|•| 5 nights ago |•|
Bradley Quincy lay on his hospital bed, heavily bandaged and unconscious, his mind unresponsive.
The machines keeping him alive hummed, wheezed and beeped in time with their functions. The room was clean and smelt like faint ointment, disinfectant spray and hopelessness. The teenager on the bed did not know that in the morning he'd be taken off life support, at the behest of his parents who had not seen him once since his admission.
It wasn't that they didn't love him, they might have, but nobody around him knew well enough to say that they did. The special doctors who'd been called from out of the state were called by his parents, so one could argue that in their own way they did care.
However, the person who appeared from the shadows did not care whether Bradley was loved or hated.
Iazel's form rose from the darkness by the corner, stepping into the room on silent steps, his shoes soundless. He walked up to the comatose juvenile and looked him up and down on the physical plane and spiritual plane. With a small sigh, he raked a gloved hand through his hair and rethought what he was going to do.
Call the Codex of Death, request to become a Psychopomp and assist Sarah, aswell as Bans.
"ER- Ghughh!" Iazel groaned in frustration and anger.
He couldn't do it!
Last time he had seen the Codex of Death was when he was being sentenced to become a Pariah. He'd just gotten his freedom and if he called the Codex and his request was granted, the hunt for him would become more than just a measly Chancellor of some Ringlet in the Fallen Mortal Realm.
Besides the risk of dying a mortal death, becoming a Psychopomp was forbidden by the Death panel.
And for good reason.
Psychopomps were an anomaly, unprecedented and unplanned in The First Epoch. Wardens were immortal entities formed by the Codex of Death to collect the dead and bring their souls to the Dead worlds, fulfilling their function and gaining favour with the Codex.
Psychopomps did not do that, they did not have to, their function was unclear and unknown, yet somehow they were not destroyed by the Codex of Death for doing nothing.
To some Wardens, lazy and dulled thin by the eons, that could have seemed appealing, but to the Death panel, it was insubordination and equal to a revolt. Psychopomps were hunted, captured and slowly tortured by the Death panel, enduring horrors equal to Hell.
Eventually the Psychopomps gave into despair, broke down and begged for death, which would be granted. Their souls, something a Warden mustn't have, would be tossed into the Pit, to suffer endlessly.
Iazel gripped his scythe hard, feeling a bitter taste in his throat.
After getting his freedom, was he now going to cage himself and only to be hunted even more?
What was he to do?
Why was he even doing this?
For that mortal girl, who did not even belong or want to be part of the Unveiled World?
"We're one and the same."
Bans's words echoed in his mind and like a ton of bricks had been placed on his shoulders, his hand trembled as it lifted palm up and something appeared. A light breeze floated through the room as the darkness on his hand rose up and formed the outline of a face.
The face was bony and black, hollow eyes stared from nothingness, with no nose or lips, showing the upper teeth but no lower jaw.
It was a black skull mask.
His first Transcript as a Widower.
Transcripts were a funny thing, they could be bought or granted by the Codex of Death at the beginning and end of each tier. He'd gotten this mask the day he became a Death Knight, and left Hades with Bans for the first time.
She'd insisted they celebrate, made them go to Eden for a week of sightseeing, drinking (she drank mostly) and seeing the clothes.
It had been the most happiest memory for him when he was a Pariah, and also the most painful.
He use to bring the mask out everyday, but slowly the pain overwhelmed the joy and he stopped bringing it out all together. Bans would probably smack him if she knew, or not, they weren't the way they used to be.
And who's fault is that, he thought bitterly.
"Mine." He said to empty air and a thousand thoughts flashed through his head before fading away.
"And I'll amend it. For her... for them, I suppose." He said softly.
Slowly, as of the weight of the object was a million times heavier than it looked, he put the mask on.
"ERA Codex: {MAUSOLEUM} Cemetery of The Shadows"
A cry rang through the room as his shadow expanded and combusted around the room, vanishing everything from sight in the Fallen Mortal Realm.
Iazel opened his eyes to a destitute cemetery of countless graves and crypts, spanning as far as the eye could see. The sky was cloudy, grey cold clouds stood still above, unmoving like images on a canvas.
The ground was darker than the sky, the soil seemingly charred and dry, cracking at his steps. There was no wind, but a sound like the wind floated in the air with the stale taste of death.
Iazel looked up and took a deep breath.
"I call upon the Shadow of Sin and Life, Codex of Death," Iazel swallowed even though he didn't physically need to," I request upon you, Dea."
DEATH!
The unmoving sky started to quake and crack as a fissure split the ground under him like a wound opening up.
Ahhhhhhh!
A thousand screams and cries thundered, rising in volume as the darkness in the fissure coiled and erupted like a gyser. Bones, hundreds of bones flew into the air, smashing onto the stone hard ground into dust.
The darkness slithered out from the crack and started to coil around the bone dust, stretching and latching each part together like glue. The number of bones just kept increasing, along with the darkness, until after a while something started to form.
A large skeletal arm was formed, the size of mountain and reaching high into the sky. It was made of broken bones and slithering shadows, pieces of rotten meat were oozing of it like chunks of expired ham.
It's fingers were slightly clenched and facing towards him, in their grip was an oval shape, with a cornea the size of a hill and blacker than coal.
The eye looked at him, unblinking and unfeeling, it's aura so violently deadly that the bones around it kept on cracking and being reformed.
Iazel kneeled down, his head bowed and respectful, knowing full well that he could be destroyed for discontent and disrespect.
"Speak."
A sound that was not a voice echoed across the place, cracking stone and making Iazel wince as it smashed into his mind aswell.
"I, Widower Iazel, request upon The Codex of Death, to become a -"
"Silence."
Iazel shut his mouth instantly, his eyes lowered and hands placed at his side.
The Eye lowered itself and landed on the ground, barely two feet away from him. Iazel grit his teeth as it's aura tore and cut seams in his body, indirectly injuring him just by proximity.
"Iazel, Raise your head."
Iazel complied and saw something walk out of the eye, a shrouded figure wearing a cloak of black lace that reflected the night. The hood was up and where there was supposed to be a face, was darkness.
The giant skeletal hand crumbled to dust and vanished in a nonexistent wind.
"Name your request, Iazel." The same mind cracking voice echoed from the figure.
"I request to become a Psychopomp." He said softly.
For several minutes the figure did not speak, but stood perfectly still, facing him without any rush.
"This is your Third request. There will be no others. Are you certain?" The voice asked without concern or emotion.
"I... I am."
"Your request shall be granted. Who shall you become? What shall you pay? Where shall you reside?"
"Bradley Quincy, comatose and death sentenced. My payment shall be my Transcripts. My residence... I wish for ownership instead."
The figure raised their hands and a black book appeared, floating in the air. It was a dark red book with grey pages and Iazel looked at it with trepidation.
That was his ERA Codex.
"Records must be altered. Ownership requires assesment of location. Requested location?"
"Oakwood." Iazel said and the figure flipped the book open to the first page.
"Residents have been found to be too few to attest your request. Ownership pending. Payment is due. Chosen Transcripts?"
Iazel raised his scythe to offer it but the figure did not take it.
"Unsatisfactory payment." The figure pointed at his mask," Offer that."
Iazel froze in shock.
No, he thought and the figure raised a finger.
His left arm fell off.
Cleanly, the limb just dropped to the ground.
He looked at the stump that was his hand with fear.
"Further refusal will result in cancellation and required compensation. The mask of Night must be offered."
Do it for her, he told himself and took the mask off, only for it to fly out of his hand and into the figures face. It didn't latch onto a face though, but faded into the darkness under the cloak.
His limb floated into the air and merged with his body once more.
"Payment received. Vessel status after Transfer?"
Iazel replied under his breath and the figure continued.
"Requirements met. Request to be granted... Are you certain?"
Iazel stared at the figure, this Avatar of the Codex of Death, and gave a smile.
Was he sure? Maybe not of himself but when it came to Bans?
"I am."
The figure raised their hand and his ERA Codex flew under its hood disappearing into it.
"Transfer imminent. Widower Iazel recording as Psychopomp Iazel, Shadow Reaper."
Iazel felt himself start to sink, his senses dying one at a time.
"We will talk again."
Then everything went black.
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