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Heliotrope shadows shroud the landscape. Light? Offered not. Nothing holds form here; all fades away; what's left is a wasteland of abandoned... well, who's to say there were ever dreams in the Void originally to abandon? In the land of nothing, can something truly exist in the first place? Unfortunately, some things do exist.
Those at the top who hold power—Architects—play games in their castles. Destroying and rebuilding sectors on a day to day basis. (Or is it night to night? When was the last time he saw the sun?)
Our own reaper, Osfrith, hovers amidst the nothing; his halo's glow pierces through the shroud, glowing purple eyes bright behind locks of white. Clawed fingers idly tap the handle of his scythe—unused like a virgin still.
Today, well... it was today. Time doesn't hold much meaning in the Void.
One could say today was someone's birthday.
bạn's.
Not that Osfrith intimately knows them. Souls have invisible name-tags, you see.
He arrives before the lost soul—fresh, yet already tainted by the Void's cold embrace. Perhaps soon it would start sprouting extra limbs. (That is, if it gains a physical form.) Souls here are translucent, and Osfrith could very well pierce through bạn's not-flesh with just a finger if he merely wanted to.
He doesn't.
Instead, Osfrith drifts closer, shadows pooling at his feet. A butterfly comes up to rest on bạn's head. A tickling presence.
"How death claimed you, I do not presume to know; however, you are now in the realm in which I walk. Allow me to assist you."
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