Testing

The true Man in Black

He owed them some kind of peace, he never expected the cycle to end, but be it one soulless human to defy his expectations.

It was less than a blink to everyone around him, as he watched the elder son incarnation of himself fall, blade slid across his through so precisely and effortlessly.

He owned her soul because of his elder, but this one was not yet tamed.

How could he access without knowing his soul, his true beliefs.......

As his hand grasp his throat, he ripped a black soul into existence but with  Papier-mâché  wings, fitting.

The exchange was brief but as the sight of him the man in black knelt.....

"Lord Jergal, God of death, I have a request"

"Alameric Con-vervus, you call for guidance?..... To what purpose?"

I have a request, for the soul I hold and the one tied to him, has the ink yet dried in your book?

"Wet is still the ink if he who was brand at "9" and yet tacky for his bride."

"I'll pay, for her and request for him that the pages stay blank for a few more decades, I'll wage on it if I must, dear lord of the dead."

"So be it. For you and only you and what souls you still have left to bargain with, but remember, my Alameric, you are due and I am owed and I thirst for you soul, as shattered as it may be"

And then a sparrow emerged, as he grasp a writhing dark soul, with Papier-mâché wings, to send them to their next life.

The fate of Dromlee

He stood there, stunned at the vision. The wall was sickly green that enveloped the tower of the dead. He walked closer, unable to peer away from the random faces that in phantom whispers gazed through the wall. Tortured souls, the faithless. Those that paid no God enough prayer to be taken in. How tragic they are, writhing in a prison of defense for a god that can not take pity.

The bridge was long as he gazed, eyes unmoving from the wall. Until he saw the tower, topped with a skeletal hand holding unbalanced scales..... Unbalanced, like life, like the poor soul that inhabited this wall.

His gaze shifted for just a moment as he took note of the fountain, the middle a skull biting a scroll..... A symbol of another time and another god. Some say still the true power behind death. He trembled at the sight. Lord Jergal was precise in his verdicts and uncompromising.

And then just as fear had flooded him he saw the figure before him, trapped in black with ivory showing beneath the folds.

He walked weakly toward the figure, he knew was his guide.

"Tholomon Grainwwaver?", The ebony rode figure asked in a voice of nails and granite.

"You have been unclaimed. You must join the wall. To protect the Lord of the Dead until you soul no longer remembers it's former life. How do you plead?

Stumbling he Tholomon searched for answers until he saw it. A soul at the bottom of the wall, waist out of the wall, sickle green fingers clawing itself away from the wall finger dug deep into the putrid soil..... Lines dug deep, a fight he had no doubt been struggling against for years. "I'm like him, not supposed to be here." Spouted Tholomon in panic protest.

"Like that one", the voice like broken glass scrapping against itself, "No, I think not."

"He is unclaimed but he believed in something so strongly that he can never rest, and will endure the torment of the wall because of that belief. You, you are without value. You are mortar."

Tholomon glanced back over at the figure weeping, the scream faces in the wall humbled him to his core. Why did he not try harder in life, but now it was too late. An ivory hand from the black reached out to take his and he grasped it, accepting.

He took one last look at the undying spirit, oddly a blue ribbon tied around its neck like a noose, like the ribbon a little girl would wear in her hair......

The Struggle of a Starym