ironic). A silk black choker held a lone pearl to her neck, and a slim white tie settled between her breasts. It was worn only to irritate those she worked with; a slap in the face to every cohort and underling and arrogant prick that went about their business with an officious aura and stick up their ass. It said, "I would play your game, but I've already won."
In the time it had taken this Grim Reaper to rise from the throne, she had decided she would take her vacation and she would take it now. Forget everyone and everything else, she needed a solid twenty-four hours to herself; The living still measure by twenty-four hours, right? She shrugged, deciding it didn't really matter. It would be a full day, in any case. She stepped onto the seat of the throne with one foot and pulled her Death Cloak down from the bone-chair's high back. With a single flourish of her right arm she'd wrapped it about herself. Enrobed as such she was much easier to recognize as a harbinger of death (which is actually a fallacy... sort of). The cloak wrapped about her shoulders in several layers, a hood overshadowed her solemn features, and the ragged hem flowed all around her form in mostly unpredictable patterns, and flapped in an exaggerated fashion when she walked as though she were always striding through a hurricane. Beyond the heavy, arched, and heavily inscribed oak doors was the Great chasm. A mere twenty feet from the door was a ledge overlooking a great number of souls huddled in confusion and awaiting their judgment. The term souls is used literally in this case, they all being orbs of varying colors and shades. She took a brief glance down before looking up- today, down had no interest to her. Her desires and yearnings were beyond that seemingly infinite ceiling. No, no time to dally. She shook her head to clear it and strode to her right, toward her own personal Soul Gate.
Before, she strode through, however, there were some menial things to address. She knew before he had arrived that a satyr stood to her left, looking almost half as solemn as she. In comparison, he almost seemed happy, but the Reaper knew he was not- and she quite liked it that way. He was a lustful and licentious creature, but he was forbidden to speak to anyone but she. In this way he was doomed forever to be denied all his pleasure-seeking and frolicking. The satyr- Smith she had nominated him, offering the most generic namesake she knew- was aware of why she'd chosen him to be her aide, and despised her for it, but had neither the strength nor courage to do anything about it.
Absentmindedly Smith groped at the air in front of him and surrounding his hands began to pulse a black-purple orb- a summoning hole. From it he drew the Reaper's scythe. Well, he started to until she raised a hand to dismiss even the thought. Now Smith was befuddled. The Grim Reaper always took her Soul Scythe with her when she left the Underworld. "My apologies, Milady Reaper." He tucked it away and the summoning hole closed up. "Will you be departing for business or pleasure, then?" Naturally he assumed it was business, and so his shock was only worsened when the answer was, "Pleasure."
"I... Very well. Where shall you be going and for what duration will be your absence?" This was so odd, the words were hardly even registering in satyr's mind.
"I'm not sure... Where did your folken call home in yore days?" The pun did not slip past Smith's sharp mind, and he couldn't repress cocking a strange smile. It was carried by one who was pleasantly surprised.
"Italy. Why?"
"I'm going to Italy. Any suggestions?"
It was only getting stranger! She had asked him a question of opinion for the first time in... well, ever! "I, um... Well, they say Corsica is pleasant."
She almost winced at that. "Napoleon was such a dreadful creature. I'd rather not spend a vacation with his filthy visage filling my mind."
Again, he gave a pleasantly surprised smile. "Ah, well, Rome is nice."
She shook her head and finally turned to face the satyr- again, not a common occurrence. The Reaper even held his gaze. "No beaches there, though."
"You'd be correct. Ah... Venice. Venice is quite a splendid place. A beach, the canals, and quite the carting of history and art."
The Reaper's firmly set thin lips did not curve into a smile- it's likely that was impossible- but they seemed to soften from their rigid blankness in such a fashion that one would be willing to call the expression by such a name. "Quite. Venice, Italy, then, and for a day."
"Twenty-fours, then?" He had to verify for record keeping.
So I was right: still twenty-four hours. "Yes."
"Enjoy your trip then, Milady Reaper." Smith the satyr found himself saying those words genuinely. Her brighter mood was strangely infectious.
"I will, Smith. You ought to do likewise sometime."
Now Smith knitted his brows inquisitively. "Excuse me? I... You've granted me no such time... e-... ever."
That seemed to strike her as strange, even though she knew it full well. "Why Smith, I sure have. Just this moment, as a matter of fact. Twenty-four hours wherever you please."
The satyr was smiling and bowed as he backed away to go make plans. "I'll see you in a day then, Milady Reaper."
The door groaned as it opened. It did so as soon as the Grim Reaper thought of passing through and from it poured a great light. Her destination was experiencing a wonderfully sunny day. For a brief moment she remarked mentally that it was quite the stroke of luck as she hadn't even consulted a calendar in her planning. "A day, Smith," was her simple response. Then she stepped through the Soul Gate without looking back. The door would shut behind her and not leave a sign that it had ever existed. By the time the room had darkened, Smith was long gone.
On the beach of Venice, Italy stood a very different woman than had only seconds earlier stood in a dim and corporate-esque dungeon of a room. Unremarkable sunglasses shielded her silently simmering orbs. A black transparent gown covered a black bikini top and shorts. Her feet were bare, and though she wasn't smiling in the traditional sense, this Grim Reaper was quite happy and her lips curved a single iota upward. The birds called for play, the water begged for her companionship, and the sand tantalized the soles of her feet so as to keep her from ever leaving that spot. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Hm. This isn't so bad," she muttered to herself.