The figure of Death stood motionless, a bony hand perched delicately on their mount’s side. Their war against the earth mother wasn’t going as planned, with her accursed weasel-slaves accosting them and their comrades at every turn. The Rider had managed to break away under cover of night, and now, farther up north, they could thin the ranks of the living before any alarm was sounded.
The pallid beast reared when its Rider mounted, knowing soon its pale coat would be painted pink with the life of its victims. With not a kick or pull of the reins, it took off, its Rider perfectly still above it. There was no need for grandeur, for majesty. Leave the showboating to Conquest. There were souls to harvest.
The first settlement the beast and figure happened upon was a charming little inn, cobblestones worn shiny by boots and wheels. A soft gray plume curled out of the chimney, and golden light peeked from thick curtains.
The Rider dismounted, settling their beast before walking the worn steps. Before they reached for the doorknob, the figure of Death seemed to change into something less… deathly. Bones cloaked themselves with muscles, fat filled the hollow forms. Skin, pale, yet believably alive, stretched over bare blood and sinew, leaving a person in the place of the bringer of the end. The cloak could stay, humans in these parts still wore them commonly enough. Humming gently to themself, they opened the door.
Greeting their entrance was a chime from a bell in the landing. They walked in and glanced around at an empty parlor. Odd, it was early, but not so much so that no humans wouldn’t be about, getting their morning coffees and readying empty beds for visitors. Stepping past the sign-in post, they ducked into the common area. The chairs and couches were well worn and looked like you’d sink right into their cushions, yet no human butts were there to enjoy them. Huh.
The dining room was closest, and peeking in revealed a packed house, plates full of fluffy pancakes and bowls of oatmeal garnished with an assortment of berries. The humans sitting around the table lacked the same vibrance, poised stiffly over their food, hands steepled and heads bowed. The figure sidled up to one, respectfully waiting for their veneration to end. When it didn’t, the false human leaned in, and only then noticed the heads bowed in prayer were more propped against clasped hands. A firm shove confirms their suspicions as the human slumped forward, trapping their hands between a steaming set of pancakes and their slack jawed face.
Dead, all of them. Not a mark was on them, no strange pallor or look of terror on their faces. Yet still warm and flush enough to fool Death themself.
Why? This inn was well enough away from any city that it wasn’t an easy mark for theft. Their bodies were not scarred in a way that would easily point to murder. They were drained. Another human couldn’t have done this. A dining room’s amount of corpses positioned and propped like dolls, a statement kill. Maybe Famine would taunt his prey by posing the kills over food they could no longer enjoy, but they hadn’t the chance! The other horsemen were all currently further south regrouping and licking their wounds. What message needed to be sent so badly that breakfast must be interrupted?
The kitchen was the next step. The food was still steaming, if the cook wasn’t alive, at least there might be clues left, mayhaps a struggle. Shedding their human disguise, Death crept silently into the mess. To their surprise a kijikaiaku stood with its back to the door, busying itself with chopping an assortment of vegetables. The Rider knocked on the door, announcing their presence. “Hello there. It appears you are as much an intruder as I.”
The kiji turned, its eyes widening slightly at the sight of a very non-human face. It was a shade of pink that wasn’t quite garish, but still too unnatural to look at comfortably, broken on the flanks by a soft spring green flow of energy. Its mane was pulled to one side and tied back with a green sash. A soft feminine voice mused aloud, not quite talking to the figure in the door. “Oh! Goodness, you startled me there. No need to sneak around, I’m just finishing up lunch.” She opened the oven, piling onions and carrots over a set of ribs a bit too small and curved to be beef. “No need to feel bad about walking in, the bed and breakfast is open to all folks!”
“I see.” The Rider drawled, not believing a word the pink kijikaiaku said. “Not so open to the folks in the dining area.” They paused, running what knowledge they knew of this world’s guardians through their skull. “I knew humans and kijis have a… strained relationship. What a strange way to express it.” Subtle prompting seemed more appropriate than accusations.
The kijikaiaku smiled, a bright genuine smile that made her eyes light up. “Oh no, we love the humans. You see, we wouldn’t exist without humans. And this-” She gestured to the perverse scene in the other room, “Is the highest show of love. For humans, and for Gaia, our dear Mother of Mothers. As she slaughtered the humans, so do I. As she painted the land and let their energy fly free, I do so in her place. Is that not the ultimate worship, modeling yourself after your god? Is that not love, to die for the ultimate?”
The figure of Death stood stock still, mulling over her statement. They could sense that the kijikaiaku spoke a mix of truth and lies, but had difficulty sorting what was real from filth. A curved scythe manifested in their bony hand at the realization that the kiji thought the same.
“Would you like me to show you?” The kiji was rambling now, stepping forward with a kind, condescending smile on her face, as if the Rider in front of her was a small, stupid child. “How to bathe in their blood, how to wash their energy clean?”
Gripping the scythe tighter, Death nodded.
“If you’d be so kind.”