So For Day 27 Of Inktober "Flesh And Bone" I Did Some Meandering Of What Our Skelly (Mad) Smith Looked

So for day 27 of inktober "Flesh and bone" I did some meandering of what our skelly (Mad) Smith looked like when he still had flesh. I'd imagine him being older than Eidard chronologically and possessing a lot of equipment which has been lost after abyssal forge and banishment incident.

It's such a shame we get so little of him in game.

Prompts by @another-darksiders-blog

Sponsored by @imagine-darksiders

Y'all were using make up?

man. remember early in the pandemic, shortly into the telework phase, when a lot of women started vocalizing “wow, i didnt realize just how much time, energy, and even money i was wasting on dolling myself up for work every damn morning, until i didn’t have to do it anymore. i don’t think i’ll go back to doing that when we return to the office? i won’t be a slob or anything, of course, i’m just not going to go out of my way to look pretty at work"  and then,

so many people proceeded to lose every last crumb of their shit about it, writing the most asinine crybaby articles ever where they were just. utterly horrified by the possibility that more and more women might become comfortable looking natural/plain and completely opting out of the expectation to look as appealing as possible at all times, even when all they’re doing is spending all day in a cubicle. that was bonkers. lmao.

Cold Hands, Warm Heart

Chapter 20 - Serpent's Peak

Death X Reader.

Summary: On your way to Serpent's Peak, you and Death run into an old 'friend,' who has yet to learn the extent of a human's gregarious nature...

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'How very peculiar it is,' Death muses to himself as his ghastly steed plods sure-footedly over the desert ash, 'that up until now, I never would have imagined that a Horseman could make such a comfortable pillow.'

The eldest Nephilim lowers a deadpan look at the top of your head where you've propped it against his chest while the rest of your body slumps deep in the saddle, leaving you tucked securely into his front - dead to the world, so to speak - nestled between a pair of sturdy thighs.

It's likely testament to Despair's smooth, unhurried gait that you were able to fall asleep on the back of a moving horse at all... Then again, Death supposes, you have been running on the very last reserves of your adrenaline. Perhaps, at last, your body has simply said 'enough is enough.'

Either way, Death remains fastidiously exasperated that he's once again been reduced to a glorified headrest.

“Humans,” he gripes under his breath, “No respect these days.”

But, oh.. isn't it telling? Isn't it betraying that he hasn't shoved you forwards and ordered you to wake up? That he hasn't pushed Despair into a loping gallop to cross the desert in record time at a pace that would surely startle you awake?

As if he can sense his rider's innermost ruminations, the spectral horse twists his massive head sideways and throws a knowing look towards Death.

Glowering back into those rotten, hollow eye-sockets, the Horseman grumbles, “Whatever it is you'd like to say, kindly keep it to yourself.”

Despair's ears prick forwards and betray his amusement before he simply swings his nose forwards again and continues to clomp steadily over the rolling dunes.

Blowing a deep 'hmph' through his nostrils, Death returns his attention to the slumbering crown of hair pressed up against him.

Half of your skull sits directly over the fragments of broken lantern that house what's left of his Nephilim kin, and after a moment, he finds himself scowling pensively down at the glowing wisps of soul remnants that drift out of his marred chest and curl into the air around your head. Absently, he wonders if you, like him, can hear the septic whisperings of his people and the hateful, jaundiced things that spill from long-dead lips, always lingering in the shadowy corners of the mind, refusing to remain silent.

… He hopes you can't, for your own sake.

Death has had countless millennia to fortify his cerebral muscle. After all, he's painstakingly learned how to tune out his brother, Strife. Ignoring thousands of vengeful spirits wailing out for retribution is a cakewalk in comparison.

Deep in your well-earned rest, you start to shift, mumbling something incoherent as you turn your head to its opposite side and inadvertently uncover the entirety of Death's mark of shame.

Or his 'badge of honour,' as Absalom had bitterly called it.

The Horseman's index finger taps idly on top of his thigh, the rest of his hand curling just a little more tightly around Despair's reins and causing the leather to creak softly in objection to the sudden pressure.

Corruption had made it quite clear that he intends to use Death to restore the Nephilim to life.

The only lingering question is... how? It's a puzzle that unsettles the Horseman more than he'd care to admit. Doubtless, the plan will involve the Well of Souls somehow, just as Death's plan to resurrect humanity will inevitably lead him to the same, holy place.

The Horseman isn't blind. He knows that if he hadn't've been of some obscure use to Corruption, he likely never would have made it out of the Tree of Life unscathed.

Absalom always was the most callous of the Nephilim elders. All that talk of family and brotherhood back there in the Tree had sounded so hollow in Death's ears.

But there was something else that Absalom said that had perturbed Death just as much as his pre-conceived delusion that the Nephilim could ever be restored to life...

He'd made a very clear, very real threat against your life...

Obviously, the Avatar of Corruption intends to target you directly. And why? Because he truly believes that so long as Death is exposed to a human's influence, the Horseman is being 'corrupted' in an entirely unique way. Absalom thinks you're turning the Horseman soft - so soft that Death wouldn't threaten what little remains of planet Earth by resurrecting the world-ending Nephilim race.

The Horseman is just about to scoff to himself when his eye spots movement from the human leaning against him. Glancing down at you, he realises with a jolt that you've begun slipping just a little too far to the left, and without hesitation, he brings up an arm and catches you with the inside of his elbow, gently nudging you upright in the seat once again.

Soft. What a laughable idea.

But for all his effort not to jostle you, your body suddenly gives a rough jerk and you startle awake, letting out a gasp as you lurch forwards in the saddle and crane your neck over a shoulder, only to find a familiar bone-mask peering down at you, cocked inquisitively - not whatever monsters had been plaguing you in your sleep.

Recognition lights upon your face like daybreak and you breathe a tiny sigh of relief, raising your hands to scrub the exhaustion from your eyes.

“Bad dream?” Death asks after a moment, allowing you the time to collect yourself.

As the seconds tick by, your heart gradually stops rattling the bars of your ribcage and you shrink backwards into the Horseman's torso, busying yourself with trying to capture the green wisps of Despair's mane that simply drift between your fingers. “Mmm,” you affirm with a yawn, “Guess I'll have to just get used to those, huh?”

There's a quiet solemnity to your tone that ages you far beyond your years, and Death knows he shouldn't ask, but... then he glances down at the crescent welts his nails have left in your bare shoulders, and just like that, another brick in the unassailable wall he's built around his heart breaks off, falling away into a shapeless and unknowable abyss.

Perhaps it's selfish of him to hope that those marks don't scar. They're too potent of a reminder that he can hurt you so easily without even trying. He'd forgotten, just for a moment, that in spite of your durability so far, you're still extremely fragile, and he'd left behind the proof of that frailty all over your skin.

For all he knows, your bad dream could very well involve him. The least he owes you is a chance to air your fears.

Death clears his throat - ashamed that a Horseman has to brace himself at all to pose such a mundane question - and asks, “Would... you like... to-”

“- to talk about it?” you finish for him, feeling his abdomen solidify against your spine, “Nah, that's okay. Not even sure I can remember it properly now that I'm awake..” You can sense his palpable relief as tightly-bunched muscles unwind themselves behind you, informing you that he's either glad you can't remember an awful nightmare, or relieved that you aren't asking him to talk you through it.

With a roll of your eyes at your emotionally-suppressed companion, you yawn, “It was probably about something stupid, like that one where i'm being chased by a killer, but I can't move faster than a shuffle.”

Absently, Death tries not to think of Absalom's threat to hunt you down.

Grimacing to himself, he hums in acknowledgement instead and falls into a dour and pensive silence. 

As the desert starts to give way to grey, cragged cliffs that jut like knives from the ash, you ride past the bones of some immense and ancient creature whose gigantic ribcage sweeps skywards like a monolith to an old god, utterly Lovecraftian in scale. And when Despair carries you under their shadow, you audibly gulp, unable to stop yourself from imagining the kind of terrible beast that must have roamed these lands once upon a time...

Or perhaps still does.

Subconsciously, you curl your spine into Death's sternum and duck your head.

“Hey,” you swallow, looking for distraction, “You uh, you want to talk about your bad dream?”

Death tears his eyes off a distant figure skulking about in the sands several hundred metres away and tips his chin down, blinking at you curiously. “My bad dream?”

“Yeah, you know. Earlier?” you stress, waving a hand through the air as if to pluck the memory right out of it, “When you nearly attacked Ostegoth? He said you were... holding onto a dream, or something?”

“Ah...” He clears his throat, straightening up. “That...”

It wasn't a dream. It was more of a waking nightmare – a vision planted in his brain against his will. First and foremost though, it was a memory, one that's plagued him since the day it occurred – of a vast and holy garden, soaked scarlet with the blood of his species.

The Battle for Eden certainly isn't a pleasant memory, by any stretch of the imagination.

But to you, of course, it must have seemed like he was caught in the tangled throes of a bad dream.

He'd come to consciousness at the base of the Dead Tree with Absalom's poisonous words dripping in his ears, disoriented and alarmed, but somehow still knowing that he had someone to protect, and when his eyes snapped open, all he could see in the old goat's place was a broad, imposing figure with a jagged maw and a stare as yellow as the corrupted crystals protruding from Absalom's back.

Ostegoth was not Ostegoth in that instant.

You however? You were somehow still you, in a sense. Namely, he knew he was in the presence of somebody he had to look after.

At the time, War's face had flashed through his mind's eye, but it was the sound of your voice that had eventually cut through the memory, breaking whatever spell Absalom had infected him with.

But as for your query...

“I... do not recall, exactly,” he lies. That chapter of the old Horseman's past isn't something he enjoys discussing openly, and although he shouldn't give half a damn in the slightest, he doesn't want you hearing the grisly details of the Eden slaughter. Damn him to Oblivion and back - your opinion is starting to matter more and more to him of late.

“You mean you don't want to talk about it?” you venture.

In response, the Horseman merely offers you a non-committal hum, privately disgruntled by the notion that you're finding it easier to read him with each passing day, which doesn't bode well for his reputation.

“That's okay,” you yawn after it becomes clear he isn't going to divulge anything further, “I don't want to talk about mine either.”

'Ah,' Death muses, 'So you do remember it...'

All returns to silence for a while as Despair steps out onto a wide, wooden suspension bridge that spans a seemingly bottomless chasm, his hoofbeats clomping like the steady beat of a drum against the ramshackle surface below you.

In a moment of foolish curiosity, you make the mistake of peering over the side, only to audibly gulp and tear your eyes off the green, rancid miasma swirling far beneath the bridge. The chasm opens like a maw, inviting a misplaced step that will see all three of you plummeting down into its cragged depths.

A shiver travels up your spine and you're grateful when Death gives the reins gentle tug, guiding Despair further from the edge and into the centre of the overpass.

Sconces have been strung up along the bridge's parapets, burning brilliantly with green, flickering flames that match Despair's ghostly aura, whilst far off among the distant cliffs and mesas, vast structures have been built with undeniable purpose – doorways and rickety, wooden catwalks wind their way between spires so tall, they seem to stretch endlessly into the soft-hued sky.

It feels so strange to you that you can be in the middle of a grey, semi-arid desert, and you still find glimpses of civilisation.

And yet, as you cast your gaze about, you can't find a single sign of life...

'Land of the dead, indeed,' you muse silently, appraising a colossal cluster of yardangs that sit in the face of a jagged, slate-stone hill.

Directly ahead of you, at the other end of the bridge, a doorway has been built into the front of the rock, but not one of regular scale, oh no. This one looks to be tall and wide enough to allow even the Warden to pass beneath it... Or beings the same size as him at least...

'Hmm. Troubling food for thought,' you admit, lips pressed into a thin line... You're going to miss that friendly, rock-hewn giant... Sullenly, you lower your eyes to the saddle horn and curl your fists into the fabric of your skirt, hoping and praying that the makers and construct alike are recovering okay after... after Eideard...

If only you could let them know somehow that they haven't lost three friends today... that you and Death are all right.

The rhythmic clopping of hooves on wood dulls to soft thuds when Despair steps off the bridge onto the sand and points his skeletal snout towards the vast opening in the hillside.

In no time at all, the three of you pass beneath it and enter a hollow cavern that sweeps in a continuous, uphill slope, cutting straight through the centre of the yardangs. You're immediately put on edge by the stone tunnel that seems to close in on you once you find yourself inside. Dark and grey and serrated like sharks' teeth, the walls curve upwards to form a natural ceiling way over your heads and you can't help but tilt your neck back to gaze up at the wind-forged roof, dropping your mouth open to speak.

You suddenly find yourself interrupted by a snort from the Nephilim behind you.

“Let me guess,” Death remarks, and in a tone that's so clearly meant to be a mockery of your own, he deadpans, “Woah.”

You purse your lips for a second before blowing out a half-offended laugh and twisting yourself about to jab him lightly in the stomach with your elbow.

“Shut up,” you grin, getting a satisfying 'oof' out of him, “This place is impressive. I can't help it!”

Catching your elbow in his palm, he gently pushes it away and replies, “I doubt you would be so impressed if you'd run into the denizens of this realm.”

“We've already met Ostegoth,” you argue, “And he was perfectly nice, despite... you know. You.”

Electing to ignore your dig, the Horseman scoffs dismissively. “The merchant is not a denizen of the Dead Kingdom. He's a visitor - and I cannot stress enough that you're exceptionally lucky he was.”

Clicking your tongue, you idly track a ball of ebony feathers that goes gliding through the cavern over your head. Dust, it seems, is still on look-out duty. “You keep saying that everything here is going to try and kill me, but we haven't even run into anything dangerous yet.”

“Yet,” he stresses, scanning the tunnel walls up ahead, “You know as well as I do that such peace is liable to change on a dime.”

“Are the people here really so bad, or are you just being paranoid again?” you tease.

Death's jaw creaks open behind his mask as he leans back with an affronted sputter. “Of all the... - It isn't paranoia if it's true.”

You're careful to keep your face angled away from him when one side of your mouth pulls into a smirk. There's a gleeful triumph in knowing you can get under even the Horseman's tough, chilly skin.

Shrugging a shoulder, you simply quip, “Sounds like something a paranoid person would say.”

Bristling like an agitated stalker, Death grumbles something in that language you don't recognise before reverting back to the common tongue. “Getting awfully bold, aren't we? I'm still quite livid that you followed me to the Dead Plains, you know.” And as if to embellish his point, the Horseman lifts a hand to rap you admonishingly on the back of your head with a single knuckle, gently enough that you only laugh in response and duck forwards to escape another blow.

"Okay, okay! Sorry~!" you grin.

But behind you, as soon as he realises what's he's just done, Death goes eerily still, staring down at his poised hand with a crease slowly forming between his brows. The motion comes as more of a surprise to him than it has to you, in that it's a familiar motion, one he hasn't practiced in several thousand years, not since War picked a fight beyond his capabilities and came to Death bloodied and bruised but grinning, with a look of utmost triumph gleaming in his eyes. Or when Fury and Strife were much younger and challenged one another to be the first to sit astride an angelic beast.

The pair of them were lucky it just so happened to be Azrael's personal mount, and as such, it hadn't the fiery temper of its kin.

Bumping his knuckles against their skulls usually let his siblings know exactly what their eldest brother thought of their foolish escapades. A cuff around the back of the head or behind the ear is harmless to Nephilim youngsters, but enough to communicate, 'You're an idiot, but I still care,' without having to vocalise the sentiment.

What's notable in this instance, is that Death has taken something he's solely reserved for familial interaction and used it on you...

Has he... done this with you before?

If he has, does it mean anything?

Does it have to mean anything?

You're saying something in front of him, but he's hardly taking in the words, at least until Despair draws to a stop without having been asked to do so.

“Hello~? Death?”

He blinks, shaking his shaggy mass of black hair and casting his attention out towards the surrounding area, instantly on high-alert.

He's given pause however when you raise a hand and point to his left, at the cavern wall.

“Don't those things belong to that demon we met in the Forge Lands?”

“Demon?” His guard shoots up again momentarily until he spies the glyphs dangling above a hollow offshoot that's been cut out of the wall.

“Oh,” he grumbles, letting his shoulders slump, “That demon.”

Rather curtly, he squeezes Despair's sides and adds, “We've no need of his services.”

“Hey, wait!” you return, craning around in the saddle to look back at the portal, “What if.. I wanted to ask him a favour?”

Death doesn't ask his steed to stop, but Despair's hooves come to an abrupt halt in the sand anyway.

“A favour?” the Nephilim scoffs, swiping his hand dismissively at the raised dais sitting snugly to the rear of the hollow, “That conniving weasel does not deal in favours.”

“Au contraire, my funereal friend...”

A slimy voice crawls into Death's ear-canal like rancid sewage and he suppresses a visceral shudder as Despair shifts around to side-eye the shadowy figure that materialises from the dais in an eruption of billowing, blue vapours.

“What is a favour, if not merely a kind of service... And what is a merchant, if not a peddler of such services?”

Easing himself about in the saddle, Death regards the hovering demon with an air of bored indifference. Unlike him however, you sit ramrod straight up front, all but buzzing with nervous energy.

“The only question I have,” Death drawls, “Is what are you doing here, Vulgrim? Are you certain you haven't been shadowing us?”

Vulgrim, the demon from the Forge Lands, steeples his long fingers together and gives his small, fleshy wings a beat, hovering slowly towards you over the sand.

“Sheer coincidence, I can assure you,” he replies, pressing a taloned hand over his chest in a laughable mockery of earnestness, “I sensed a potential customer passing this Serpent Hole and thought I should seize the opportunity, so to speak... Therefore... ” He drifts higher into the air, spreading his arms out in an gesture you suppose is meant to be inviting, “Here I am, pleased to serve...”

His scheming, green eyes flick to you and he seems to brighten all at once, as if he'd only just noticed your presence. It's all an act, of course, one that Death is acutely aware of.

Vulgrim could sniff out a fresh soul from halfway across a galaxy.

“Well, well, well!” the demon declares, showing off his shark-like grin and leaning closer to leer down at you, “Look who’s still alive and kicking!”

Underneath you, Despair sticks his ears straight back to the top of his skull and bends his hind leg slightly, lifting a hoof from the ground - a clear and undeniable warning to the demon that he’s venturing just a little too close. His rider, in the meantime, shifts his arm forwards as if he only means to adjust his grip on the horse’s reins, but in doing so, he discreetly shields you further behind the sinewy wall of waxen flesh.

Vulgrim - well-practiced in the art of discretion - recognises the act for what it is, and subjects Death to an infuriatingly knowing smirk.

Oblivious to the exchange, yet otherwise leery of the demon, you tip your chin up and eye his jagged fangs.

“Still alive,” you reply, cursing the tremble in your throat, “But it sort of feels like I’m the one being kicked, not the one doing the kicking..” And then, out of sheer adherence to the social graces you were taught, you find yourself asking, “And you? Are you okay? How’s... uh.. business?”

Always quick to fill a pause, Vulgrim has already opened his mouth before the question sinks in and it snaps shut again with an audible ‘click!’

Sly, emerald eyes blink several times in rapid succession until eventually, he seems to regain his composure and surges backwards into the air with a flourish of his hand. “Well, how kind of you to ask!”

And by kind, he means ‘strange.’

“Business is 'sky-rocketing,' as you humans like to say! Souls are flowing, gilt is plentiful, clients are numerous... Ah! These are profitable times to be a merchant! Profitable times indeed!”

Truth be told, Vulgrim could prattle on about his trade until the heat-death of the Universe, and it has been quite some time since he was actually invited to do so. Usually, he only gets five words in before he’s being told his tongue will be forfeit if he doesn’t stop wagging it.

Even now, he can see the Horseman’s eye twitching behind that legendary bone mask while the beast carrying him tosses its wispy mane and paws at the sand under its hooves. 

And then, by contrast, there’s you - listening to him with a sort of courteous patience that’s seldom offered to a demon of his rank. There's even a polite - if tentative - smile softening the corners of your lips.

Even his fellow demonic brethren shun the merchant for daring to affiliate with members of a different species.

‘Fools, those demons. The lot of them,’ he muses disdainfully, ‘Ignorant fools.’

Any reputable merchant worth their salt knows that trade will never flourish in an insular environment. 

.... Hmm... Perhaps it doesn’t bode well for him that the only creature willing to show him some due respect is a human.

‘But,’ he supposes, curling a long, hooked claw beneath his chin and regarding you thoughtfully, ‘beggars can’t be choosers.’

“Oh! But you mustn't get me started,” he laments aloud, “Why, I'll be rambling on and on about myself and my business until nightfall. And then where will we be?”

“That's all right,” you shrug, nonchalant and deferential, “I bet you must see amazing worlds and meet all kinds of people. Honestly, I bet you could tell me some stories that would have me hooked for hours.”

Another beat or two pass by as Vulgrim's conniving brain attempts to register the positive interaction.

'…. Well!' he blinks, 'This is certainly a nice change of pace from the usual clientele!' Indulging in a chuckle, Vulgrim turns his head coyly to the side and flashes a fanged grin down at you. “Ahah! I admit, I can't refute your astute assumption,” he says, “You'll be hard-pressed to find a merchant as well-travelled as I.”

He's interrupted by Death snorting brusquely through his nose.

“Actually...” you start, turning a little bashful yourself, “That's kind of related to the favour I wanted to ask you.”

The merchant drags his glare off the Horseman to peer at you quizzically, cocking his horned head and humming a note that drips more with intrigue than suspicion. “Oh?”

To your rear, Death echoes the very same sentiment with a stunned, “Oh?”

“Yes! You see, er...” Tapping your fingertips together, you lower your chin and look up at Vulgrim from beneath your eyelashes. “You say you're well-travelled. And we met you in the Forge Lands.”

The demon shares a tentative glance with the glowering Nephilim before turning to face you once more, slowly uttering, “Yes~?”

“And now, you're here!” you point out, “And I just thought... well, I mean... Mm, hang on-”

Restless, you swing your leg over the saddle and try to slip out of it backwards, only to have your efforts thwarted by long, calloused fingers that wind themselves into the back of your top and bunch the material up inside a closed fist, keeping you from dropping any further.

“And where do you think you're going in such a hurry?” Death growls, hoisting you back up and plopping you down in front of him again.

Affronted, you crane your neck around to scowl at the Horseman whilst Vulgrim's gaze flicks between the two of you curiously.

“You keep doing that, you're going to stretch out my only top,” you gripe, “And I was going to ask him a question from the ground. Seemed polite.”

“Questions can be asked from the saddle of a horse,” Death retorts smartly, using his calloused palm to absently smooth out the back of your rumpled top.

You squint up at him as if he's a particularly tricky brain teaser and you haven't yet worked out how to solve him.

“What's got your dander up? You're the one who said Vulgrim's not going to kill me. What gives?”

Using his own words against him? You're starting to sound like Strife.

Despising that you raise a valid point, and all too aware that he's being a little overprotective, Death concedes, flippantly grouching, “Tch... Just ask your favour so that we can be on our way.”

It probably isn't wise to roll your eyes at a Horseman of the Apocalypse, but you've done worse already. Ignoring his resulting scowl, you twist yourself in the saddle to face your amused audience.

“Trouble in paradise?” Vulgrim goads, drawing the Nephilim's throaty growl.

“Ha, no,” you pause to press your lips together and hold onto your smile, “No, I just wanted to ask.. those, er... portal, things you came out of?” Lifting an arm, you point towards his hollow.

Vulgrim turns to follow your gaze, then spins to face you again, his eyes squinted, now rife with suspicion. “Serpent Holes?” he corrects you cautiously, “What of them?”

“You had one in the Forge Lands. That's how you got here, isn't it? You can travel between the realms?”

“I can!” he replies with a little pride now, raising a crooked hand to inspect his claws, “Why do you ask?”

Fidgeting uncomfortably with a chip on your own fingernail, you hope that Death won't take offence to your next question. “I... well, would it be okay if... you could let me use your portal to get back to the Forge Lands?”

There's no obvious sign that Death cares either way about your request. In fact, strangely, it seems Despair is the one who has the most to say about it.

The pallid horse suddenly jerks his head back and stamps his front hooves on the ground, snorting raggedly through his cavity of a nose.

"Hey, steady!" you blurt instinctively. You're so distracted by laying your hand on the beast's hairless neck and asking him what's wrong that you don't pay attention to his rider at your back.

Death's body has locked up tight like a steel rod, and his eyebrows give the barest of twitches before he remembers to keep his expression neutral.

'Get a hold of yourself,' he growls to both himself and Despair, who had almost certainly reacted so impulsively thanks to his rider's own, inner turmoil.

Death thinks of Absalom – Corruption – and of the threat it had made against you.

Admittedly, he hadn't even considered that Vulgrim's portal network could be used to send you back to the Forge Lands... Feasibly, yes, he could let you return to be with the makers. But there's one thought that stays him... one small, nagging thought.

What if he lets you go, and Corruption decides to strike?

What a selfish idea, that the Horseman wants to keep you. What a human idea.

The makers, though certainly capable, are no match against whatever terrible power Absalom has accrued.

Death's former brother had been right about one thing...

Without Eideard, the village of Tri-Stone is more vulnerable than ever. If Corruption really does intend to make a target of you, it could not only put you in peril, but Karn and the others as well.

They can't protect you.

But Death?

Death can.

In another blink, he's made up his mind, and as he does, Despair calms beneath him, shaking out his spectral mane and snorting the last of his agitation.

Whilst you're distracted leaning over the saddle-horn to give the horse a consoling pat on his neck, Death shoots a glare over at Vulgrim, finding him already staring back.

Without uttering a single word, Death gives the demon a tiny, near imperceptible shake of his head.

Vulgrim's eyes sparkle with boundless intrigue, but he must have received the Horseman's silent message, because by the time you turn to him once again, that slimy, conniving grin gives nothing away but his typical depravity.

“Oh, a thousand apologies, my dear,” he croons, saccharine sweet, “It would be my great honour to grant you the use of these Serpent Holes. Why, I would whisk you right down to Earth itself, if I could. Ah, but alas, they are simply not... calibrated to accommodate your species.”

“Cal... calibrated?” you parrot, scrunching up your nose and letting disappointment extinguish the spark of hope that had ignited in your chest.

For a reason unbeknownst to him, Vulgrim catches himself wincing at the look on your face. “Oh, yes... You see, there are countless Serpent Holes all over the Earth. Hidden in plain sight. Why – one can only imagine the chaos that would happen if humans were to step into a portal by accident and end up getting whisked away into the ether!”

Death watches you lower your head dejectedly, and he feels the barest twinge of remorse before he snuffs it out, reminding himself that you're safer with a Nephilim watching your back.

Vulgrim, meanwhile, is having something of a crisis of his own.

“Oh,” you croak, “I... okay. That makes sense.” You pause to look up and offer him a genuine, if sad smile. “Thanks anyway.”

The demon's grin falters and he lifts his claws to scratch absently at his chest. 'That's odd,' he muses, cocking a brow and regarding your expression closely. You aren't angry with him? Even though he didn't give you what you want...

He hovers there awkwardly, his mouth – which under normal circumstances can run a mile a minute – works up and down without saying a word. He keeps waiting for the affront. For the insult.

But it never arrives.

Instead, you're thanking him? For... not helping you?

Vulgrim's wings flutter, perplexed, especially when he hears himself say, “Perhaps there is... something else I can offer you?”

If he had less tact, he'd slap a hand across his toothy mouth and curse himself to Heaven and back. Why did he say that? What possessed him!? And why doesn't he hate the ray of disgusting hope that blooms over your face like a sunburst.

Wringing your hands, you hesitantly ask, “Could you... maybe send a message, instead?”

And just like that, the demon's lips curl over his fangs and he shoots you a dirty look. “I am not a messenger pigeon.”

“.... Please?” you squeeze out, imploring, “Just to tell the makers that me and Death are okay. If you're going that way.”

Defensive, Vulgrim cross his arms and drums his long, black claws against a bicep, his eyes cast to the wall over your head.

The 'please' is... a welcome touch, he's forced to admit...

'Ugh. Lucifer take me.'

Just this once...

“Feh,” the demon gripes audibly, “I suppose I could... if you were to make it worth my while.”

Death narrows his eyes at the demon, who catches the glance and throws his arms up, squawking, “What? I'm not running a charity here, Horseman! Even demons have to make a living.”

“But..." Worrying at your bottom lip, you turn your palms skyward and say, "I'm not sure I have anything I could give you...”

Before Vulgrim can make a snide remark, Death grumbles under his breath and reaches down, flipping open the lid of a pouch that dangles from his hip. “What'll it set me back, demon?”

At once, you whirl around in the saddle and start to protest. “Oh, Death – No. You don't have to-”

Vulgrim however, has already caught the sound of something doubtlessly shiny clinking around inside the leather pouch and his lips split apart to reveal that wide, characteristic grin. “How generous of you, Horseman. But as I said, I'm not running a charity.”

“A pity the same can't be said about running your mouth,” Death quips, “How much?”

Green eyes glint hungrily in the cavern's dim light.

“One thousand gilt.”

Death only just manages not to utter an expletive. His hands grow still inside the pouch and he snaps his eyes up to Vulgrim, incredulously spitting, “A thousand. For a message?”

Unapologetic, the merchant replies, “Delivering messages is a most hazardous occupation. You're asking a demon to enter maker territory claiming to have news of their precious human?” He shudders, bandaged wings quivering. “I'd very much like to make sure I can afford the potions it'll take to heal me after that visit.”

“Hazard pay,” you intone.

The demon spares you an approving wink and echoes, “Hazard pay.”

“Death, it's okay,” you stretch your hand back to place it over the top of his, “I'm not asking you to spend your money on me. Come on, maybe if we run into Ostegoth again, I can ask him to deliver the message.”

From the corner of an eye, you see Vulgrim visibly recoil as if you'd just slapped him.

“Oste-Ostegoth!?” he all but screeches, puffing up like an indignant, winged cat, “That goat! That.. that poacher!?”

“Mm, perhaps you're right,” Death says to you, pointedly snapping the pouch shut and ignoring the merchant spitting brimstone behind him, “No harm in shopping around, is there?”

After a soft nudge from the Horseman's heel, Despair starts to walk forwards up the tunnel's slope, keeping his head raised to affix one, bulging eye on the demon behind him.

“Fine! Fine! Wait!” Vulgrim calls out, flitting after you until he's hovering along at Despair's side. The demon's grin is barely present, more of a strained grimace that pulls at his lips and distorts his craggy features. “You two are quite the discerning customers,” he laughs through clenched fangs, “Very well. Let it never be said that I am a miserly merchant... Four hundred gilt.”

Unconcerned, Death lifts his should in a shrug. “Zero. Ostegoth seemed the helpful sort.”

Vulgrim stops in mid air as if the Horseman's words had stuck him fast. Then, issuing a growl that raises the hairs on your arms, the demon gives his wings a single, powerful thrust and he surges right back up to Despair's side, hovering over you like a simmering pot, barely keeping his irritation from boiling over.

Despair tosses his head back at the demon's proximity, but doesn't otherwise break his stride, electing to keep his ears pinned back unhappily.

“Very. Well,” the merchant spits out from between his gritted fangs, “You drive... an impossible bargain, Horseman. But...” Cutting himself off, Vulgrim makes a noticeable effort to unclench his jaw and force his lips to quirk up at their corners. You watch the change with disturbed curiosity.

“As a mark of my astounding generosity,” he sneers, “I will deliver your message... for... eugh.. for...”

Patiently, you and Death regard the demon as he hunches his shoulders up and works his jaw in several, tight circles, as though he's chewing something particularly unpalatable before at last, he spits out, “For free....” The word sits like poison on his tongue.

Your expression brightens at once and you perk up in the saddle. “Really?!”

Though he looks as if he's rather pull out his own teeth, Vulgrim hangs his head and nods, offering up a weak sigh. “Consider it, ah... recompense, for what my ilk did to yours..”

If Death had less restraint, he'd let his jaw fall to the ashy ground by Despair's hooves. The horse himself feeds off his rider's shock and draws to an abrupt standstill.

Your reaction, however, is far less subdued.

Your cheeks promptly lift around the most dazzling smile, and before Vulgrim can recoil, you take everyone off guard by throwing yourself sideways and slinging your arms around his leathery neck, propping your upper body against his to keep yourself situated in the saddle.

“Thank you, Vulgrim!”

“GAH! Wha-! What!?-” he squawks, lurching backwards and dragging you a few inches away from your seat before Death has the wherewithal to brace a hand on your knee, anchoring you safely in place, and if his rawboned fingers curl a little too harshly around a fistful of your skirt, well, you hardly seem to notice in the moment.

Death's eyes burn like wildfires within the darkness of his mask's sockets and they flick very pointedly to your arms that are still looped around Vulgrim's neck.

You have forgotten, it seems, in a single moment of sheer, blissful gratitude, that you are very much a human, and Vulgrim is still very much a demon.

And here you are, draping yourself over him as if you're greeting an old friend.

The merchant, for his part, has gone utterly still in an aborted retreat, his chin tipped away from you and his long, clawed hands held up in the air, hovering apprehensively over your shoulders as if he expects you to spontaneously explode.

“Horseman!” he hisses urgently from the side of his mouth, “Horseman! What.. what is she doing?”

“I think the better question is, what does she think she's doing,” Death grumbles, and without any further preamble, he slides his forearm around your waist and gives a rough tug, wrenching you away from Vulgrim so viciously that your arms are torn from the demon's neck and you let out a cry of alarm, thrust back into the saddle with a painful jolt to your rump.

A quick glance down reveals the Nephilim's enormous palm is still splayed out across your belly. At once, your brows snap together and you twist your neck about to glare up into the sockets of Death's mask, placing both of your hands on his wrist and attempting to shove him off you. "Uh, what the heck was that for?"

The Horseman's fingers only clench tighter to your stomach, utterly immoveable. “You," he bristles, glaring hard at the merchant over your head, "were embracing a demon.”

Dumbfounded by his animosity, you flick a glance over at the motionless Vuglrim before turning to face Death again, exclaiming, “So?”

He scoffs. “So? So, you don't touch a demon like that. Nobody in their right mind would embrace a demon.”

“I was just saying 'thanks,” you argue.

“You can show gratitude without draping yourself all over him!” Death rebukes, swiftly cutting off the offended retort you try to hit him with, “Not even demons hug other demons. It just isn't... it isn't done.”

It takes you another few seconds, but eventually, something clicks and it begins to dawn on you that you've perhaps just done something irrevocably foolish. “Oh...” you wince, peeking up at Vulgrim, “Oh dear... Did I just commit some kind of demon faux-pas?”

He doesn't respond for a few, terse seconds, but just when you think you might have sent the demon into some kind of cardiac arrest, he gives his horned head a hard shake and lifts an arm up to scratch idly at the base of his neck, exclaiming, “No! No.. It's just... That manner of, ahem, affection, it's... well, it's one of the... peculiarities of human nature that hasn't transitioned over to my species just yet.”

“Oh, I... Sorry..”

A decidedly awkward hush settles over the tunnel, wrapping you all up in its uncomfortable warmth, or perhaps that's just the embarrassment creeping up your neck.

“I... had heard that you humans were affectionate little creatures but...” Vulgrim trails off with a shudder, giving his shoulders a stiff shrug as if he's trying to dislodge the lingering sensation of your skin on his.

“Never imagined you'd be on the receiving end, did you?” Death huffs.

"Not in this lifetime," he concurs, "Not even in the next. But it is rather a comfort to know that even an old demon like me can continue to be surprised. Keeps me on my toes."

“Ahem, If I'm not mistaken,” Death turns his attention down, nudging you in the back with his knuckles, “You were about to ask him to deliver you a message?”

All at once, the demon beside you springs back to his old self, as if he's overcompensating for his brief stint of shock. “Ah, yes,” he clears his throat, dipping his horns down at you indicatively, the past minute forgotten, for now, “Tell me, what am I to relay to your prodigious protectors...?”

They might be able to overcome their embarrassment easy as winking, but you're still reeling from the realisation that you just threw your arms around the neck of a demon who had, not so long ago, offered to buy your soul from Death, and you can't imagine it was for any reason. Still, recognising that this isn't an opportunity that'll last forever, you rub at your elbow and mull over an answer for only a moment before raising your eyes to Vulgrim and shyly start, “Tell them.... I think first, tell them that Death and I are okay. But tell them not to come near the Tree of Life, whatever they do!” you add urgently, “Corruption is still inside it.”

“Very well,” he dips his head in a facsimile of a bow, “Anything else?”

Without question, of course there's something else. “Please, when you see Karn... Will you tell him I'm sorry?" Your hands clasp together, squeezing each other firmly enough that they shake. "I'm so sorry. I didn't want to leave, but I didn't have any choice -” You fail to notice the downcast look Death aims at the ground behind you. “- And, tell him, I'm going to find a way back to him, somehow...”

Vulgrim stares down at you for an inordinately lengthy minute, his crooked features askew, evidently taken aback. At last, he lets out a little chuff and announces, "Goodness, such heartfelt sentiments! You've only known those makers for a few days, surely!"

"What can I say," you shrug, scratching sheepishly at the back of your head, "They're a likeable bunch."

"Debatable," Death mutters under his breath.

"If I can like you, I can like anybody."

The Horseman has to employ a fair amount of willpower to keep his eyes from growing wide. Instead, he thrust a narrow glare onto Vulgrim, decided that you've wasted enough time entertaining the grinning merchant for one evening.  "Now that that unpleasantness is settled," he grouses, "perhaps we can finally be on our way?"

Without waiting for a response, he pushes Despair straight into a trot and the horse is only too eager to comply, kicking up his hooves and carrying you away from the merchant at a brisk pace.

“Bye, Vulgrim!” you call, turning to cast a wave back at the rapidly shrinking demon, this time without so much weight pressing down upon your weary shoulders.

Left behind, Vulgrim doesn't realise that he's raised his own hand to mimic your wave. “Farewell, my fetching little friend!” he returns, “Until we meet again, mind yourselves out there among the dead!”

Death gives Despair's flank another squeeze, coaxing the horse into a loping canter that kicks up sand and ash in the wake of his pounding hooves.

Once you've rounded the gentle curve of the tunnel, Vulgrim's waving hand slows to a stop, hovering aimlessly in the air next to his horns.

“Sweet little thing,” he sighs ruefully, “Easy pickings.”

There's no doubt about it, in a wretched place like this, you'll be chewed up and spat back out in three seconds flat if the Horseman takes his eyes off you.

There are very few things the dead despise more than to be reminded of what they lack. A heartbeat. Warmth. Everything they'd taken for granted when they were alive...

At last, Vulgrim notices his elevated hand and he balks in surprise, wrenching it back down to its rightful place at his side.

"Hell's breath," he grouches moodily, dragging his dark talons down the length of his face, "What in the Nine Circles was that?"

-------------------

“That was nice of him.”

Your statement has Death scoffing obnoxiously behind his mask.

“Nice,” he spits, twitching at Despair's reins until the horse slows to a brisk trot. “Nice' and 'Vulgrim' are on the opposite ends of a spectrum. Those two words are antonyms of one another. You might as well claim that Valus is a chatterbox.”

“He said he'd deliver my message for nothing, Death. That's a nice thing to do.”

Grumbling, the Horseman raises his eyes to the tunnel's gargantuan exit, and the rusted, ancient portcullis that hangs from above like a set of serrated teeth, ready to chomp down on whatever might deign to pass underneath. “Whether the demon actually makes good on his word remains to be seen,” he says dubiously.

Humming in thought, you reply, “I think he will.”

“How can you be so certain?”

Offering your palms to the sky, you tip your shoulders back in a casual shrug. “I don't know. He just seemed like he was being genuine.

You instantly feel the Horseman's stomach jump as he barks out a sharp laugh. “Ha!” he exclaims, “Oh, you are a prize sap, human.”

“And you're a cynic,” you throw back, “Maybe he'll surprise you.”

Death's snort tells you exactly what he thinks before he even opens his mouth to refute you. “Yes, and maybe I'll sprout feathers and a halo and start singing from holy scriptures,” the Horseman drawls in a superior tone. Beneath him, Despair blows a rough snort of his own through the cavity in his nose, as if to concur with his rider's skepticism.

Squinting against the pale daylight that bleeds into the tunnel from ahead, your trio passes under the portcullis. Ash gives way to dark, unforgiving stone under Despair's hooves, and together, you emerge out onto a narrow plateau of rock, barely a dozen metres across at its widest point. The plateau continues to rise in a gentle slope and tapers to a sharp point up ahead of you, the end of the road, the summit, and the edge of a sheer and deadly drop. 

“We're here,” Death murmurs, drawing his steed to a halt, “Serpent's Peak.”

From way up here on top of the cragged hill, you can only see the sky stretched out in front of you, green as sickness and as boundless as space itself. Halfway up the plateau however, your eye is drawn by a deliberate piece of architecture, namely a stilted arch, hewn from the same stone it stands upon. And hanging from the keystone on a creaking chain that's about as thick as your own calf, is what looks to be a sizeable, cylindrical bell.

“Now what do we do?” you ask, craning your neck around to watch Death as he slides gracefully from the saddle.

“Now-” The Horseman grunts as he lands. “- We summon the Eternal Throne.”

You're about to hop down yourself when Death surprises you by reaching his arms up in your direction and falling still, expectant and waiting.

Your jaw starts to creak open, but you're quick to slam it shut. No sense looking a gift Horseman in the mouth, as it were. So, slinging a leg over the seat, you begin to slip off forwards, trusting that he'll catch you, and almost at once, rough hands - coarsened by time and exertion - slide around your hips, prompting you to brace your own palms on the Horseman's robust biceps.

Grateful for the lift, you aim a sunny grin down at the Nephilim as he hoists you from the saddle and lowers you gently to the ground without even a quiver of effort.

“Thanks,” you chirrup, withdrawing your hands and brushing down your rumpled skirt.

Death's only response is a bored hum of acknowledgement.

Turning to Despair, you reach out and scratch at the underside of his leathery jaw, adding, “And thank you, handsome. I guess you aren't coming to court with us.”

“Sadly,” Death remarks, “The Eternal Throne isn't so easily accessed by hoof.”

Heaving out a ghostly sigh of contentment, the horse's shoulder slouches and he stretches his neck out to give you better access.

“Have you no dignity?” Death gripes at him, getting little more than a brief, heavy-lidded glance in response.

Laughing lightly, you give the horse a departing tap on his nasal ridge before you pivot on a heel and trail after Death as he begins to make his way towards the huge, iron bell that hands from its stony arch near the apex of the slope.

Raising a fist into the air, the Horseman utters his silent command, and in a whirling maelstrom of sickly, green smog, Despair vanishes with a toss of his head, cast back to wherever he goes when he isn't ferrying you and his rider all over the realm.

“Whatever happened to you being afraid of him?” Death inquires, marching assuredly towards the apex of Serpent's Peak, “Fear is the exact response his presence is intended to provoke.”

You give it a moment's thought before lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “Well, yeah, I mean, you were both utterly terrifying, at first-”

Dropping his brows into a dark frown, Death whispers to himself, “...At first?”

“-But it's hard to carry on being scared of someone who seems so keen on keeping me alive.”

“Is that where I'm going wrong?” he huffs, “If I stop saving your life, you'll go back to being afraid of me? That doesn't sound so terrible. You were far more biddable when I struck fear into your heart.”

Aiming a smirk at him from the corner of your mouth, you retort, “Sure thing, tough guy. Say, by the by, thanks for helping me down from your horse so I didn't hurt myself jumping off.”

The side-eye he gives you in return for your cheek burns as hot as an imploding star.

Seconds later, the pair of you draw up just in front of the bell. As you approach you crane your neck back, gaping up at the immense, stone cylinder before you when all of a sudden, you feel a chilly palm catch you in the naval, jarring you to a halt.

Dropping your gaze to your boots, you finally notice the deep, dark hole sitting in the ground just in front of you, a perfect, circular pit that cuts straight down through the mountain, smooth-sided like a borehole, or a well.

“Odd place to draw water from,” you observe, fists alighting on your hips.

The Horseman's hand slides off your belly, and he casts his eye over the bell, then down into the hole. “This particular pit,” he murmurs, “Serves a different purpose.”

“What do you mean?”

Stepping back, Death continues to consider the well for a time, his eyes narrowed to sharp slits.

For several, dragging seconds, only the wind can be heard howling its lonely song across the desert whilst you regard the Horseman curiously.

Without warning, one of his hands shoots down and wraps around the handle of his scythe, drawing it from its holster.

“Stand back,” he tells you.

Blinking owlishly at him, you spare a glance first at the bell, and then you drag your gaze over to Death, your brows knitted together in bafflement. “Uh, it's a bell,” you deadpan, “You're ringing a bell. How is that so dangerous that I need to stand back?”

“... Ringing a bell?” the Horseman utters snidely as he plants one boot in the sand at his back and lowers his torso, poised to strike, “Ringing a bell is for those who drop in for tea and a friendly chat. Legates and bootlickers who wish to curry favour ring the bell. I am not ringing a bell.”

With a weary shake of your head, you draw out a sigh and ask, “Well, what are you doing, then?”

Death's scorching eyes gleam with intense focus and he draws his lips back to expose his teeth, flashing you a sardonic grin that you'll never hope to see beneath his mask.

“I'm getting the King's attention.”

what if every Tumblr user suddenly looses their mouse?

I may not have time to do inktober, but I saw this and inspiration just struck

I hope you get better soon

Darksiders Inktober, Day 19 - OC

Confession, I don't really have a consistent OC, so I cheated and drew myself. I seem to be falling asleep a lot lately, at work, at home, on the farm. The doctors seem to think it's just long covid, but idk. THis wasn't meant to look as angsty as it turned out lmao, I'm just a sleepy binch!

Things school told me I would be peer-pressured into doing: Drugs.

Things I have never been peer-pressured into doing: Drugs

Things people will bend over backwards to pressure me into: Sex, alcohol, tiktok.