Empty Chains ✔️ | #ONC2019

| Chapt. Two | My Lord |

Those in black visibly stiffen as a small corridor bursts open to the left. Just off from a comfortable black throne, layered with a more velvet approach and curving under the leather arms and body.

Demetri's back straightens as well, his distance between me growing ever so slightly when a large dark figure saunters in. Dark shadows wisp beneath the cloak, concealing a solid mass in black attire. Broad, tense shoulders slouch to the naked eye, though it would seem something more prudent is happening beneath the empty frame.

A personality practically exudes from the wraith though. His swagger grows exponentially bigger when he notices the women in his presence though. Without seeing eyes, a weight still comes from his gaze, landing on me and then towards a blonde on the floor.

"Once upon a time, I thought about making such fine specimens as women unable to compete in such a contest," a lulled voice scrapes over every surface as if it were coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. A gentle gust comes with the words, sending shivers down my spine and outwards from my waist. It wraps me in a cold sweat.

One wrong move and it would seem anyone could be dead.

The hood looks from side to side, analyzing a solid nine contestants. "Where is Jeffrey?"

A reaper to the left snickers and Death snarls in warning. The sound immediately silences.

As if summoned, a scrawny blonde in equally black attire bursts through the same grand entrance I was guided into. He's panting and uneasy as he falls onto hands and knees before the throne.

Death has yet to sit, seemingly angry about it. Halfway into lowering his towering figure, he freezes. Holding the awkward position for a moment, Death threateningly lifts his weight upright again and allows a dry, fake laugh. "No, no, don't start without me, Lord Death. We were just about to begin, before you dragged your suffering carcass in here, Jeffrey. But please, do carry on with your exhausting ritual of tireless panting and overused excuses."

Death pauses before snarling. "I'll wait."

"The goblins, Sir, I-"

"Bored!" A gloved hand snaps. So does Jeffrey's neck. "So, nine contestants this year then."

Not a whisper passes in this tangible silence until a muffled sob starts up again. Death doesn't even share a glance in the direction, apparently used to the blubbering and less than interested. He does another count, looking over each colorful person in the room. One, two, three... The murmurs stop when he reaches the crying man scratching at his neck.

"Where did you get this one, Atticus? He's mental."

A reaper, no more handsome than any other man and somehow infinitely more alluring. Fascinating. Atticus bears no weapons, saying more than enough about his capabilities and specialties. Only a black shirt and jeans, gothic energy covering him.

He drops emotionless eyes to his charge and then continues holding contact with Death. "His delusions will leave with the crystal, My Lord. A simple case of trauma."

"Trauma?" I mutter. "He looks psychotic."

Demetri pales, my mouth earning the attention of the two immortals stationed in front of and beside me.

I can imagine the smirk in vivid detail, Death inclining his head towards Demetri. "Found yourself one with a mouth, did you? The independent thinkers are my favorite."

The last words echo warmly, somewhere between a purr and intrigue.

Demetri's slack facade returns, the playful glean shining over the hardened eyes. "Beats the scum I'm used to, but as you know with my methods, I don't particularly get a say in who my charge is."