Reaper Book 1: Roots

[ZePenguin]

Hi there? So um, this is basically going to be a story written in the first person from a variety of different people's views, most importantly, the Grim Reaper. Constructive criticism will be greatly appreciated, keeping in mind that I'm only 14 years old.

 

Reaper: Book 1- Roots

ZePenguin

Chapter 1

 

Light snow drifted lazily around me, and those which were to land upon me simply burnt once in contact with my fatal aura. Thicker clouds loomed even more threateningly overhead, and the usually lush landscape had been transformed into a barren, desolate wasteland: fitting for the occasion. I watched with only the slightest bit of interest as Father Wistow stared at his own lavishly dressed corpse. Four Partisan Knights carried the glistening, gilded oak coffin which creaked in annoyance at its current occupant: Faladors most prominent priest- an overly-excessive burden if you were to ask me. They headed down the aisle, enclosed by the mass of mourners, towards a rather demeaning statue of myself, which towered over a second gravestone engraved with the symbol of Saradomin and my holy neighbours details.

 

I returned my heavy gaze upon Wistows face. Although my official position is the Grim Reaper (which bestows a rather negative view upon me; I mean really, Im a rather nice chap once you get to know me), I prefer to think myself as some form of a psychologist, or as todays wealthy class of youth prefer to call it, a shrink. Im a people person, which is definitely required in my line of work. Ever since the day twelve-thousand years ago when Guthix (oh how I detest that flamboyant butterfly) offered my current job, I had been forced to comfort and escort millions upon millions of dead. And you dont comfort and escort said millions upon millions of dead without learning a thing or two about human emotions.

 

I had experienced them all: guilt, anger, resentment, disbelief, annoyance, the odd giddiness due to the lasting impression of the overdose of herbs a Varrock teenager had thought would be a good idea to experiment with. The expression which Wistows spirit conveyed was certainly not one I was unfamiliar with, confusion.

 

Ah-, he begun before closing his mouth to ponder momentarily. After he had recomposed himself, he said, I suppose Id like to know why Im still here. I mean, I am a faithful follower of the ways of Saradomin, and therefore I should be entitled to the same privileges, if not better-

 

Really now? He instantly recoiled at the chill of my voice- I really have tried to improve on that. You describe being a greedy, obnoxious pig and sleeping with a variety of different women, whilst constantly neglecting your own daughter, as faithful? No wonder you were murdered; yes you were murdered and that is partly why you are still here. We werent off to a good start.

 

He gathered his wits before declaring, Well you see now, Mr Death sir-

 

In a desperate attempt to redeem myself of my earlier bad manners, I simply said, Please, call me Harold.

 

Err- okay Harold, I do understand that I have made some mistakes in my past-

 

Over nine-thousand as I recall.

 

Yes well; fine, I admit that I havent been the best of people but I dont see why anyone would attempt to murder me. He seemed exasperated at finally being able to complete his sentence.

 

Attempt and perhaps more importantly, succeed, I corrected. And just for the sake of it, I will give you a few possibilities. One, a large majority of the women youve so happily indulged yourself in were married, and it is not unheard of vengeful husbands killing those who have been having affairs with their wives. Secondly, citizens pay a lot of taxes to satisfy the needs of the Church, with little in return. It is also not unheard of plebeians ridding those who treat them unfairly.

 

Wistow was motionless, his mouth slightly agape. Well, I never considered those-

 

Unable to resist myself, I interrupted him again. However, I do not think that husbands in distress or angry citizens are responsible for your demise. If you could be so helpful to recount the events of the day you died.

 

He cleared his throat before answering my request. Right, right; I remember I was travelling by coach from Falador to Ardougne to visit my friend Brother Kojo. I was sipping on some splendid wine before poof! I was dead.

 

Precisely why I believe that a mere commoner did not kill you. No doubt that the wine you were drinking was expensive, and the poison which the wine harboured was probably even more expensive. A commoner would probably simply stab you or bash your head in. Plus, the attack was planned. Whoever killed you didnt do so in a sudden fit of rage, but instead was cool and calculated. Poison is also more commonly used by women, although there are obviously many exceptions. I was rather proud of my evaluation.

 

He scratched his shaved head absent-mindedly (no pun intended), before asking, So who do you think killed me?

 

Honestly? My best guess is that it was your daughter.

 

He stared at the daughter he was never supposed to have. She was sixteen years of age, with a deathly pale complexion (once again, no pun intended), and large brown eyes. Her long hair was tossed over her right shoulder, and was dyed a curious shade of sky blue. A petite nose was a furious red, although most likely due to the cold as she had not been weeping and was instead staring deeply into nothingness. She wore a considerable black gown adorned with expensive lace, which completely engulfed her small body, only exposing her equally considerable bust.

 

Rudolph in a snow storm I murmured. Although far more attractive. Perhaps I should show her to Nick sometime...

 

Slyvia, Wistow blurted. Sylvia! No, I refuse to believe that my daughter would harm anyone, let alone her own father-

 

Of course I was to interrupt once again. Well it does make perfect sense. You deprived the girl of her mother, you declared her your niece in public, she was always confined to her quarters, you refused to let her become a priestess-

 

Now it was his turn. Well of course I didnt allow her to follow priesthood; shes a girl for Saradomins sake!

 

I paused for a moment, considering my options. Well, I finally said, slowly and defiantly. I could organise an arrangement. It seemed that in the space of a few minutes I had become attached to Priest Wistow and the circumstances of his murder.

"What do you mean by, an arrangement? he cautiously enquired.

 

Who do you believe murdered well, er, you?

 

He also took a moment to consider his options. Suddenly his eyes widened like a child being given candy. I know! he declared. It must have been those Burthorpe folk. That Prince Anlaf must have ordered my murder, it would benefit him greatly. After all, the loss of a man of my stature would be a terrible blow to whichever city he belonged to.

 

Yes, but why would the Imperial Guard use poison? Knowing Anlafs arrogance, hed much more likely prefer the world to know that he was responsible. The simplest way to achieve that is by using his signature claw weapons.

But, I announced just as Wistow was about to speak. If youre so convinced then I could arrange a bet.

 

A bet!? exploded Wistow. I am a man of Saradomin, and I will not indulge myself in such vile behaviour.

 

Am I the only one who sees the irony in that?

 

The humble priest stuttered. Alright then, so what are the circumstances?

 

Well, if it was Prince Anlaf, then Ill make sure that your daughter is given all that you deprived her of in her childhood. I looked at Slyvia, who was now exchanging nervous glances with Sir Amik Vase. If I win, however, then youll give me one- only one particular item of my desire.

 

Wistow glared at me. And what would that one and only particular item of your desire be?

 

Remember how I said that the unknown identity of your murderer was only one of the reasons you remained on this excuse of a planet?

He nodded.

 

Well, it turns out that when you were murdered one and only one particular item of my desire was stolen from you

 

Wistows face suddenly darkened in understanding. Yes, I know what item you are talking about. But how exactly are we supposed find out who killed me?

 

I smiled. A challenging feat for someone with the same facial structure I have. I gave a sharp and piercing whistle, even more challenging. Instantly, a large, pale stallion erupted in a dazzling spectacle of flames and shadow before Wistow, who jumped in fright unable to prepare himself. The ghostly steed knelt down before me, blazing eyes staring intently and obediently at me.

 

Meet Jasper, I said, grinning slyly, to the cursing priest. Take care in not pulling out any of his mane, he wouldnt like that.