Warning: spoilers for the Light and Darkness Saga.
The Death of Fluffies stalks through the dark world on the Other Side of life, passing through a wall, into a seemingly ordinary house.
The DUTY calls. It always calls.
Wherever there are fluffies, there will be fluffy death, and where there is fluffy death, there will be the Death of Fluffies.
In this room, there is a small pen for foals, with two occupants.
One, a happy green earthie, a bandage around one weggie, playing with a pink ball.
The other, a blue unicorn, who has just shed this mortal coil.
Not without being put through the wringer first. His right eye, all four of his weggies, his genitals and even his horn were removed. The Death of Fluffies tut-tuts as he sees it.
You could say that the blue foal died of a broken heart. All he really wanted was affection and kindness.
The little blue foalâs spirit hovers above his corpse, invisible to the living, bound to his former vessel by a silvery thread, his translucent body being intact and whole.
The ghostly blue foal canât feel sadness anymore. He left all the glands for that behind.
But heâs thinking very sad.
The Death of Fluffies gives the foal a reassuring look.
YU AM GETTIN ANUDDA CHANCE, WIWBWUE.
Lilblue raises a spectral eyebrow.
âAnudda chance?â
YUS. YU WIWW BE BOWN AGAIN.
The Death of Fluffies manifests his scythe, gripping it in his teeth.
âNu huwt WiwbwueâŚâ
Then the Bone Fluff severs the thread, and the scythe vanishes.
DEATH OF FWUFFIES NU GIB FWUFFIES OWWIES. DEATH OF FWUFFIES TAKE OWWIES AWAY. GUD WUCK, WIWBWUE.
âFank yuâŚâ
Lilblueâs spirit vanishes, and the Death of Fluffies departs.
Just as he waddles over to the wall, he turns back, looking at the pen, his burning pinprick eyes fixed upon the happy green foal, still playing, paying his dead companion no mind.
BE SEEIN YU SOON.
ALRIGHT, WHAT EXACTLY WAS YOUR GOAL HERE?
In a basement, the Death of Humans, his bony arms folded, gives his latest client the look of a teacher lecturing a disobedient student after a particularly disastrous prank.
The body of the client, a rather scrawny man, lies face down on the floor, encased in a suit of solid gold armor.
The manâs spirit looks like heâs thinking very embarrassed as he explains.
âWell, er, I wanted to get past those Foundation wards, and a buddy of mine told me that gold is magic-proof, so, erm, wellâŚâ
YOU THOUGHT THAT YOU COULD GET PAST THE WARDS BY ENCASING YOURSELF IN GOLD. I UNDERSTAND NOW. AND YOU FORGOT HOW HEAVY GOLD IS UNTIL YOU PUT THE ARMOR ON, DIDNâT YOU?
âYeah, then I just fell down and couldnât get back up again. That was about three days ago.â
IâVE REAPED SOME INCREDIBLY STUPID ABUSERS IN MY TIME, BUT YOU, COREY MIDAS, REALLY MISAPPROPRIATE THE BAKED GOODS.
âI what?â
The Death of Humans sighs, thinking exasperated thoughts.
YOU TAKE THE CAKE, STUPID. SERIOUSLY, HOW MUCH MONEY DID YOU INVEST ON THIS RIDICULOUS VENTURE?
Coreyâs spirit grins.
âHey, you know what they say, right? You canât take it with you.â
The Death of Humans manifests his scythe.
I SUPPOSE. BUT THAT JUST MEANS THAT SOMEONE ELSE CAN TAKE IT. JUDGING BY THE SOUND OF BREAKING GLASS UPSTAIRS, THEREâS A BURGLAR WHO IS ABOUT TO HAVE A VERY GOOD NIGHT INDEED.
âWait, whatââ
With a swing of the scythe, Coreyâs soul is unbound from his gold-entombed body, and the spirit fades.
Before the Death of Humans leaves, he glances down at the most expensive coffin in the world.
REALLY, HE COULD HAVE JUST USED GOLD PLATING.
The Death of Fluffies arrives in a forest, sensing another big job.
He finds the corpses of an entire herd, the bodies all shrivelled, identical looks of horror on each face.
And he finds no souls to reap whatsoever.
And he sees, up in the sky, just barely visible through the treetops, a cloud of green mist flying away.
The Death of Fluffies scowls, knowing that someone beat him to this job.
Not one of his coworkers. Poaching clients like that is against the Rules which the Deaths abide by.
The Death of Fluffies knows who did this.
And what master they serve.
So, while the Rules would usually forbid the Death of Fluffies from warning those in the living world who could do something about it, this is a matter of cosmic importance.
And thereâs an exception for matters of cosmic importance.
That, and the perpetrator of this grisly scene is already known to a certain group of people who could definitely do something about this.
The Death of Fluffies departs, to drop in on some old friends.
In the city so many of the ChaotiX call home, the Death of Rats stalks through the streets of the Magical Quarter, the cityâs magical district.
The Death of Rats looks exactly like what you expect: a rat skeleton in a black cloak.
Many of the people living in this neighborhood are capable of seeing whatâs really there, and they all respectfully salute the Death of Rats as he passes.
Those who canât see him are giving the rest odd looks.
He reaches his destination, glancing up at the sign over the gates.
Bliâkzim-kuâup Rat Farm
The Home of Hole Food!
A traditional term for dwarven cuisine. They eat rats, you see.
Which is one reason the normos accepted the dwarves. Most cities have a rat problem, after all. Something dwarves can easily handle if they have a steady supply of ketchup.
Only the hungriest dwarves would eat rats without some kind of sauce.
This building is the biggest rat farm in the Magical Quarter, owned by the wealthy Bliâkzim-kuâup family.
And this rat farm is renowned for breeding the plumpest, juiciest rats in the city. Dwarves across the tri-state area sing their praises of the Bliâkzim-kuâup family, and Bliâkzim-kuâup-owned rat farms are opening across the nation. Some dwarven chefs will refuse to cook a rat if itâs not a Bliâkzim-kuâup rat.
Some of the less reputable rat farms in America have come under fire for secretly bumping up their stock with chicken, or beef.
The Death of Rats knows all about this, because heâs had to do a few jobs at rat farms with the Death of Chickens, or the Death of Cows.
One time, it was just the Death of Chickens and the Death of Cows who had a job to do, and the Death of Rats was left wondering why he even bothered to show up.
It was a rather bizarre situation for the FDA to deal with. Usually, they deal with the exact opposite situation. Now the FDA has a department for that kind of thing, mostly staffed by dwarves.
Fortunately, the building is soundproofed, so the sounds of whatâs happening inside canât be heard from outside.
Nobody likes to know how the sausage is made, even if itâs made of rat.
Especially if itâs made of rat.
The Death of Rats enters through the wall.
A few minutes later, he exits, the same way he went in, many, many ghostly rats following him out.
Note the complete absence of any ghost chickens, or any ghost cows.
The quality of their meat is a point of pride for the Bliâkzim-kuâup family.
The Death of Rats turns to his clients.
SQUEAK.
The ghost rats fade, one by one.
Rats know better than to argue with the Grim Squeaker. Rats know when to fold.
With that, the Death of Rats departs.
His next appointment is in a classroom, where a particularly rambunctious boy has just learned why one should be careful when handling the class hamster.
Yes, the Death of Rats reaps hamsters too.
Along with mice, gerbils and guinea pigs.
And, on occasion, particularly rodent-like humans.
The Death of Fluffies, having finished his important errand, continues his DUTY, walking into another house.
In the living room, on one table, thereâs a Flufftopia brand micro fluffy farm, filled with red, cherry-flavored nutrigel.
While micro fluffies were initially created for the pictsies, regular fluffies being too big for people six inches tall to keep as pets, theyâve become popular among the bigger races too.
And Flufftopia, wanting to always be one step ahead of the competition, provides nutrigel in a wide variety of flavors. Thereâs even rainbow-colored gel, with a surprise in every mouthful.
Chaos suggested that one.
The Death of Fluffies realizes that heâs a bit early. Micro fluffies fall under his portfolio too, all kinds of fluffies do, but the micro fluffies in the farm are still alive and well.
âWhewe am big daddeh?â
âBig daddeh sed dat big daddeh wud be homesie soon.â
âEnf! Enf! Enf!â
The Death of Fluffies hears the front door open, and the homeowner stumbles into the living room, blind stinking drunk.
âIâmhâm! Lesse how the lilâ guys areââ
Then, as he staggers over to the micro fluffy farm, he trips.
âOhshitââ
CRASH
And lands right on top of it.
All of the poor things are crushed, and the manâs front is splattered with micro fluffy gore, bits of glass and nutrigel.
âOâgâd, âmâbleedinâ! Why dâI taste like chârry?â
The Death of Fluffies sighs, seeing the micro souls of the micro fluffies emerge from their micro bodies, bound by silvery threads so thin theyâre almost impossible to see.
Heâs gonna need a micro scythe for this job.
Later, the Death of Fluffies returns home, to the black domain he shares with the Death of Humans.
He sees his human counterpart arrive, riding a pure white horse into the domain. An actual living horse, not a skeletal horse. Albeit a living horse with unusual properties.
The Death of Humans tried riding a skeletal horse once, but bits kept falling off.
WAS YOUR DAY AS ROUGH AS MINE?
The Death of Fluffies nods.
DA MANEE GUT ANUDDA HEWD. DEATH OF FWUFFIES SAW DEM DIS TIME.
He follows his human counterpart into a black stable, where the Death of Humans dismounts, taking a moment to pet his faithful steed.
YOU TOLD CAL, RIGHT?
OF COUWSE, DEATH OF HOOMINS.
GOOD, GOOD.
The two Deaths exit the stable, going for a stroll around the domain.
They pass one of the few splashes of color in this black world: a field of wheat, gently swaying in a nonexistent breeze.
WE CANâT KEEP LETTING THE MANY POACH YOUR CLIENTS.
BUT DEWE AM ONWY SU MUCH WE CAN DU. DA WUWES NU WIWW WET DEATH OF FWUFFIES DEAW WIF DA MANEE.
SO WE DO WHAT WE CAN. MATTERS IN THE MORTAL WORLD SHOULD BE RESOLVED BY MORTALS. WEâRE JUST THERE TO PICK UP THE PIECES AT THE END. THATâS OUR DUTY.
DEWE WUZ A WOTTA PEE-SESS WEN DAT MICWO FWUFFY FAWM WENT SKWISH.
WHAT HAPPENED?
DA OWNEW WUZ DWUNK AN TWIPPED.
AH. WELL, CâEST LA VIE.
UM.
CâEST LA MORT, THEN.
The duo reaches the black cottage, so much bigger on the inside, and they head in.
The Death of Fluffies has his own domain, a black saferoom accessed via one of the many doors in this cottage.
Every Death gets their own tailor made domain. And most Deaths donât have to share domains.
But humans and fluffies are irrevocably intertwined in ways most mortals just donât understand, and so are the Deaths of Humans and Fluffies.
In the black hallway, the Death of Humans sniffs, glancing at the ajar kitchen door.
SMELLS LIKE PHILIPâS FRYING UP A STORM AGAIN.
HEY, HE NU GUTTA WATCH HIM WEIGHT NU MOWE.
TRUE, BUT IâM IN MORE OF A CURRY MOOD RIGHT NOW. I DONâT KNOW ABOUT YOU, BUT I COULD MURDER A CURRY.
DEATH OF FWUFFIES AM IN DA MOOD FOW SUMFIN WIF CHEWWIES.
The duo enters the kitchen, seeing Philip, the Death of Humanâs manservant, and sure enough, heâs frying up a very greasy meal.
If you look closely, you might spot a vitamin in the mass of fat and salt and burnt crunchy bits.
Albert, the Death of Fluffiesâ⌠stallionservant, is sitting on the dining table, enjoying a very greasy sausage. So is the Death of Rats, as he resides here too. Where there are humans, there will be rats.
His domain is accessed via a mouse hole near the stove.
Philip and Albert both salute respectfully as they see their respective masters enter.
âMaster.â
âMas-tuw.â
As long as Philip and Albert remain in this domain, they wonât age a day. Not even a second. As long as they remain here, theyâre effectively immortal.
So itâs not like a diet of greasy food is going to do them in.
Of course, if they return to the world, the sands in their lifetimers would start flowing down again.
And neither of them had a lot of time left when they first came here.
Philip was already here when Albert was summoned to serve the Death of Fluffies.
And unlike Albert, itâs not the idea of dying that keeps Philip from leaving.
Itâs what happens after he dies that Philip Pringle is worried about.
Heâs got a lot of enemies on the Other Side.
Mostly because heâs the one who sent them there.
