Death, a good book and dark... chocolate

[Tazered]

Nec mortem effugere quisquam nec amorem potest
-No one can flee from death, or love...

Prologue

And so they waited,
Witness from conception,
In silence bated.

Companion through life,
More constant than any lover;
In peace and in strife.

Our suffering, ameliorated;
With humbling consolation,
Until the hour fated.

And so they waited,
Now and forever,
In silence bated.

-The Companion, Death and Bad Poetry

~

And he remembered what it was that he had forgotten, that caused such a nagging sense of longing.

It was a lock of red hair...

~

As Harry vanished, what was once Albus Dumbledore looked upon the Master of Death.

"I trust that was to your satisfaction." He said in an almost diffident manner.

What was the Master of Death, toyed with a lock of red hair. "Yes, thank you Albus, that was the simplest way to do it. I can wait a lifetime, for that part of me to return, a lifetime of love, struggle and mortal woe..."

His lips were quirked in a buddha's smile, neither effusive nor grim, but rather the faintest trace of what could be either the begginings of amusement or the start of a scowl.

He spoke softly, in a voice not meant to intimidate yet did. His green eyes cool. "It matters not how long a wait, a hundred lifetimes if need be...if that is what it takes to settle my affairs then so be it. In the end, I will return to myself... it is, inevitable..."

The wizard with him smiled, "If I may ask, what do you intend to do in the meanwhile?"

Harry shrugged, "The next universe over seems mildly interesting, I think I'll go there... But enough about me, it's time."

The old man smiled, "I must admit that I been looking forward to this," He hesitated, "Do you think..."

"Don't worry," Haary patted the man on his back as a train pulled into the station, "Sometimes, princesses do marry their prince."

The smile he earned in return for that unspoken assurance could have illuminated a city.

Alone again once Dumbledore was away, Death's master looked from at the babe squalling on the floor of the station, to the ticket counter at the shadowed end of the platform.

Past the counter, was a locked gate...

Idly, he fished through a coat pocket, "What to do..."

THE SEVEN LAWS OF MAGIC

1. Thou shalt not kill by use of magic.

2. Thou shalt not transform others.

3. Thou shalt not invade the mind of another.

4. Thou shalt not enthrall another.

5. Thou shalt not reach beyond the Borders of Life

6. Thou shalt not swim against the Currents of Time.

7. Thou shalt not seek beyond the Outer Gates.


Ar-Rashid, the Gatekeeper went rigid so suddenly that the rest of the Senior Council, with whom he had been meeting, noticed it immediately. He did not acknowledge Ancient Mai's concern, nor the Merlin's demands for answers but instead gaped in horror.

In the back of his mind was an ominous sound that filled him with what could at best be most charitably described as dread. He was terrified.

That sound, it was the turning of a key...

[Barricade]

Oh. Crap.

[Screwball]

Next time; Ebenezer drops a satellite on Hogwarts and the Ministry of Magic...

[MaskedOne]

If we're blending worlds to arrange doom for the ministry and I don't think we are given that Harry seems to be dimension hopping then skip Ebenezar. The ministry manages to affront Titania and Mab at the same time.

[Sayle]

Yes. Yes. More Potter/Dresden crossovers!

Though I suppose you could make the case that as Master of Death Harry actually has the right to open the Outer Gates...

[grumpydonkey]

Nice start.

[syed]

The master of death is an outsider lord, bet you the council will be worried when they know he is called harry too. what are his powers

[Tabi]

Master of Death was a pretty vague title isn't it?

[Sayle]

It depends. My favourite intepretation is that Mastery over death is actually completely useless and is purely a ceremonial title. Hehe.

[Tazered]

Pulvis et umbra sumus - We are but dust and shadow - (Horace)

Chapter 1

It crept upon me,
As I sat in thought;
Never even noticed,
That it had hidden there.

Now my hope you see;
Is that it has not,
Ever even realized,
That you are also here.

-A Shadowed... Thing, Death and Bad Poetry

~

Death, the Archive and '96 Barry Callebaut... extra bitter

~

Now, let’s get one thing clear, as the Master of Death I am neither omnipotent, nor omniscient. Heck, I'm not even immortal!

I am however, somewhat omnipotent, selectively omniscient, and...still not immortal. It's just that, for me, Death is well... meh.

Now I know what you're thinking, either he's all-powerful or he isn't, either he's all-knowing or he's not! I wish it were so simple!

You see, I know all that is known to Death and Death knows all that is known to the dead. The Dead, keep no secrets- actually they won't shut up, but more on that later...

People die every day, for example, when I said the word 'People' an elderly and quite distinguished gentleman from Ulvik, Norway died while skinny-dipping in the waters of the Hardangerfjord, a monk passed away while meditating on the side of a road in Nepal, a mother of four died of cancer after six years of struggle and a street hustler in Chicago was stabbed to death over a sum of two dollars and forty-three cents....

All that they knew is now known to me, how to make mean pineapple shortcake, what it feels like to swim in winter and for a moment, forget the past; the satisfaction of a hard but simple life, the outrage of being killed over spare change....

All this and more, the sum totality of all things known and experienced by those who are now dead and not just the human dead; living things die every second of every day and those that have understandable memories or a story to tell, pass on their knowledge and tell their stories in death; to me.

Beyond that, nada, it's all up to me to learn what I can, however I can, and the living world is for the most part, a blank.

Hence, selectively omniscient. I know a lot, just not everything...

On the matter of omnipotence, well it depends on what you believe, literally. I have no inherent power, beyond what is due to my own soul's nature as a wizard; and most of that is living it up, no pun intended, elsewhere.

I have no real power as the Master of Death. The nature of my existence lies in the fact that Death is inevitable, even for so-called immortal beings, even for gods, even.... for death itself. I am inevitability, and that's it.

Beyond that, with a few unwelcome exceptions, I am only capable of accomplishing feats solely possible through my knowledge and experience which, all things considered, is actually quite a bit.

But I can't do anything...

Finally on the matter of immortality, well that's actually a bit ironic really.

I am in essence, the anthropomorphic manifestation of the Inevitability of Death. I am a fact. Call me Doom, call me Karma, call me Fate or whatever you wish, facts don't change no matter how much we wish they would, no matter how much we ignore them, or what is said to the contrary, or even what is believed.

Well, the last one could actually cause me some trouble, but fortunately all that it takes to make a believer out of someone is to simply wait until they croak and go "SEE". Quite effective, but you don't have to take my word for it...

I do get some measure power from the beliefs of mortals, some foolish men and women who obsess over their end, seek to escape death, or to conquer and defeat it, the more they try, the greater the looming specter of my nature.

Others may go another route and seek immortality through fame or infamy, by building monuments, leaving chronicles, or most foolishly, by trying to cheat Death.

That's always amusing...

Those who know of the Master of Death often imagine the most absurd things. Thanks to those beliefs I often have to be careful when I speak, being able to kill with the merest whisper, sounds cool, but as a result, most of my attempts at conversation in the past often ended with the other participants either pissing themselves in fear...

Or in the case of my first and last conversation with War, ending with me being run through repeatedly with a rather big knife, because he didn't like my tone...

I avoid dark alleyways on principle...

Unpleasant, I tell you...

Oh, and don't let me get started on my eyes, His Murderous Look. His Deadly Stare. A Petrifying Gaze...

GAHHHH!!

So, I'm not immortal, I have no need to be.

I AM.

Which was part of the trouble... Inevitability does not Change unless change in inevitable. Which is why, when I sought to give myself a makeover and inure my nature somewhat from the whims of belief, I hatched a plot some sixteen hundred odd years ago to use a trio of miscreants to give myself and edge.

And they thought they were soo clever... <snerk>

Now I have a soul, one that suits me perfectly and provided that I feed and water it carefully, I should be reasonably protected from some of the more, disenchanting aspects of my existence. Not that it worked the last time, but I'd just love to see the Gatekeeper try to Bind me to a Name...

-heh, heh, heh-

~

No matter what I said it wasn't as if I wanted a confrontation with the wise of this reality. Due to my semi-divine nature any such confrontation would eventually end in my favor, unless another Power intervened, although there weren't all that many who could and even fewer that would. The most likely outcome was that I'd end up facing the collected might, such as it was, of a host of supernatural beings and wise, that would just be tedious....

So when I picked up Tom, and opened the Gates, I chose my moment of entry carefully. No doubt the Gatekeeper of this period must be going wild trying to figure out who entered, where and when they are.

The list of luminaries that have a key is rather short and almost without exception quite nasty, on account of being mostly of the many tentacled, many eyed, many fanged variety. The Old Ones have mostly lost theirs or been abjured entry by the collective Powers.

The few entities that still have a key and can enter at will more often than not, DON'T LIKE THE GATEKEEPER!

The little shit must be going insane....

Still, personal feelings aside, I deliberately chose my point and time of entry at the time and place where Death was strongest, Time most chaotic, and the Gatekeeper, likely to be rather distracted.

The End of the World...

~

Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden

~

Collins didn't die without a fight, not that that was any consolation.

Her death curse however, had been useful in dealing with imps summoned by the warlocks.

"Rooaaaaawwwwrrr!"

That just left big and ugly...

"Forzare!" I roared and flipped a car on top of it. A Saab, that's what you get for not buying American.

Unfortunately, Tiny didn't want to stay down, and with another roar, raised the car over his head like an Olympic weightlifter, preparing to heave it at me.

I wasn't interested in playing catch with a SUV, and the skin crawling feeling I was getting from the factory behind me wasn't making matters any better.

This time, I added a touch of soul fire.

"Forzare!"

The few seconds that the demon had been down gave me the time I needed to focus, all of my grief, my rage, and every shred of the anxiety that I was feeling over the fates of the two young Wardens I'd sent into the meat processing plant behind me. They were probably dead.

The others should have been finished by now...

Ever see one of those old road-runner cartoons, when the coyote’s about to get whacked over the head?

-WHUMP-

The pressure wave blew dust in my face and ruffled my black leather duster. A silvery spike of materialized kinetic force pinned the demon where I had pile-driven it, and the car, into the ground.

Hope someone's got insurance...

The screeching cries and keening were slightly gratifying, but if it was wailing, that meant it was still more or less intact and more importantly here in the real world. That probably meant that it wasn't as injured as it wanted me to think and possibly hoping I wouldn't notice-

My shield takes the brunt of the fire coming out of the thing's tail end. The modifications I put in after nearly losing a hand work perfectly for keeping away the searing heat. Though, from the smell of it, this was hellfire and I was in trouble if I kept using my soul fire to counteract it. so...

-WHUMP-

The fire cut out...

-WHUMP-

-WHUMP-

-WHUMP-

Just for good measu- did it just a twitch?

-WHUMP-

I don't have time to see if I killed it or not. A quick look over my shoulder showed me that Tiny's body was dissolving into a noxious puddle of goo which would probably give some janitor nightmares.

I'm not cleaning that up...

I'm tired, more than a little drained, but I've got to see what hell I put those two kids that I sent in there through.

I didn't mean it literally...


I was just sneaking a look 'round a corner when Warlock A happened to face me and looked me in the eye. I didn't feel a Soul Gaze come on which was probably a good thing. The tension however, was getting thick as he stared me down, covered from head to toe in blood.

I broke first, "Um, Avon Lady!"

The bastard started laughing.

Henceforth called Chuckles, he tried to take my head off with something that reeked of evil, pain and blood. It took out most of the wall above my head and continued on behind me for some ways from the sound of things.

But that wasn't what got to me.

On what should have been the factory floor, were two concentric Circles drawn in blood, and judging from the piles of skinned carcasses laying around at the cardinal points of the circle, it wasn't pig's blood.

Because the carcasses were human...

Chuckles was gloating about...something, while firing off several more of those hair-raising bolts of inky, blood-tinged darkness.

I noticed that he never crossed out of the line of blood, just shuffled along the inside of the outermost of two circles, he was probably buying time for the other six dark magic users, congregated about the outer edge of an inner circle, which held within its center what looked like a large rubrics cube.

I can't describe it better than that, I couldn't get a good look at it, on account of the sicko trying to kill me and all...

I can say that it was the source of my bad feeling.

Where's my backup? Ramirez!

That was when I found them.

I'd sent Wardens Travers and Grace into the factory with instructions to intervene only if necessary. At the time, I'd thought Carlos was on his way soon with a force of twenty Wardens and that the swarm of Imps and Tiny were the bigger threat.

Oh, sweet hindsight.

When I say I found them, I mean, I tripped over what was left of Travers' skull which was the biggest piece of her still intact, and landed face first in an unpleasantly smelling mess that was probably Grace, poor guy.

I'd still be gagging if I wasn't busy trying to stay alive...

They were younger than Ramirez!

I'd like to say that I rose to my feet in a towering rage and a vortex of magical power with staff in hand and cut Chuckles down to size. In reality I sort of half rose and crab-walked/rolled out of the way of the next blast. I couldn't continue fighting like this, the next mystical attack that got sent my way I parried into the ceiling.

I could feel the blood and death magic tug at me as I turned it away. Whoever these people were, they had to enjoy causing pain to work at this level. So much pain and blood...

Blood...

Pain can go both ways, there's the pain one causes others and the pain that one endures. Pain is an unavoidable facet of life, as is blood...

I finished drawing the circle in time, it had the added benefit of drawing away power from whatever ritual the warlocks were performing. Their guttural chanting took on a frantic and distinctly dismayed tone.

Tapping into the ambient power was simple.

And painful...

Never again!

The piles of skinned humans helped to make it bearable.

Chuckles wasn't quite so happy any more, my circle alone was damping down the amount of power going into his. I could tell the moment he realized this.

It's when he peeled off his face...

I don't even bother blocking his next death spell. The curse washed over the boundary of my ward and my circle leached away at its power, growing stronger.

I slammed the butt of my staff into the ground, drawing more of the power and agony into my body...

And I screamed myself hoarse.

A while back, I learnt a painful but valuable lesson about limiting myself to direct effect spells. I tried using my shield bracelet to ward off burning napalm. The fuel was deflected away from me, the heat, wasn't.

Now, I did something similar.

The scream was not a direct effect spell and I could see that it worked by the way Chuckles was staggering about like a punch-drunk brawler bleeding from his ears, the members of the inner circle seem not to have taken the surprise well either. One of the Warlocks stumbled into the innermost ring and wailed as first her clothes, then her skin and then her flesh was stripped from her bones.

Then her bones turned to ash.

Hell's Bells!

Seriously alarmed, not that that I wasn't already but this was more of a ohshitohshitohshit kinda thing, I drew in another jolt of power and added soul fire to it. I'm going to be paying for this in the morning, provided of course, that I live that long.

The life giving magic that I send toward their circle completely obliterates the death spell Chuckles hurled at me and crashes against the barrier with a resounding boom.

As my ears cleared, I could hear the sounds of barked commands and running feet.

Finally...

Seeing my relief, Chuckles pitched in with his two cents.

"Tis matters not!" He screamed. "Neither thine spell nor thine enchanted iron shalt breach mine barrier!"

Idly wondering where this guy learned his English, more like which century, I raised my free hand and screamed back at him.

"WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST SAY THAT THEN!"

Then I pull out my .44 and shoot him....

Suppressing a vicious surge of satisfaction, I aimed at the inner circle of warlocks. They hadn't stopped chanting in spite of my efforts and seemed to be reaching a crescendo.

A satisfying as it would be, I aimed at the box, instead of Grace's murderers.

"HARRY, NO!"

I squeezed the trigger...

~

The Other Harry

~

I whistled at the wave of devastation that spread across the world leaving naught but the dead, demons and a precious few tortured souls. As I had thought, the Gatekeeper used the Time Gate when the situation proved untenable. His memories of that possible future would only stay within his past self's mind for a short while before it faded, a brief interval with which to avert disaster.

While his past and future selves were distracted, I settled into my time...

I'd have to lay low as I created a place for myself in the mortal world, not draw attention as I built my Sanctum, not-

A seventeen year old girl, wearing Levi’s walked up to me in the middle of an empty street in Marseille, June of 1721.

"Hello Harry Potter."

...

....

.....

"Luna, why am I not surprised..."

[Verver7891]

Awesome so far! looking forward to seeing more.

[Sayle]

Oh, so Harry is only selectively omnipotent, omniscient and the like.

[grumpydonkey]

Nice chapter.

[Sayle]

Heh. I do like that Dresden caused the end of the world. Him and his impulses.

[Barricade]

Why do I get the feeling that Luna is the personal incarnation/anthropomorphic avatar of Probability?

[Tazered]

Libenter homines id quod volunt credunt
- Men gladly believe that which they wish for. (Caesar)

Chapter 2

Darkly I spat grey ash,
As I toiled away under the lash;
Oh why do men not take heed?
O' rider upon his pale steed.

They chased ‘m ‘cross fen ’n bush!
O! Freedom, but a fair rush!
O’er dreams, I gladly indeed,
Willingly, bare breast, and bleed!

-Toiling Away, Death and Bad Poetry

~

Death, the Black and a 1913 Ghana, Divine Dark Chocolate... bitter sweet

~

As I have stated before, I am not immortal. I AM. Death is a fact, a facet of reality older than anything that exists, even the universe itself. Thus, to put it simply, Death is real, certainly far realer than the decades long lifetimes of mortals, or the centuries lived by the wise. Even the earth in its scant few billions of years is but a blink of an eye in the face of the Death OF Universes.

It was something to ponder as I lay buried under the pile of corpses. The stench of rotting flesh was oppressive and foul but from my perspective, it was the wailing of the lost and terrified souls about me that was truly nausea inducing. I wriggled, and stretched. I gripped slippery, decomposing matter that came apart under my fingernails as I pulled.

I can still taste it; the memory of death is eternal. I can still feel the slickness of the maggot-ridden corpses against my skin. Did you know? The proteins and fats released from a decomposing animal binds easily to hair and skin. Even washing with lye soap, I still smelled of that graveyard for more than a fortnight afterward.

My scrabbling fingers, nails chipped and broken, eventually broke through the surface of the mass grave that I had been dumped in. My 'Luna', as I had taken to calling her privately, was awaiting my return. She was standing beside the last of the surviving Catholic priests in the city. What a shame...

A shame because the sight of a me, as I clawed my way free of that mass grave, was a vision that inspired such horror and terror in the poor Father as to stop his weakly beating heart.

Great, now I have to bury him too...

A snowy owl descended, clutching a wide-brimmed black hat in its talons. It dropped the item into my slimy hands and alighted upon Luna's shoulder, instead of my own filthy body.

Also beside the dead priest was tall skeletal figure, dressed in a dark flowing coat and carrying a large scythe. Taking in the sight, I scowled and said, "I hope that you're proud of yourself! That was the last priest in the city willing to perform funerals and give extreme unction."

The being's face was a bare skull that shifted within the it wore cloak. Amber light's like flames passed for eyes. The twinkling gaze of Death. At my words its bony shoulders shrugged as it replied in a matter of fact tone. DEATH HAS NO NEED FOR PRIDE, ONLY A STRONG WORK ETHIC AND A WILLINGNESS TO DO OVERTIME ON THE WEEKENDS AND HOLIDAYS.

I rubbed my sore neck and sighed, spitting out a few corpse beetles in the process. "Well let's get on with it," I said, "The guys that killed me can't be too far away. It wouldn't do to leave them lying about."

I would later sometimes wonder, at the fact that in those times I felt naught but a slight distaste at the prospect of having to replace my thoroughly ruined clothing. When the time comes for my pet soul to return to me I can't help but be curious, will my experiences inspire a greater horror than my sheer inhumanity?

This is how things came to be this way...

~

Marseille, June of 1721

~

Before I begin, let's have a bit of history from the mundane side of things...

In 1720, the plague bacillus yersinia pestis arrived at the port of Marseille from the Levant. A merchant ship, the Grand-Saint-Antoine, had departed from Sidon in Lebanon, having previously called at Smyrna, Tripoli, and at a plague-ridden Cyprus.

Following the death on board of a Turkish passenger, several crew members also fell victim to the plague, including the ship's surgeon. The ship was wisely refused entry to the port of Livorno and, on arrival at Marseille, was promptly placed under quarantine by the port authorities.

However, due to a trade monopoly with the Levant, this important port had a large stock of imported goods in warehouses and was actively expanding its trade with other areas of the Middle East and in the New World.

Powerful city merchants needed the silk and cotton cargo of the ship for the great medieval fair at Beaucaire and pressured authorities to lift the quarantine...

Thus began the Great Plague of Marseille, the last recurrence of an epidemic of bubonic plague in the city, since the devastating epidemics that began in the fourteenth century with the European Black Death.

~

Ahh, the south of France in summer...

"...avez pitie de nous..."

Summer in full bloom...

"Mon Dieu!"

The sea breeze, so warm and enticing...

"Mon Dieu!"

Oh what a clear night sky....

"Avez pitie..."

And streets lined with the plague ridden dead.

What to do...

"Pensez-vous de la petite enfants..."

As I stated before, I can be wherever, whenever there is death. The Gatekeeper's use of the Time Gate created a convenient path that I used for my own benefit to travel to the 18th century without causing a stir. Of course I could have chosen other times in which to appear but there was a reason, several actually; that made Marseille the best choice.

The Gatekeeper of this time and the senior members of the White Council were currently grappling with an invasion of plague demons known collectively as the Loimos. These demons in the past had contributed to some 45 million of the 450 million deaths attributed to the Black Death. As a result of the mystical enhancements that they gave to the plague, most the deaths caused by them were from the ranks of the hedge-witches and the wise.

As it happens, in June of 1721, the current Gatekeeper would contract a crippling illness and eventually pass away, leaving the Loimos, and other supernatural threats from beyond the gate to be dealt with by the Wardens. It was during this time that Al-Rashid would begin to distinguish himself, having been set on the path to becoming the next Gatekeeper by his predecessor.

A path which would eventually cross my own...

~

I had sought to use this chaotic period of time to become acclimated to my sliver of soul. In this city, during this time, no one would look twice at a new arrival. Plague-ridden, the wise would steer clear of this place, making any incidents I might cause easier to hide.

I hoped that it would at least be enough time to allow me to comprehend the queer stirrings of my brand new immortal soul. Otherwise, even blending in peacefully among the mundane of this world would be a difficult chore and hiding what I was from the irritating wise, next to impossible.

I can give no clearer example of what I mean than when I attempted to say hello to some dumbfounded transients when I first appeared in the city...

~

A man bedecked in shadows, appeared in the middle of the street. He did not fade into existence, neither did he step onto the street through some portal nor enter by any other means either fantastic or mundane. HE, was a being much realer that the world around HIM, as such HE was simply THERE.

It would have been more accurate to say that the street appeared around HIM, that the world faded into existence about HIM like some manner of mirage or ghostly phantasm.

HIS eyes were green pinpricks of light, like stars in the night sky; they shone from within the impenetrable darkness that lurked under his wide-brimmed hat. The beggar's pleas, like the very air in their lungs, froze.

Truly, like prey caught in the gaze of a predator, they were trapped helpless under that singular murderous look. Then, a voice spoke, passing from the terror's lips into their heads. It said, COWER, BRIEF MORTALS, FOR THE MASTER OF DEATH HAS COME TO MARSEILLE.

~

It just slipped out, I swear!

And that was how they found me, as I stood in the middle of the abandoned street, trying to come to grips with the intricacies of my pet soul.

"Hello, Harry Potter."

I turned and stared.

"Luna, why am I not surprised…"

~

As I have alluded, there are other manifestations of anthropomorphic personification in existence. The anthropomorphic personification of War was only one of these beings that I can remember encountering. I've never had the need to seek them out as inevitably they all eventually come to me whether they want to or not.

Of these small gods there were only two that have ever sought me out of their own volition.

One of them was standing before me now...

Turnip earrings dangling from her ears, swung as she shook her head ruefully.

“Luna?” She tilted her head slightly, “Do I remind you of Luna?”

The skin about her eyes crinkled cutely as she gave me a coy look. “Or did Luna, remind you of me?”

In a fluttering of wings, the pale form of a familiar snowy owl settled on my shoulder with a soft trill.

~

In the Roman Pantheon Trivia was considered an aspect of Hecate, Goddess of Witchcraft. To those who knew better she was, most obviously in the guise of Luna, the anthropomorphic personification of Useful Little Facts. The Owl on my shoulder was Sentia, the personification of the childish joy felt when Learning New Things. It made sense that they should show up. These two were goddesses of learning and knowledge.

Death was the ultimate mystery, and I, its master…

“You’re not getting rid of us that easily.” Trivia said with a smile.

Sentia, in the form of an owl, chirped happily in agreement.

~

The White Council’s archivists, when I finally came to the Senior Council’s notice, would mark that Monsieur Henri-Jacques D’Is-Pitar first appeared in Marseille, France in the records of the city notary Jean-Philippe Bernier.

~

A man by the name of Monsieur D’Is-Pitar has taken up the gruesome but necessary task of clearing the streets of bodies for a sum of fourteen sous paid at the end of seven days of toil at the expense of the city. For a sum of two ecu d’argent paid to him in advance, Monieur D’Is-Pitar, whose given name is Henri-Jacques, has agreed to provide the means to deliver securely a coffin to his employer's family tomb and seal it within. For further fee of one ecu d’or, the Monseiur also provides transport for one of the few surviving priests in the city to meet the terminally ill for extreme unction. He is a brave man, strange in his manner, but fair…

Records of Mr. Bernier 1721

~

The wagon, I cobbled together from driftwood collected at the harbor. The nails were likewise scavenged. There were enough deaths so that the demand for skilled workers was high. I worked as a scrivener for a few months until my employers fell ill and died. For a time I kept accounts at a merchant house, until the same fate befell the few remaining workers there as well.

Thus I passed my time in the city as a Jack of all Trades, I was a baker until my customers were too ill to come to the store, a deliveryman until there was no one alive to send or receive goods. My second longest stretch was as a blacksmith, where ages of metalworking experience came to the fore. I built the wagon in the yard behind the smithy. I forged the wheel bindings from strips of scrap metal when the owner of the forge took ill. I cared for his family after he died until they all passed away in that one terrible year…

Through it all they were with me. Sentia in the guise of dear Hedwig and Trivia as my old schoolmate, though I would later learn that she was actually reincarnating herself as the Archive of all Human Knowledge.

It wasn't an easy life, and it was made more difficult by the fact that the White Council had instituted a barrier to prevent magical humans from spreading the plague beyond the city. A small section of the vampire population ended up being caught within, being mostly fledgelings, they suffered horridly. I'm afraid that many of the grave-diggers and wagoneers who cleared the streets of dead, met their end in manners unrelated to the plague. I suffered more than a few of these attacks my self.

Being drained for blood was a novel experience, but quickly grew old as the fledgeling Red and Black Court vampires failed to realize in their desparation, that there was no profit in drinking my blood...And they were getting more creative about how they killed me. See in those days you'd normally expect to held upside down over a chintz basin as you bled out. The noble-born vampires would then be fed the blood in gold and jewel encrusted goblets brought by servants so as not to stain their frilly chiffron ascots. These desperate younglings simply ripped open my jugular and let the geysering blood spray over their parched lips. Then to ensure that I didn't turn, they dismembered me.

It was the last part that was getting on my nerves, that rusty saw they were using was DULL! Dammit!

~

Marseille, October of 1722

~

We heard them before we saw them, that desparate keening. These vampires fed on the life-giving blood and essense of humans. I who was anything but, possesed veins which coursed with the inevitability of death, rather than the dearth of possibilities in the blood of the living. The general effect, was as if a dehydrated man, under the desert sun, drank a gallon alcohol mixed in with salt. Needless to say, they were rolling around in agony, hours before dawn for all the world to see.

I'd have pitied them if this particular pack, hadn't had the temerity to dismember my body before dumping it in a mass grave...ugh, I wasted hours just pulling myself together...

Still, I couldn't just leave them lying around.

Found a shovel left behind by the grave-diggers. I brought it back with me and rolled one of the gagging vampires onto its back. Slowly, I lifted the tool over my head.

COME UNDEAD THING, THINE HOUR IS AT HAND... Death spoke up behind me with a slight modicum of glee.

I swung the edge down...

[Tazered]

Legum servi sumus ut liberi esse possimus - We are slaves of the law so that we may be able to be free. (Cicero)

Chapter 3: Part I

The madmen came for Guille,
They dragged him out of bed.
They broke him on the wheel,
And then they cut off his head.

"The world must burn," They said,
"If, it is to change!"
How this helps the dead,
I find it very strange...

The madmen run and shout,
That all men are free.
Can't tell what's novel about,
A fact so obvious to me.

They burned the city to the ground
And bade us children to laugh.
Chuckling at the smoldering mound,
Such a silly, epitaph...

-A Planh for Guille, Death and Bad Poetry

~

Death, the Merchant and a 1906 Columbian, Casa del Luker... darkly distinguished

~

The man whistled a haunting tune as he rode in the back of a carriage. A dark, wide-brimmed hat was perched jauntily on his head, obscuring his face in shadow.

The carriage was drawn by two horses. One was an elderly black gelding, the other, a seemingly younger pale white stallion. The driver was enveloped in a thick black cloak, covered so completely that the reins vanished into the darkness of his sleeves.

The black coach was travelling down a slight slope in winter. A mild blizzard shrouded the world in white, yet still the horses were pressed onward. They did not stop as the turnout crossed onto the surface of a frozen lake, headed toward a small island shrouded in white. The rider absent-midedly scribbled away in the pages of a small brown diary.

A while later, the carraige pulled to a stop before a small thatch cottage. The rider descended and turned to the driver, staring unflinchingly into a pair of eyes like hot coals.

"Do you want to come in for some hot chocolate?" The rider asked, "You can put the horses in the stable and stay the night if you wish."

Though covered from head to toe, in black cloth, the ominous-looking driver was still able to give off a feeling of amiability. Eyes like flickering flames flared as if stoked before a voice that sounded like grinding rocks spoke.

"HOT CHOCOLATE... THANK YOU BUT NO, I HAVE AN APPOINTMENT TO KEEP." The figure said as it gave a respectful nod. "ANOTHER TIME, PERHAPS; GOOD NIGHT."

"Good night." The man replied as the horses began to trot away from his doorstep. Without further ado, the man opened his front door and quickly stepped inside before the driving winds could do much damage. Fom outside, the lights from the cabin was the only spot of illumination on the entire island.

Inside, was a cluttered room, filled with displays of miscellaneous items, stored in groups. There were crystal glasses, goblets and plates on shelves along one wall. a collection of swords in a bin beside the hat-stand. Some pistols lay in a glass display, next to an array of jeweled necklaces. Maps were stacked next to charts and scrolls in a pile upon a back table, Bookshelves dominated one whole corner of the room.

The single room must have been larger than it at first seemed, for books, crystals, guns and jewelry was not the end of what was contained in there. Everything from abaci to zebra hides, crystal eggs and globes, vials of medicines, perfumes and bundles of feathers upon heaps of leather and textiles. In a special place of honor there lay a bit of bone, it was next to a shard of wood, a rusted, blood-encrusted nail and a box containing six pieces of silver...

The figure weaved his divested himself of hat, cloak and scarf. Revealed was a head full of dark unruly hair, green eyes and a lithe frame. The diary was carried into the back of the store, where some rummaging could be heard being carried out. The young man reappeared, deressed in a short-coat and suit. He stopped for a second to put on a shopkeepers apron before moving behind one of the counters next to the door.

Reaching up, he grabbed a pull-rope and tugged...

There was the chime of a bell, before darkness turned to light, and the moaning sound of wind vanished.

On a Parisian street, the door to a store opened a a shop-clerk stepped outside carrying a sign. The man hung it on the door before hurrying back inside.

It read:

MSSR. DISPATER

PAWN BROKER

NEEDFUL THINGS BOUGHT AND SOLD

WISHES GRANTED FOR A PRICE

Oddly, to all but a few, the last line seemed to swim from one corner of the eye to the other, remaining unseen...

~

Paris, 1806

~

And so time passed. The eighty odd years since leaving Marseille behind with Trivia and Sentia. Those days were lived peacefully for the most part. I moved behind the scenes of the mystical world. I claimed for myself an island of the coast of Brittany, and another in the New World, linking the two in my own special way to form a personal sanctum.

From then on it was a simple matter of doing as I wished until my darling soul returned to me. I'd tried my hand at quite a few trades in the Plague City, and pretended to be a wandering journeyman craft-worker during my travels. It was fun for a time, I was a scribe in the court of a king, a haberdasher for a noble, a cobbler in Italy, a blacksmith in England, I was a guide in Egypt and an archeologist's apprentice.

I had a busy life...

But in the end I decided that it would be best to settle down for a while. Trivia still flitted about, in the guise of Luna, and Sentia was often a regular visitor to my humble abode. All across the world, I created linked pathways through the Nevernever. At each entrance and exit I built a store, each one hidden and protected using my knowledge of the mystical arts.

Thus Dispater's International was born...

There was another reason for me to do as I did. In a few more years that brat Gatekeeper would be ready to challenge the Time Gate. And then...

Joy...

I know I've never truly explained just why I hate the Gatekeeper. In truth hate would be far too strong a word, and it's not as if I hate Al-Rashid in particular...

Thou shalt not swim against the Currents of Time

Hypocrite...

I comes down to this, there's only one real way to travel through time without seriously screwing with cause and effect. People may speak of Fairy travel sending one into the distant future or past, but that's actually quite different from real time travel.

What I speak of, is not journeying to other realities, or being held in stasis beyond the real world. I mean using the so-called 'Time Gate' to travel back in time, into the past, your past and change it.

The reason why I'm pissed has to do with the simple fact that the Time Gate in another reality, would probably be called...

The Veil of Death....

Thou shalt not reach beyond the Borders of Life

Now are you starting to understand?

Once upon a time, the first Gatekeeper sought to stave of the inevitable (Stirke One).

To do this the wizard summoned forth innocent old me and TRIED TO BIND ME TO A NAME!!

(That's strikes Two and Three right there...)

Of course he didn't succeeed and I have since taken steps to avoid such a thing recurring. Unfortunately, the whole affair did allow the Gatekeeper to discover a way to temporarily transfer his consciousness through time to his past self using the sacrifice of his own life in order to do so.

It's a loophole in the system that every Gatekeeper has taken advantage of since.

They pay for their crimes by dying a thousand deaths, a thousand times, again and again until inevitably, they pass into my hands...

Perhaps it's childish of me, holding a grudge... but that still won't stop me from letting Death and Binky get some exercise... I have them chase down the Gatekeepers every time they try for the Time Gate.

~

The old man breathed in the desert wind once more before falling still. The younger man at his side will have to perform the ritual soon but for a moment, he wept. "This death is not fair!"

He was therefore startled when a cloaked figure spoke up from behind him, halfway to the door, carrying an empty hour-glass in one hand.

He quiverd as a burning gaze settled upon him and spoke in a voice that thundered without sound, echoing unnaturally.

DEATH IS FAIR. DEATH IS VERY FAIR. IT IS LIFE THAT IS UNFAIR. IT IS IN LIFE THE GOOD LIVE IN PAIN WHILE THE EVIL PROSPER. IN LIFE SOME SUFFER ATROCITY AFTER ATROCITY WHILE OTHERS ARE PAMPERED. IT IS IN LIFE THAT MEN SUFFER. YET IN DEATH, ALL MEN ARE EQUAL. IN DEATH, REGARDLESS OF WEALTH, AGE AND POWER; REGARDLESS OF WHETHER ONE IS GOOD OR EVIL... ALL ARE ACCORDED AN EQUAL MEASURE OF DEATH.

And as it walked out the door, Death paused again, I'M HOPING THAT YOU ARE A GOOD RUNNER, It said, BINKY NEEDS THE EXERCISE...

[Sayle]

Fantastic. A little blend of Pratchett, I see, and since you actually pull it off I have no objections. In fact, I encourage it. Though if we are speaking of relative time, even taking into account the lifespan of wizards, I would expect the soul of Harry the Wizard to come back home soon enough.

[Tazered]

Originally Posted by Sayle

Fantastic. A little blend of Pratchett, I see, and since you actually pull it off I have no objections. In fact, I encourage it. Though if we are speaking of relative time, even taking into account the lifespan of wizards, I would expect the soul of Harry the Wizard to come back home soon enough.

Counting the fact that he travelled 200 years into the past added to an HPverse wizard's lifetime that's 350 to 400 years barring illness or injury. It also assumes that the Dresdenverse progresses at the same rate of time.

[syed]

Wonder if he has a shop in chicago?

Wonnder how all those immortal and semi immortal beings when death himself sets up shop. murphy would likly try to areest him on principle.

was that a peice of the cross, and nail of the crusifiction, as well as six denarian coins. He most likly be a new signitory of the accords. apart from ivy, who would back his application.

Wonder if ivy bodyguard will get all defensive around her now with her new friend.

[Tazered]

Chapter 3: Part II

~

One of my employees, Hugo, came over to me and laid out a collection of object on my desk. There was a set of crystal vials containing what I surmised to be Spanish fly from the label, a flagellation set consisting of whips, chains, gags, anal-plugs, blinder, binders, blindfolds, O-rings, pins and harness. And then there was the jewel.

I looked at it and smiled...

When these things come by I always ask my people to ensure that they have the genuine article, so breathlessly I said, "Proof?"

What Hugo had brought to me was a nine inch long piece of ivory, slightly curved and carved in exquisite detail from the smooth cap at its head to bulbous base. Hugo pointed to an inscription midway down, at the top of a series of rings forming parallel ridges that continued on until two inches shy of the base of the object.

My mouth dry, I retrieved a letter from a hidden strong box and compared the writing.

As I saw that they matched, all that I could numbly saw to my workman at first was, "I love you..."

To which he shuffled uneasily and replied, "Um, I love you too sir?"

Of course by then I had caught myself and responded, "An extra Billy goat at the end of the day Hugo, good work!"

And my faithful employee's Troll ancestry shone through in the truly horrific grin that confounded even the most powerful of veils that I had cast upon the most un-human of those in my employ. "Thank you sir!" Hugo grunted with relish as he lumbered back to the front after leaving behind the deed of reciept.

In case you were wondering the french pun that was inscibed in distinctly feminine script upon the dildo in my possession could be loosely translated to mean...

"NOT TRUE TO LIFE, SADE TO SAY."

I set it down next to my collection of Royal Crown Derby bone china plates and vases...

~

Speaking of the Derby...

Al-Rashid now understood why his predecessor had been so insistent on mental and physical fortitude....

HIGH HO BINKY, AWAY!

Death was in the lead in the race after the young Gatekeeper followed by War and Pestilence, while Famine lagged behind. Advised by the memoirs of his predecessors the wizard chose a carrening path down a steep, densely overgrown embankment.

Even as a spirit and moving literally at the speed of thought, Rashid still felt the slight bite of Death's scythe as it brushed just slightly against the back of his neck before he tumbled over the abyss into oblivion, merging for a time with his past self.

Coming to a stop in mid-air above the vast unending chasm in an impossible feat of equestrian handling. Death remarked...

NEXT TIME A SMALLER HEAD START FOR YOU...

~

It was a close thing, but Rashid managed to alter events as he had been shown for the benefit of the future. Quietly he stood in the shadows as the Merlin growled out the that the sentenced would endure under the Doom of Damocles. "Du Morne..." The wizard growled, "As all your kin, slippery as ever..."

~

And so time passed for me and Dispater's prospects grew over time. I'm sure that an adequate student of history with knowledge of where to begin, could probably plot a chart of our course through history.

There were wars of course, whether the 'World Wars' or the 'Six Day War' and a variety of other struggles. I had no part in that business with the Jews, Death does not cause death humans are good enough at what they do.

I did on a number of occasions provide the 'W' service to a number of desperate families in those days. They and their grandchildren are frequent customers now. I was at Berlin and Hiroshima at the waning of the hour, as I was at the beginning...

MSSR. DISPATER, NEW YORK

And so it was that time moved on until one evening I had the dubious fortune to meet a delightful young woman called La Fey...

[Tazered]

Lupus est homo homini - Man is wolf to man

Chapter 4

Oh, like fireflies,
The people do flit about,
The walkers, the runners,

Oh, like busy bees,
The children do prance and shout!
The dancers, the singers,

And a column barefoot, strides into the skies,
"Praise Be!" They sang!
For sweet joy they did find,

And jubilant and proud, He arose from the seas,
"Glory Be!" The bells rang!
And Some were left behind…

-Rapture, Death and Bad Poetry

~

Death, the Walker, and a Belgium Noir de Noir... intense

~

Imagine, for a moment, a bridge. It’s not a very large bridge being that it arcs over a not-quite-tiny river that separates Rolling Pasture from Field of Gentle Hillocks. It’s a stone bridge, well made from smooth fitted stone, incongruous in the fact that it’s just bridge in the middle of some anonymous field, no need to have a big to do of a bridge, yet there it is.

Imagine water passing under the shadow of the bridge, bubbling and happily gurgling along. If left to its own devices water will find amusement in the most mundane of things, finding simple joy in the shape of a glass, mind you it can have hidden depths, best not to be swept away lest you find yourself frozen out. All in all, it’s a very well put together incongruous but ordinary stone bridge.

Now for just a moment, imagine a man standing before that bridge. He’s not quite tall but of more than average height. One would say that this man was reedy, though hardly anorectic. And he carried a large scythe, a ridiculously large scythe as if to fell pine trees or giant mutant corn. He carried the weapon easily, although it’s absolutely absurd size made it seem awkward upon his not-so-tall, not-quite-thin frame.

A wind passed across the field, stirring at the mists between the trees at the edge of the pasture. Dark hair stirred under a wide-brimmed hat as the man stood with his back to the evening sun and shifted, shuffled, squinted and then finally with a roll of the eyes, huffed...

"I know you're there." I stated drily

"Um…No I'm not..." Hugo answered from under the bridge, "I'm not under the bridge, hiding and waiting to eat you. Honest!"

It was just one of those days...

Now finally, imagine that the afore-mentioned scene is like one of those puzzle pictures, you look at a picture of a vase but then suddenly you find yourself actually peering at two people about to kiss. Or you are looking at a picture of a hag, but on a second glance you see a young woman. Or perhaps, your wife strolls into the room with a dress she wore while you were courting and she asks you, “Honey, does this dress make me look fat?”

Now, first opinion might suggest that the accurate reply would be, “No Dear, a jug just started orbiting your butt, I don’t think the dress has anything to do with it…”

Seven out of ten happily married men and nine out of ten unhappily married men would suggest that upon a closer look that the answer is quite obviously. “LIE, blah, blah, blah, LIE #2, blah, blah, blah, um, I love you?”

A closer inspection of the bridge, more specifically of the lichen and Old Man’s Beard covered tree, might reveal that the knot, near the crooked base is actually a scabby elbow.

This is usually the point that sane men go running…

An even closer look, after a few steps back, might reveal a scraggly, hairy arm ending in, what is not as it first appears to be, oddly shaped, bare branches but fingers, curled and ending in gnarled yellow nails.

They twitch.

By this point, even an insane man would be running, whether or not in the right direction, well…

~

For those of you confused, it’s currently October 30th, 1934, the date of my bi-annual ‘Hugo tries to eat me’ ceremony. Hugo is one of those Under-the-Bridge Trolls, not to be confused with the Common Wood Troll who, as Hugo tells me, are “Fecking Loony Wild Trolls, without the sense of class of a respectable Bridge Troll!”

Hugo is honestly one of my best employees, he only ever seriously tried to eat me that one time, most of my more esoteric customers know better than to cause trouble with a troll in such close quarters,(have you ever tried wrestling with a troll- of course you haven’t, you’re still alive, but if you were say dead, dismembered and in the process of being slowly digested you’d know that it’s a bad idea…)

So playing along with the wyldefae as he tries to get closer to his roots isn’t too much of a hassle, the man-err troll, takes his pay in Billy Goats Gruff…

Speaking of which…

“Oh what ever shall I do…” I wondered aloud querulously, “Is there a troll under this bridge or not?” The nervous Billy goats behind me give me a look that just screams, “Is he stupid, look at that fricking arm!!!”

"No really, I'm not here!" Hugo called out. I can see a round yellow eye, the size of a saucer, peering at me from under the shadow of the bridge.

The goats are bleating, "The Arm, for god's sake man, the Arm!"

I wanted to talk about my meeting with that woman but it behooves me to reluctantly add a small caveat to the list of things I can and cannot do as the Master of Death. Some would think me strangely fearless standing as I am just out of reach of Hugo’s massive, hairy arms, waving as they were on either side of the bridge.

The Scythe is just for show, it’s real enough but I don’t need it, don’t use it. Many would ask, “Just what does the Master of Death do?” The answer is simple but deceptive. I’m something of a middle manager for the Death of All Things. What I Manage, is, well to be blunt, it’s unprintable on account of the horrific nature of some of my duties. The rest is just writing a Name, Time of Death and Place on an anonymous piece of parchment, or post-it note as the age progresses, stamping CoD-CM3459-CJ06 forms in triplicate, (the saying about taxes and death is true;) and filling in for Death at parties and particularly virulent plagues.

I tried attempting, to coax the Billy goats a little closer to the bridge, “Come on, see that green grass on the other side, you know you want it…” The horned creatures eyed me dubiously.

It was then the cause of this little anecdote stumbles out of the mists shrouding the edges of my field. The Billy goats, sensing my distraction try to hightail it out of there, an expert flick of the butt of my scythe, sends one of them tumbling through the air landing with a –Slap- in the palm of a hand.

What follows next is unspeakable…

~

“Hide!” I order, and for once Hugo manages to fully retract his arms under the bridge, sated with his fifth meal of the day, and sleepy.

I can sense that those people running toward me are wizards, a small family lead by a taller man who seems unrelated. Their words that carry to me are in French.

“Where?” Queries the father of the group puzzled, of other man.

“I don’t know… I’ve never used this passage through the Nevernever, I never even knew it existed.” The wizard’s eyes are on me, though not quite meeting my gaze as is wise.

“DuMorne…” The Mother whimpered fearfully, clutching her children to her, half-carrying them, half hurrying them along.

The reason for her concern is the baying call that issues forth from the mists. I can see shadowy figures moving about with a loping gait in the distance.

Hurriedly, the family runs, the calls getting closer all the while.

I watch as they continue toward the bridge and as a consequence, me. They all come to a halt before me, an unremarkable man, if not for the eyes, I, like Death, can occupy, the space in a mortal’s mind where things humans are unwilling to acknowledge dwell. It’s a weak spell, a veil of sorts, easily ignored by any wizard of middling power.

Without any place to go and frantic, my obvious impediment of their flight from danger pushes my presence to the fore of their minds. A man, not-quite-tall and not-quite-thin, with baleful green eyes and a faint smile not-quite-a-grin-or-grimace, I stand there with the prop scythe over my shoulders with a stalk of grass between my teeth.

The Wizard, speaks first, standing before his frightened charges. “Honored sir, we seek safe passage across the bridge and refuge from an enemy.”

His words are carefully spoken, sensing Hugo behind me and not knowing just what I am, treats this encounter as though I am Fae.

I oblige his misconception.

“And what,” My voice is cool as I say this, “Do you offer as payment for safe passage through my land.”

I note that the wizard, DuMorne, is careful not to give me his name, nonetheless, one cannot account for the terrible innocence of a child. As the hounds bay, closer than ever before, the family shivers and the youngest girl, clutches at the Wizard’s, cloak.

“Laurent…” She whined piteously.

I can see him grimace, even though it would not be for long, until enough time has passed to so as to void its influence, His whole name, if spoken aloud by a powerful enough fae, can cause him troubles. Though not as serious as if he had given it to me of his own free will, the look in his eyes shows that he knows that I have the upper hand.

The man reaches for a pouch, which from the sound of it was kept coin or perhaps jewels. I halt him with an upraised hand and he sighs knowing that he will not like my request.

“A service for a service,” I say.

It was a perfectly reasonable request, the type of trap a fae would lay. He pounces on it immediately. “Of limited duration,” He insists.

I agree, “A year and a day,” I reply,

“Agreed.” He said with trepidation.

“If you are unable to serve, the debt passes to your youngest daughter, and to any of her issue until the period is repaid in full.” I clarify.

What I ask could potentially, place his line into servitude, but the calls are getting louder and he finally speaks, “Agreed.” He grits out.

I smile, “Such it your promise, Laurent DuMorne, to me, Dispater. So witnessed!”

I can see the wheels turning as he turns my name around and thinks that he’s discovered just who he’s made a deal with, “Oh, yes, Old Father Dis…”

That sickly look of his was so amusing.

The wizard urges the family on but I halt them again.

“What is it,” DuMorne grinds out. There are figures in the tree-line.

“Safe passage is assured,” I say to them, “But what payment do you offer for refuge from the hunters? I nod to the forms in the far distance, they should have been here by now but the mists of the island comply with my wishes and the creatures’ ground-eating steps avail them not.

“What?” The man, who from whispers is named Jacobi, clutches his children and harshly whispers, “I have nothing of value and will not trade my children, Beast!”

I nod amiably and point unerringly to the item hidden below folds of clothes. “Then that worthless trinket will suffice,” I say.

The man’s look is agonized, and in a jerky motion, he reaches into his shirt and draws forth a pendent, It is a Star of David, made of gold and its worth to him lies in generations of family going back to Israel and if family legend is correct, the Exodus. It is a key to a box, although what's in that box is not what he thinks it is…

With a sound nearing mortal agony, Jacobi rips the chain from around his neck and hurls it at my chest. They do not look back as they run across the bridge.

“Boss?” Hugo calls out in trepidation as the loping figures grow nearer.

“At your ease Hugo, and be silent.” I command, the figures resolve into the shapes of men, and by the term ‘shapes of men’ I mean if a half-blind, drunk off his ass artist, stumbled into his studio one day and began shaping a perversion of the human form, only to pass out, midway through.

They wore the uniforms of the Schutzstaffel and leered down at me as I barred their way. The officer in charge was the only one that held a passable human form. He was still taller than normal and had that quiet, intense gaze that made people hope that they wouldn’t ever meet you in a dark alley.

I grinned at He Who Walks Behind…

And here it comes, the crux of the matter, and the reason why I am sorely displeased with LeFay and the way that she, who owed me a Debt, tried to wield me as a weapon against her enemies. It was not the sort of reputation that I wanted, I was on vacation after all, but I can perhaps in time forgive her error in desperation.

This was the only way that she could have found out about it.

The Outsiders surrounded me, I sensed that the Hounds longed to chase after the party that I had let through, but I held the object that they were bound to recover for their master. They leered at me, and I grinned…

I, once, thereabout 1907, met a young artist in Vienna who I paid in some coins for a sketch of the Court Museum. Those coins were not Denarii and to my knowledge Adolf Elizabeth, did not fall under the auspices of darker powers until much later. It is easy to blame the actions of evil men on outside forces, easier still to paint those men as having been evil all along… The Swastika was once a symbol of good fortune and well being, an ancient and revered symbol of Good Auspices.

Hmph!

The Outsiders stopped leering, one of the Hounds whined.

He Who Walks Behind grimaced. “What are you?”

I really shouldn’t let my mind wander, although I now hold a fragment of a soul, I am still lacking in human experiences. At times when I let my mind go adrift, I become too still, or my limbs moved in a subtle way that raised the hackles on even these Outsider Hounds.

My grin grew too wide…

And then, I was upon them.

The wizard and his party must have passed into the real world again. I smelt the stench of Humanity, and heard the ringing of a church bell.

Death is neither too early nor too late, when it is time, it is TIME. As such, much as a bartender does not drink on the job, I find it diffucult to kill those whose end is fore-ordained and known to me. Their time will come when it comes, I will not hasten things along no matter how many times I am preyed upon by vampires, were-beasts and humans. It would be unfair.

Fae on the other hand, Demons, Angels and Outsiders...

“Ask not,” I intoned, “For whom the bell tolls,” He Who Walks Behind fled from my scythe, screaming. “It tolls for thee…”

Outsiders are notoriously difficult to kill.

I looked upon the monstrous figures of the six dead Hounds and quoted John Donne.

Nunc lento sonitu dicunt, Morieris.

(Now this bell tolling softly for another,
says to me, Thou must die.)

But then, there is nothing in this world or the next, that I cannot kill...

“Um, Boss? You gonna eat that?”

Good old Hugo, didn't even have to ask…

[Chrestomanci]

I am enjoying this even though I haven't read any of the Dresden books.

[MrEmperor]

Quite a fun read. Can't wait until things catch up. You're blend of humor Tazered, is what keeps drawing me back to your work. I wish I could do so in my own works as smoothly as you do.

[Sayle]

I'll freely admit that the first part seemed very incongrous to me, but the second part was one I happily read twice. Dispater, eh? Nice play, I thought, though Du Mourne clearly knows his mythology.