~ It was a modest group. Frighteningly so. For as their numbers dwindled, so too did the sand fall ever faster from the hourglass encapsulating my existence. Chronos might very well be giddy in his throne, his Fates equally amused by the irony it would be to sever my Silver Cord.
This world would have no need of me soon. No need for the Wraith that I am to ferry them across the Veil and into Elysium, or —more commonly— the Underworld.
A large part of me danced with the idea of ceasing for many a millenia, and yet as I come to face the possibility... well, it's much less romantic than I'd assumed it would be. Perhaps this is what mortals call fear, a term I have long known but could hardly empathize with.
I haven't a mirror, but I see my face in their own now: the surviving few with whom I've begun to feel a sense of kinship. An astounding 37 to be exact. All of them presently engaged in some manner of quiet panic as they idled on menial tasks or some other such method of distraction.
I drift past them as a cool shift in the air within their makeshift stronghold: an underground subway far enough from the epicenter of the long foretold outbreak of Undead that it offered some measure of safety. Its walls and, thanks to no small amount of resourcefulness or effort, fortifications were especially useful for keeping the "Walkers", as some of the mortals had taken to naming them, at bay.
Unease is never far, however, with the guttural moans echoing deep throughout the labyrinth of tunnels every so often. The mortals tell time this way now, knowing night has fallen when the din of ghouls is at its highest.
Many of them, the living that is, have made friends and whisper together in hushed, shaky tones. Amongst all the worries they share, the doomsaying, and despair ridden nightmares, I am warmed to find each mortal still yet harbors a wild hope to go on. To live.
I had last accompanied from their number a weathered old woman of 71, precisely 194 days ago, and not another soul since. For their hope was contagious. Rather, I've found myself to have adopted my own idle behaviors, such as staying the hand of the Nosoi; ancient spirits of plague, sickness, and disease. A bargain was struck, of course, and for now, they would settle for assisting in the expedited rot of the Undead.
I, on the otherhand, was better suited as a different sort of guide these days. While the mortals could neither see nor hear me, it was evident they could very much feel my presence. So whenever I wasn't privately repairing some form of barrier or causing a strategic cave-in to redirect or stop the Undead, I would use my presence to steer the mortals away from danger.
For a while, they merely assumed the Undead were always preceeded by dreaded cold air.
Pathfinder was the first to trust the ethereal cold that was my presence for what it was, and was so named by his peers for consistently leading them to safety and good fortune. Be it shelter, food, or safety whenever there was a need to venture out for supplies.
Death, ironically, became a cold comfort.
The old woman had been grandmother to this Pathfinder; a curiously driven and bright young man of 31, who likely sensed me more clearly ever since I'd recklessly tried to comfort him the day I claimed his last living relative. I might have known by his lack of usual reaction at the time, somehow overcome with truly taking in his simultaneously dignified and purely emotional way of mourning.
These moments are all the same, I had often thought, so trivial. After so very, very many, I had stopped watching, even caring. I do suppose my sudden urge to observe may have had something to do with the very real possibility that these moments were now numbered. Perhaps they always had been.
But, rather than jump, shiver, or even faint as anyone normally might do when touched by the hand of Death, he'd instead taken in a deep and steadying breath. If I'd been tangible, it might have been as though he'd relaxed beneath the cool feel of my pale hand upon his shoulder.
That moment had somehow emboldened me to help them. I felt it was a gesture of trust on his part, and somehow, it was endearing enough that I wanted to try.
By proxy, of course, I'd also be helping myself... but if my existence in this realm truly was meant to end, then I'd be damned if I didn't at least make that pompous bastard of a God Chronus wait. He always did hate waiting.
And so it was decided: I would stand against whatever came for the flock of mortals that I, along with this Pathfinder, would now shepherd.
Fun_Positive8126 t1_j868fqd wrote
Reply to [WP] You are Death, but in a post-apocalyptic world. Only a few survivors remain, and you're doing everything you can to help them because if the last human dies, you die as well. The survivors can't see you, but they feel your presence and notice you efforts. They started to call you Life. by Frosty-Ad-1284
A Guiding Chill
~ It was a modest group. Frighteningly so. For as their numbers dwindled, so too did the sand fall ever faster from the hourglass encapsulating my existence. Chronos might very well be giddy in his throne, his Fates equally amused by the irony it would be to sever my Silver Cord.
This world would have no need of me soon. No need for the Wraith that I am to ferry them across the Veil and into Elysium, or —more commonly— the Underworld.
A large part of me danced with the idea of ceasing for many a millenia, and yet as I come to face the possibility... well, it's much less romantic than I'd assumed it would be. Perhaps this is what mortals call fear, a term I have long known but could hardly empathize with.
I haven't a mirror, but I see my face in their own now: the surviving few with whom I've begun to feel a sense of kinship. An astounding 37 to be exact. All of them presently engaged in some manner of quiet panic as they idled on menial tasks or some other such method of distraction.
I drift past them as a cool shift in the air within their makeshift stronghold: an underground subway far enough from the epicenter of the long foretold outbreak of Undead that it offered some measure of safety. Its walls and, thanks to no small amount of resourcefulness or effort, fortifications were especially useful for keeping the "Walkers", as some of the mortals had taken to naming them, at bay.
Unease is never far, however, with the guttural moans echoing deep throughout the labyrinth of tunnels every so often. The mortals tell time this way now, knowing night has fallen when the din of ghouls is at its highest.
Many of them, the living that is, have made friends and whisper together in hushed, shaky tones. Amongst all the worries they share, the doomsaying, and despair ridden nightmares, I am warmed to find each mortal still yet harbors a wild hope to go on. To live.
I had last accompanied from their number a weathered old woman of 71, precisely 194 days ago, and not another soul since. For their hope was contagious. Rather, I've found myself to have adopted my own idle behaviors, such as staying the hand of the Nosoi; ancient spirits of plague, sickness, and disease. A bargain was struck, of course, and for now, they would settle for assisting in the expedited rot of the Undead.
I, on the otherhand, was better suited as a different sort of guide these days. While the mortals could neither see nor hear me, it was evident they could very much feel my presence. So whenever I wasn't privately repairing some form of barrier or causing a strategic cave-in to redirect or stop the Undead, I would use my presence to steer the mortals away from danger.
For a while, they merely assumed the Undead were always preceeded by dreaded cold air.
Pathfinder was the first to trust the ethereal cold that was my presence for what it was, and was so named by his peers for consistently leading them to safety and good fortune. Be it shelter, food, or safety whenever there was a need to venture out for supplies.
Death, ironically, became a cold comfort.
The old woman had been grandmother to this Pathfinder; a curiously driven and bright young man of 31, who likely sensed me more clearly ever since I'd recklessly tried to comfort him the day I claimed his last living relative. I might have known by his lack of usual reaction at the time, somehow overcome with truly taking in his simultaneously dignified and purely emotional way of mourning.
These moments are all the same, I had often thought, so trivial. After so very, very many, I had stopped watching, even caring. I do suppose my sudden urge to observe may have had something to do with the very real possibility that these moments were now numbered. Perhaps they always had been.
But, rather than jump, shiver, or even faint as anyone normally might do when touched by the hand of Death, he'd instead taken in a deep and steadying breath. If I'd been tangible, it might have been as though he'd relaxed beneath the cool feel of my pale hand upon his shoulder.
That moment had somehow emboldened me to help them. I felt it was a gesture of trust on his part, and somehow, it was endearing enough that I wanted to try.
By proxy, of course, I'd also be helping myself... but if my existence in this realm truly was meant to end, then I'd be damned if I didn't at least make that pompous bastard of a God Chronus wait. He always did hate waiting.
And so it was decided: I would stand against whatever came for the flock of mortals that I, along with this Pathfinder, would now shepherd.
Be it until the very final grain of sand. ~
—S. PhiaKey