Warning: spoilers for the Resurrection of Dehak Saga.
The Death of Fluffies waddles through a wall, into a living room, in the dark world on the other side of life.
As always, DUTY calls.
He sees a human couple, sadly looking at a purple and dark blue alicorn mare, her mane and tail silky. She perished while giving birth to a single foal, who, save for the lack of a horn, looks a lot like his mother.
When one life ends, another begins. The juxtaposition of life and death is something the Death of Fluffies understands deeply.
They are not opposites, but rather, two halves of one whole.
You can’t have one without the other.
As the couple tends to the newborn foal, the Death of Fluffies sees the mare’s spirit, hovering above her former residence, bound to it by a silvery thread, staring longingly at the foal.
She doesn’t really need to blink anymore, and wouldn’t do it if she did need to blink.
She never wants to take her eyes off her child, but knows that they’re about to part ways for a long time.
From a living point of view, they already have parted ways.
The Death of Fluffies waddles over, giving the mare’s ghost a sympathetic look.
KNU DAT HE WIWW BE WUBBED, SEWENADE.
As he manifests his scythe, gripping it in his teeth, Serenade’s ghost nods sadly.
“Wiww babbeh make Sewenade pwoud?”
The Death of Fluffies thinks, remembering the future. He knows all the possible futures. All the ways the foal’s life could unfold.
But he doesn’t know which future will be the future.
He doesn’t know how the foal’s life will unfold.
That is, more or less, up to the foal to decide for himself. The age of prophecies and predestination has long passed.
However, the Death of Fluffies has a hunch, and is willing to bet that the foal will live a good life.
So, after swinging the scythe and severing Serenade’s thread, he gives her his answer.
YUS.
Serenade looks satisfied by the answer as her spirit fades away, on her way to the afterlife.
“Gud wuck, babbeh… Sewenade wiww awways wub yu…”
The Death of Fluffies demanifests his scythe, waddling back over to the wall.
Before he leaves, he takes one last look at the foal and his owners.
Martha, the woman, is feeding the foal a bottle of formula, while Arthur, the man, carefully wraps Serenade’s body in her favorite blanket like a shroud.
The Death of Fluffies sees a framed photograph of Serenade on one cupboard, and he remembers the future again.
Not far in the future. The further into the future one looks, the more uncertain things become.
The Death of Fluffies remembers Arthur and Martha giving the foal a name of his own.
Larry.
The Death of Fluffies remembers Larry growing up into a healthy colt, and Larry’s owners gently explaining where his mother has gone.
He can see the future Martha, gesturing at the photograph while giving Larry the colt a reassuring smile, just as clearly as he can see the present day Martha cradling Larry the newborn foal and feeding him.
To the Deaths, the past, present and future are one and the same.
The Death of Fluffies remembers Larry the colt, standing on that cupboard, Arthur and Martha watching with bittersweet smiles as Larry excitedly tells the photograph about his day.
And the Death of Fluffies knows that Serenade will be listening in from where she is now, hanging on every word.
One day, Serenade and Larry will meet again.
The Death of Fluffies departs with a smile, feeling DUTY call elsewhere.
On the magical side of the universe, in the harsh, mountainous and bitterly cold land of Urshuul, the Death of Humans stands in a dark hall full of magical paraphernalia, where some kind of arcane ritual has apparently gone horribly wrong.
This is, or rather, was home to a group of Wild Mages, magical anarchists from Drakonia who moved north because the Mage’s Guild has no authority here.
Lord Dehak was once a Wild Mage too.
They kicked him out for being too crazy, even by their standards.
If you aren’t familiar with Dehak, that should tell you everything you need to know about him.
And when Drakonia was Dehakonia, the only thing keeping the Wild Mages from launching an assault on the Tower of Tyranny was the Great Octarine Wall, the force field sealing the kingdom in.
They’re not exactly sane themselves.
The mutilated, dismembered corpses of a dozen Wild Mages litter the hall, blood splattered all over the walls, floor, and furniture, and judging by the clumps of fur littering the place, the killer was very big and very furry, and trashed the place on the way out.
The spirits of the Wild Mages are awkwardly standing around, many silvery threads binding them to the bits and pieces of their corpses, only now realizing, thanks to the clarity of thought that the soul being released from a glorified sausage brings, why all those rules and regulations they despised are there, and why they shouldn’t have left Drakonia to practice magic unconstrained by said rules.
Wild Mages often fail to understand until it’s too late that the bars on a tiger cage are not there to protect the tigers, and that the tigers aren’t them.
Once again, the original position fallacy giveth, and the original position fallacy taketh away.
The Death of Humans sighs as he manifests his scythe, and questions the dead Wild Mages as he starts cutting threads.
SO WHAT DID YOU IDIOTS DO?
One dead Wild Mage explains.
“We didn’t think the giant rats we were breeding were big enough, so we tried to make one of them bigger with magic.”
Yes, giant rats are a thing on Magicca.
REALLY? WHY WERE YOU BREEDING GIANT RATS IN THE FIRST PLACE? I THINK THE DEATH OF RATS CAN TELL YOU THAT RATS MANAGE JUST FINE ON THEIR OWN.
Another Wild Mage answers the question indignantly.
“It wasn’t our idea! It was Mick’s! Where’d he go, anyway? He just ran off and left us to deal with the rat!”
MICK? ARE YOU POSSIBLY REFERRING TO MICHEL TOUTVYN, CAST OUT OF THE MAGE’S GUILD FOR HIS UNSPEAKABLE MAGICAL EXPERIMENTS ON MICE?
A third Wild Mage nods.
“Yeah, he’s always been obsessed with mice for some reason.”
The Death of Humans scowls, still cutting threads.
THE DEATH OF RATS HATES THAT IDIOT. MICHEL IS ALWAYS KEEPING HIM BUSY WITH NONSENSE LIKE THIS. WHERE IS THE GIANT RAT NOW?
Another Wild Mage shrugs.
“We dunno. Couldn’t exactly go chase it after the big ugly bugger tore us to shreds.”
I SUPPOSE NOT. ALL WE CAN DO IS HOPE THAT SOMEONE MORE COMPETENT THAN YOU MORONS CLEANS UP THE MESS YOU’VE MADE. THIS HALL WILL BE YOUR TOMB, YOU KNOW. I DOUBT THAT ANYONE WILL FIND YOUR BODIES UNTIL THERE’S NOTHING LEFT BUT BONES. THAT’S WHAT YOU GET FOR BEING SO SECRETIVE. AND SO STUPID.
The Death of Humans cuts the last few threads, and the spirits of the Wild Mages fade away.
He departs, muttering to himself as he walks out through a wall.
IF IT’S NOT RATS, IT’S SLIMES. REALLY, IT’S A WONDER THAT THERE’S ANY WILD MAGES LEFT.
Yes, slimes are a thing on Magicca too.
Back on Earth, the Death of Fluffies waddles into an alleyway in Oakland, California, walking into a grisly scene.
A cardboard box has been ripped apart, the half-eaten corpses of the fluffy family living in it strewn about the alleyway, with copious amounts of blood, and traces of red slime.
And the souls of the fluffies hover above this morbid display, bound to their half-eaten bodies, all obviously thinking confused about the circumstances of their deaths.
“Wut wuz dat?”
“It wooked wike a fwuffy, but aww wed an swimy…”
“Wut am dem wed swimies, mummah? Chirp.”
“Wook a bitsie wike booboo-joos. Peep.”
“Mummah nu knu, babbehs…”
“Whewe am udda sissie? Chirp.”
The Death of Fluffies manifests his scythe, getting to work.
One of the foals is still alive, the Death of Fluffies knows.
Probably wishing that she wasn’t alive, but she no longer has a say in the matter.
And the Death of Fluffies knows exactly what has happened here, for this is not the first time he’s had a job like this.
All fluffies fall under his portfolio, including those who have been bonded to symbiotic lifeforms of extraterrestrial origin, willingly or not.
You might be wondering, is there a Death of Klyntar?
Perhaps.
Perhaps not.
But when, or if the Death of Fluffies comes for the perpetrator of this horrific deed, he’ll be coming alone.
For that Klyntar was completely overwhelmed by its insane host. They became one, in mind, body and soul. The symbiotic other is nothing more than an extension of the host now.
A newborn Klyntar can be just as fragile as a newborn foal.
And Carnage bonded under very unusual circumstances.
On the distant planet of Dunna, the Death of Dunnans walks into a purple room, seeing a purple corpse lying in a big purple bed.
The Death of Dunnans looks like, well, a Dunnan skeleton. A Dunnan woman’s skeleton, with two pinpricks of purple light in her eye sockets. Her hooded cloak is not black, but instead, a very dark purple that borders on black. And it clings lovingly to entirely nonexistent curves.
Anyone who sneaks a peek under that cloak will be sorely disappointed, unless they get a boner from bones.
The Death of Dunnans is definitely disappointed. A Dunnan-shaped body comes with certain desires, just as a fluffy-shaped body does, but the Death of Dunnans lacks the soft fleshy bits needed to act on those desires.
It’s for the best. She’s here for business, not pleasure.
But she’s learned to take pleasure in her business.
For Dunnans, there’s a lot of overlap.
The corpse in the bed is that of an old man, and judging by the big smile on his wrinkled, yet still handsome purple face, and the Dunnan men and women in various states of undress surrounding him with forlorn looks on their attractive purple faces, he went out with a, uh, bang.
His spirit hovers above his body, still bound to it, looking like he’s thinking very relaxed thoughts as he reclines in midair.
“Whew! I really need a cigarette after that.”
You may be familiar with Valhalla, the warrior afterlife of Norse mythology, the vast mead hall you can only enter if you die honorably in battle, where the valiant dead fight every day and feast every night.
Well, the Dunnans believe in something like Valhalla.
Only you don’t get in by dying in battle. For a Dunnan, dying in bed isn’t dishonorable at all if they were using that bed the fun way.
And there’s less fighting and feasting, and more of something else that starts with the letter F.
If you think Earthlings are a bunch of horny buggers, you’ve never been to Dunna.
They take the “make love, not war” mantra very seriously around here.
The old Dunnan man’s spirit winks at the Death of Dunnans as he sees her approach.
“Hello, beautiful. Be gentle with me, it’s my first time.”
The Death of Dunnans winks back as she manifests her scythe.
DON’T WORRY, I’VE BEEN AROUND THE BLOCK PLENTY OF TIMES. HOLD STILL, HANDSOME.
Her voice is as deep and dark as any Death’s, but it also has a… seductive quality to it. An alluring purr, that could make any man who hears her need a freezing cold shower.
She cuts the thread, and the dead Dunnan floats gently to the floor.
“Sure you don’t want to accompany me to the Fields of Forever Fornication, gorgeous?”
The Death of Dunnans chuckles as her scythe demanifests.
OH, SHUSH. I HAVEN’T GOT A LOT TO WORK WITH UNDER THIS CLOAK, YOU KNOW.
“Enough for me to work with! I’ve got magic hands, and I don’t need to worry about arthritis anymore. No bad back or aching joints to slow me down, either! And I’m maddeningly skilled with the tongue.”
I’M FAR TOO OLD FOR YOU, ANYWAY.
The Dunnan’s ghost grins cheekily.
“I’ve always had a thing for older women.”
The Death of Dunnans reaches for him, caressing his translucent head with a bony hand, leaning in and whispering sensually into his ear.
PUCKER UP, HANDSOME.
As they share a passionate kiss, the Dunnan’s spirit fades away, his lips going last.
When he’s moved on, the Death of Dunnans tugs on the collar of her cloak.
WOW. HE WASN’T KIDDING ABOUT HIS TONGUE.
The Death of Fluffies waddles into the black domain he shares with the Death of Humans and the Death of Rats.
And another Death.
As he waddles towards the black cottage, he pauses when he sees the Death of Tennebites reclining on the black grass, near a black river, watching the skeletal fish.
No, not him.
The Death of Fluffies changes course, waddling over to his coworker.
WUT AM YU DUIN HEWE, DEATH OF TENNUH-BITES?
The Death of Tennebites shrugs. Yes, he looks like a Tennebite skeleton in a black cloak.
I’M BORED, DEATH OF FLUFFIES. YOU KNOW HOW LONG MY CLIENTS LIVE, AND THERE’S NOT MANY OF THEM LEFT NOW. I DON’T HAVE A LOT TO DO ANYMORE.
Not long ago, planet Tenneb vanished, taking most of the Tennebite race with it.
The Deaths know what happened, and where Tenneb is now: beyond their reach.
The surviving Tennebites didn’t believe the Death of Tennebites when he told them.
They don’t see him as a Tennebite, and they consider his DUTY to be nothing but an unforgivable crime against their race.
If they had their way, his DUTY would be putting their souls back into their bodies, preferably while kneeling and apologizing for the inconvenience, and the other Deaths would all be retired.
Tennebites are, of course, fanatically xenophobic, and only tolerate the existence of non-Tennebites when there’s something in it for them.
Even if it’s just having a target for their hatred.
WE NU CAN WET DAT HAPPUN TU ANUDDA PWANET.
MY SURVIVING CLIENTS WOULD BE HAPPY IF IT DID. YOU KNOW WHAT THEY’RE LIKE: THEY DON’T MIND BAD THINGS HAPPENING, AS LONG AS THEY’RE HAPPENING TO OTHER PEOPLE.
A BUNCHA HIPPO-KWITS.
EXACTLY, DEATH OF FLUFFIES. HONESTLY, THEY HAD THIS COMING. YOU KNOW THEY’RE STILL REFUSING AID FROM THE FEDERATION?
In fact, many surviving Tennebites blame the Federation for the loss of their planet.
Others blame Calvin Korkea, who already threatened to destroy their planet once. They despise him for reasons beyond merely not being a Tennebite.
But it was neither the Federation nor Calvin who was responsible.
The survivors haven’t left their part of the universe. Most of them settled on the next planet in the system, naming it New Tenneb, being unwilling to live among the krik, as they call non-Tennebites.
The Death of Fluffies grins.
YU WUD FINK DAT DEY WUD WEE-AH-WIZE DAT DEY NEE AWW DA HEWP DEY CAN GIT, WUDUNT YU?
The Death of Tennebites skips a black pebble across the river.
I’VE BEEN REAPING THEM FOR A VERY LONG TIME. EVERY TIME THEY WAGED WAR AGAINST ANOTHER PLANET AND LOST, I WAS THERE. THEY’RE NOT JUST IDIOTS, THEY’RE STUBBORN IDIOTS. AND IF LOSING THEIR HOMEWORLD ISN’T ENOUGH TO GET THEM TO CHANGE, THEY’RE OFFICIALLY A LOST CAUSE. I WON’T BE TOO UPSET WHEN I FINALLY RETIRE.
AM YU HOPIN DAT DA DEE-VOW-UH-WUH GITS DA WEST OF DEM TUU?
The Death of Tennebites shrugs again.
IT’S NOT IDEAL. EVERY SOUL THE DEVOURER POACHES FROM US MAKES THEM STRONGER. AND IF THEY BECOME STRONG ENOUGH TO BREAK FREE…
DEATH OF FWUFFIES KNU. NU-WHEWE AM SAFE AS WONG AS DA DEE-VOW-UH-WUH AN DA WITE OF PEES AM AWOUND.
Another Death enters the domain.
He looks a lot like the Death of Fluffies.
But if you took a closer look under that cloak, and were sufficiently knowledgeable about fluffy anatomy, you’d notice several subtle differences.
The bony horn on his head is an obvious one.
And the pinpricks of light in this Death’s eye sockets aren’t blue, nor is the burning tail.
They’re octarine.
Yes, the Deaths can see it too.
This Death is the Death of Woollies, and he has his own saferoom in the cottage, just across from the Death of Fluffies’ saferoom.
The Death of Fluffies turns to his woolly counterpart.
ANEE SINE OF DA MANEE?
The Death of Woollies nods.
YUP. ANUDDA HEWD GON, NEAW WIKO-STED. DEATH OF WOOWWIES TOWD WOWIK.
GUD, GUD. NAO DA MANEE AM A PWOB-WEM FOW BOF OF US. WUT ABOWT FWED AN VAW-NEE?
DEATH OF WOOWWIES WUZ JUS ABOWT TU GU AWSK DEATH OF HOOMINS.
DEATH OF FWUFFIES SHUD PWOB-AB-WEE BE DEWE FOW DAT.
Bidding the Death of Tennebites farewell, the Deaths of Fluffies and Woollies waddle to the cottage.
When they’re gone, the Death of Tennebites gets up, feeling DUTY calling.
One of his clients just got killed in a bar, in one of the bad parts of Vyse, the pleasure planet.
As he walks out of the domain, the Death of Tennebites sighs in relief.
FINALLY. I WAS ABOUT TO DIE OF BOREDOM, AND THAT’S NOT EVEN POSSIBLE.