Chapter One: Ibzan
An empty soul…
A fathomless sea…
A bleeding heart…
A wilting tree…
A frozen tear…
A rusted key…
A torn up letter…
A cup of tea…
A shattered mirror…
A ruler's fie…
A stolen ring…
A dead man free…
A dragon's breath…
A castle's debris…
A man undead…
Cannot live with me…
It was warm.
The perfect kind of warm. The kind similar to the warmth of a thick blanket wrapped around your body on a cold winter's night. Maybe you're sitting in front of a fireplace, maybe you have a mug of hot chocolate in your hands, maybe you've just eaten a hot Christmas dinner, or maybe you're sharing that blanket with someone you love.
It was an indescribable warmth that comforted the soul.
The Fireplace, or The God of Life, was pondering. It was known by many names. A great being of warmth, a giver of life, and one who has others take it.
In the embrace of its warmth, seated in a comfortable recliner, fast asleep, as he had been for a long, long time, was its Reaper. The Reaper did his best. He did well. He returned those who still held its warmth to the afterlife, to the other side.
The undead do not need warmth.
The Fireplace was pondering however, on something it felt. A stirring, from somewhere far, far away. Something was breaching boundaries that should never be crossed. Like a pinprick stabbed into the fabric of reality, a hole so minuscule and minute that nothing could possibly slip through.
The Fireplace knew this calling. It was a cry for help. Again and again, it had felt this sensation echoing through limbo, and again and again, it was unable to respond. It had no Reapers that were free. They were either dead, or dealing with them.
Once again, the God of Life would have to ignore the calling….
…except it did have a Reaper. Or, what remained of one. One who was so desperate for atonement…
…One who has been without its warmth for far too long.
It was cold.
It was so, very, cold.
An unbearable cold, a frost that chilled you to the soul. It did not make your teeth chatter or your bones shake. It went beyond that. It seeped into your soul. It numbed your senses. It left you feeling empty. Like a man who'd lost everything, now left out in the rain. Like a soldier who fought for a home that became ruins in his absence. Like a painter turned blind.
A deep, dark and fathomless cold. Purgatory.
And then….
…there was warmth.
Bones stirred as warmth began to flicker and tickle at metacarpals. It came from the tips of fingers and toes, then worked its way up each digit and knuckle, before seeping into the forearms, the legs, up to the humerus and thighs, into the scapula and pelvis, and into the ribs.
As the warmth reached a punctured skull bearing the horns of a ram, a gasp suddenly came from a lungless chest.
Ibzan awoke, and he felt warmth once more.
And Ibzan cried, though no tears were shed.
"My… friend…"
"Ibzan. It has been too long… I am sorry."
"No… the one who must apologize… should be me." The undead let out another rattling gasp as he slowly sat up. His body had been propped up against the well outside the large, wooden cottage. He could feel warmth inside his bones, and he relished in it as snow fell from the sky.
"We are both at fault, to a degree my old friend. But you have done many things that I cannot ignore… which is why I have a new task for you. Something for you to do if you wish to truly atone for what you have done... for all the lives you have taken, including your own."
"Anything. I will do anything for you. Just please… do not leave me again. Do not let me leave you again." Ibzan shuddered as he slowly pushed himself to his feet, his bones creaking. Grabbing the edge of the well, he forced himself to stand up straight, noting that there was warmth coming from the well. "Ah… so that is where you were…"
"You may not see me again, just yet… but in time, I will allow it. My Reaper has done his job, and he sleeps until I require him again.. but I have a task for you that only you can accomplish. You stand at an odd precipice, a being between Reaper and Undead. You have my warmth in your soul, but you have no flesh. Your blood is black, but it rests in your bones. Technically, you no longer exist. I have pulled some strings and returned you to a form of existence that is neither living, nor dead. You simply 'are'. And because of that, you can go through the boundaries of space and time."
"Space… and time. What is it you would have me do?" Ibzan murmured, tilting his skull.
"For the past millennia, every hundred years or so, I would feel a calling from beyond the veil of our reality. I have never been able to acknowledge it, because I am bound here, and so are my Reapers. I could not risk any of the Reapers I had at the time of the calling… but you on the other hand…" The Fireplace hummed. "You can bypass the fabric of reality when I give you the push you need, and you can answer the call. Once you get there… it is up to you to find out where the call for help is coming from, and why it cries out. Solve it, if you can. There is no rush."
"And when I have finished my duty?" Ibzan asked as he looked down the well.
There was a sudden flicker of fire as something appeared in the well's bucket in a burst of ash and smoke, startling the undead.
It was a lighter.
No… it was HIS lighter.
"This is…" The former Reaper murmured, picking up the lighter between his thin, bony fingers.
"My Reaper found it in your room. I fixed it for you. It should work just fine now. When you have completed your duty, simply turn it on, and then toss it into the closest thing that passes for a fireplace here, and I will know you are ready to return."
"Thank you… my friend." Ibzan sighs with gratitude. He felt happy, for the first time in a long, long time. Pocketing the lighter, he found that there was also a packet of cigarettes in the bucket. Taking those as well, he cracked his neck a little. "What about weapons?"
"Take what you need from the house. When you are ready… just flick the lighter on."
Ibzan strode through the large cottage, his coat fluttering lightly. All around were the scattered remains of those who worked for him. Not his friends, barely comrades, they were followers who he promised warmth.
Empty promises.
He felt no remorse as he looked upon their bones. Everything he had done, he had done for exactly this. To feel his friend's warmth again.
He got what he wanted, but at what cost?
"I hope you all find warmth, wherever your souls are now." He mutters before continuing his walk through the empty house.
He was no longer Ibzan the leader of the Dreged.
He was now, once more, Ibzan, a Reaper.
And a Reaper always carried two weapons with them. Time to find his first weapon.
Reaching one of the floors of the house, he found a gun that he knew the Reaper he encountered before had used on him.
With extreme prejudice.
But really, he couldn't blame him. This weapon was honestly, ridiculous.
The Revenant. It was a pistol that held only five bullets, but each one packed a punch strong enough to crack the skulls of some of the toughest undead. This gun is what put the hole in his head.
A hole that healed actually. He couldn't feel the hole in his forehead.
As if this gun wasn't strong enough, each bullet could actually pierce through pretty much everything. Walls, floors, armored doors, each shot from this gun would keep going.
Reaching up to the gun, Ibzan hesitated. The Revenant was powerful. Almost.. Unnecessarily powerful.
This thing killed him. That made him feel a little awkward, wielding it…
Dropping his hand, he continued walking. He knew what gun he would pick after all. But first, his second weapon.
Finding the plaque on the wall he was searching for, he found the Scythe.
The staple of every Reaper.
He didn't even hesitate as he wraps his fingers around the shaft of the farming tool turned murder weapon, and lifts it up.
It was just as light as he remembered.
He couldn't just carry this thing in his hand however, and his jacket didn't have any sheaths for this thing…
"Sorry about the drapes…" Ibzan muttered as he took one of the curtains in his hands and ripped a large section of it off, before he began to tie it onto two separate parts of the scythe's main body, creating a band of fabric to keep the entire thing strapped to his body as he loops it around him like a guitar case.
Feeling the weight of the scythe hanging from his body, he adjusted the makeshift strap before he walked out of the cottage.
"Only taking the scythe? Very traditional." The Fireplace said, amused as he walked towards the well.
"Nothing wrong with the classics… but I am taking a gun. I might need you to reload it however." Ibzan chuckled before leaning down in the snow and picking up a discarded firearm.
The gun he held in his last stand. The one he carried with him into this place before he died.
The .32 revolver. Six bullets. Silver in color. The classic gun of all Reapers.
Feeling the weapon grow a little heavier, he flipped the chamber open to find fresh bullets.
"I've tweaked it a little. If you run out of ammunition, of which I have given you 60 rounds in your jacket, the gun will reload itself after 24 hours. Only use the other 60 bullets when you need to. Every shot counts."
"As always… and if I need to, I will just use whatever weapons I find in the field."
"Like a true Reaper."
"I have not been one for a long time… might as well try my hand at it once more." Ibzan muttered before holstering the gun on the inside of his jacket. Pulling out his lighter, he flips it open, before looking to the well. "Once more… thank you, for this chance, my friend."
"Be safe Ibzan. When you are done… you will have a place to return to. And a chair with your name on it."
"It sounds like heaven…" The reborn Reaper hums, before pulling out a cigarette and placing it between his teeth on the left side of his mouth….
…and then flicking the lighter.
In a burst of blue flames, he vanished.
And into the void, he went, following the cry of a girl begging for help.
I am not apologizing.
I can hear the fans of Zero Perfection crying out in injustice already. Hehe, don't worry guys, that'll get updated... eventually. This year. Maybe.
Okay, so this one came to me out of... a dark place. Don't expect an update to this for a long time, this is just a little idea dump, something I decided to write because tonight feels very cold and I've unfortunately been listening to Jocelyn Flores by xxxtentacion a lot. I love that song, but it also makes me feel weird. Anyway, cuz of that, I ended up writing this just to channel my... suddenly morbid thoughts. So don't expect me to update this until I get morbidly depressed again.
Which happens more often than you think.
I don't even know where I'm going with this story, I'm just gonna go with how I feel I guess. Anyways, toodles. Its late. I'm exhausted. I wrote this all in like, less than an hour in a morbid, tired haze so I'm not sure if its even grammatically sound.