A desolate hut rattled in an open field, on the outskirts of the grand city of Velin. It had been known as a haunted location for the longest time, and finally, the Order of Spiritual Heralds had sent a representative. With a heavenly white light and the deep sound of the bells of death, a figure emerged as if from thin air.
His silk, white robes fluttered, dark hair neatly swept to one side. His footsteps were light, quiet, as if used to concealing their sound. Gold shone on the lining of his clothes and the cuffs around his ankles. Talismans hung from his waist by cotton strings, drawn with coal, ashes, and his own blood.
Aarin ran his fingers through his hair, the small braid on the right of his face clinking merrily, his spear sheathed against his back.
Wails could be heard coming from the trembling hut; the ground around it shook from the sheer magnitude of its movements.
Aarin scanned the area. Indents on the earth showed that the land had been used for farming at some point, but it had clearly been undisturbed for a long time. Crows sat in a circle around the hut, cawing restlessly, but none flew away. He channelled his energy into the ground for any clues, receiving nothing but a terrible scream in return.
Strange crows and a screech of agony: a perfect way to end an otherwise relaxing week.
Aarin unhooked a guarding talisman from his belt and slapped it against the door before swinging it open and stepping in. As soon as he let the door fall back shut, the wailing and shaking stopped. The quiet was eerie, but Aarin was used to silence.
He hadn't even had the chance to take another step before a body slammed into his. He staggered, feeling his shoulder hit a crumbling wall, rough hands clawing at his collar and his throat. The fingers were bony, decaying skin drawn taut. He could smell the ghost's cold, rotten breath.
Aarin grit his teeth, silent, as he unsheathed his spear and swung it down in an elegant arch. Phantom dust trailed behind his blade as the ghost snarled, jumping back at the touch of blessed metal. The reaper let out a choked gasp, clutching his neck, feeling the marks left behind by the ghost's nails.
"Why do you refuse peace?" Aarin asked, voice smooth and low, soothing.
"Birds… bring… ruin… must… stop…" the ghost managed to say, its voice guttural and grating.
Aarin stood up straighter, spiritual energy flowing from his form in a heavenly light. The trembling walls stilled, the shaking floors balanced, and the darkness began to fade. As the ghost screeched and cowered, its skin smoked wherever Aarin's light touched it. In its glow, Aarin could finally discern the ghost's form. It was that of an old man, skeletal, hair thin, eyes bulging, heart carved out of its chest.
"Rest, now," Aarin muttered, holding a cleansing talisman between his fingers, and placed it on the ghost.
He felt a familiar darkness envelope his vision as his body plunged through space and time, the feeling akin to being pulled into deep water. When he resurfaced, he was on a farm.
The sun was high and bright. In the distance, he could see the city of Velin and the very hut he had just been in. His skin was thin, wrinkled, drawn tight over his bones. He felt light, his breath came in rough, and his stomach hadn't been filled in days now. His throat felt parched.
The crops around him were withered, dead. Crows sat around him in a loose circle, silent.
"Why!?" Aarin—no, the old farmer who had once lived in this hut—screamed at the birds.
"Leave! Why me!? My- my CROPS! My money! Oh gods, oh gods, I'll never be able to pay them off! OH GODS THEY'LL TAKE EVERYTHING! OH G—"
Aarin felt his chest tighten the same way the old farmer had. His eyes glazed over as blood trickled down his nose, and his heart, unable to take much more, had finally stopped beating. The crows cawed and flapped their wings. His body keeled over. Aarin felt something sharp through his chest once he hit the ground.
"Rest, now," the reaper said again, throat tight, "may you find peace."
Then share my burden, said the old man's spirit to him, make me light.
Aarin nodded, holding the spirit to his chest gently as he was plunged into another memory…
Only a moment had passed outside of Aarin's mind. He stood frozen over the ghost's twisted form for but a second. As the spirit gently turned to dust, the reaper dropped to his knees, gasping for breath.
Everything felt hazy; he could feel tears on his face, or perhaps it was blood? He couldn't quite tell. He wiped it off all the same, clutching his head until the ringing in his ears stopped. The hut was empty and cold now. He blindly reached for his spear, using it as a cane to push himself up to a more dignified position.
He couldn't quite breathe properly yet, but he had gotten used to it now.
Old bastard, so much ado over spoiled produce, he thought to himself, but at least he'll find peace in Mritalok.
Aarin had barely made it out of the hut, dragging himself using his weapon, when a different type of ringing began in his ears: a voice calling for him. He didn't flinch as the bookkeeper spoke in his mind. It was quite a normal occurrence for reapers, spiritual connection being her preferred means of communication.
"Please report to the Order of Spiritual Heralds immediately," the bookkeeper said. Aarin gritted his teeth, tapping into the spiritual connection, even though all he wanted to do was collapse in a heap.
"Give me a minute to gather myself, will you?" he groaned, rubbing his forehead to get rid of the ache.
"Apologies, but it's a direct order from Niryati." The bookkeeper sounded as pleasant as ever, but even her soothing voice was grating to Aarin's ears. He sighed and nodded.
The silence stretched for so long that Aarin thought the bookkeeper had broken the connection. He whimpered in pain as his head gave another, vengeful throb of pain. He was rudely interrupted from his moaning when she cleared her throat.
"No further luck with the medicine, I assume?" she mused.
"You've made quite the observation," Aarin slurred.
"Hm, you still need work on your complimenting. Less passive-aggressive, more appreciative," the bookkeeper joked.
"Well, I apologize for being a little 'bitchy' after having my mind melted," Aarin snapped, immediately flinching at the intensity of his own thought.
"How eloquent," the bookkeeper quipped. "Take a few hours to gather yourself, I'll hold it off for you," she added sympathetically.
Aarin shook his head and swiftly sheathed his spear.
"It's quite alright; I'll be at the headquarters soon," he told the bookkeeper, severed their connection, and disappeared in a whirl of white and gold silk.