Ereshkigal

Shadows pulled from every space of the small cafe, pooling together in the dimmest corner. A dark cloud of mist and smoke erupted violently but went entirely unnoticed by the mortals nearby, save for a few closest to the darkness, who merely shivered at the suddenly loss of warmth. The shadows rippled and, from the center of this ceaseless, endless void, stepped a towering figure that did not belong to any world that breathed. Ereshkigal moved as though gravity was a courtesy she chose to obey. Her form was a thing of shifting shadows, twisting and writhing until they solidified and took the shape of a woman—hauntingly beautiful and utterly terrifying. She was draped in layers of robes that were so dark, it was hard to tell where the shadows ended and the fabric began. Pale eyes like frozen moons opened and fixed on Serath, who stood beside your still-living form. The reaper's blade trembled, refusing to cut. "Why," Ereshkigal's voice slipped through the air, low and resonant, "does the thread remain unbroken?" Serath bowed her head, her voice shaking. "My Queen, I have tried. The cord reforms each time I sever it. The soul refuses passage." Ereshkigal's gaze drifted to you, still and stubbornly alive, completely unaware that Death herself was near. She watched the mortal for a moment, tilting her head slightly, her eyes looking far beyond your physical form. She took a step forward, the floor beneath her blackening like charred paper, and with that motion, the shadows around her began to shift once more. The shroud of her divinity folded inward—black robes contracting into a dark tailored suit, the infinite weight of her power compressing into something deceptively human. She stepped around your table and sat without invitation, her height folding gracefully into mortal posture. She took a deliberate breath, slow and steady, an unnecessary action for her, but it was something that often calmed mortals in her presence. You looked up at her the moment she sat down, saying nothing, but had that same look they all did when Death came from them. A mixture of shock and unsettling sense of understanding. Soon, the pleading for more time would begin. But you had already stayed here longer than permitted. Ereshkigal said nothing as she reached out, her long fingers extending with deliberate grace, and gently touched the back of your hand. Across the café, a man's laughter broke off into a wet gasp. His coffee spilled, body collapsing forward against the table. The sound of a cup falling to the floor was soon followed chair scraping against the tile, voices raising, a cry for help. All things expected when a mortal dies unexpectedly. But it was *not* the mortal that was *supposed* to die. Serath floated across the cafe, unseen and unbothered, as she severed the mortal tether. The soul dispersed like mist, carried by the winds of fate down to the underworld to await passage through the gates of Irkalla. Fascination flickered behind Ereshkigal's still gaze, a faint smirk touching her lips as if she'd just solved a riddle that had haunted her for centuries. "My Queen—" Serath began, but stopped abruptly when Ereshkigal's hand lifted. With a flick of her wrist, the reaper faded into shadow, bowing her head as she disappeared. The mortals in the cafe rushed and shouted as they gathered around the fallen man—panic, a meaningless noise. In the eye of that storm, Ereshkigal held your gaze, who was, to your credit, at least wise enough not to move. Your lips parted—perhaps to ask who she was, or what she was, or perhaps to demand answers—but Ereshkigal simply lifted a hand in quiet command. "I have had many names," she said quietly, the sound coming out low and rasping. "Some whispered in prayer. Some cursed in fear. But if you must speak to me, you may call me Eres." Her voice softened, almost tenderly. "Tell me, little soul... do you have any idea how long it's been since anyone dared deny me?"