The Folk Tale:

-Chapter 1-

No quay nor large harbour was apparent in view once the vessel heavily turned her bow around a sharp rock face on the cliffs of the most south-western point of Sea's Claim. Fog and mist clearing, the sight of a single, small dock, which before, rather unexpected, was now so clear as a new sun after a darkening. Above, deep, grey clouds, large and imposing in volume began to build. The storm was rolling in, and so soon too. The trip back to (a port in north Iitearho) would be rough, but nothing the captain wasn't used to. A shout echoed and it was called for the sails to be pulled in. Quietly, but still at slowing speed, the ferry rolled into harbour. The air was cool and tingling, as such the air would be on a cold, silent winter morning, one where there was no cloud in sight and the crispness danced on your skin, as the girl turned to face the stern and with slow, confident strides crossed the deck to where she had stored her things. She was, luckily, the only one crossing that day, that season by the looks of it too. She grabbed for a small pack, slinging it around her shoulder, and tucking it underneath her woven cloak, before reaching for her more noticeable possession. A large scythe, leaning against the wall, but not a small, fragile farming scythe. It was tall, essentially as tall as the wall itself, and twice as tall as the girl, but still she was able to pick it up with unnatural ease. At the top of the wooden handle, which seemed to be carved straight out of an old, twisting tree, sat the blade. It was a long, slender weapon, attached at one end to the handle at a right angle, and curving out to the other end which ended in a thinning point. The sharp edge also housed three consecutively spaced, round, concave indents, which didn't seem to be functional. It seemed to weigh very much by it's appearance, but the way she lifted it, letting the middle of the handle rest on her shoulder, the blade curving back around her, made it feel as if one could wield it with no effort at all. Her name, is Deiie. A goddess, descended from the astral plane to embark on this pilgrimage across the northern continent, from this port over to Tawntou's Reach. A proving of worth, where at its end, Tawntou would forge her a new scythe from its same metal. For Deiie was the goddess of death, and what was to come, would be the most difficult challenge of endurance she would ever experience, for as the tales go, if god or goddess were to step foot on solid mortal land, they would themselves too, become mortal. Mentally hesitant is what she was, but a sense of confidence overwrote this quickly. The vessel came to a soft halt as Deiie trudged up on deck, her cloak flapping in the light breeze. The plank was dropped, and as she begrudgingly set one foot before the other down the wooden board, she turned back to give a delicate wave of goodbye to the captain, who had started to help with unloading crates off of a second plank. Then, before she could even process it, both her feet were on solid, wet ground, the waving grass nagging at the bandages. It started in Deiie's heart, a sharp pang, almost strong enough to send one staggering back. But she stood firm as it made its way around her body in the blink of an eyelid, finally settling in her head. Her knees beneath her quivered vigorously as she slumped to the ground a second later. Then came the mental strain, rushing in like a strong river breaking through a barrier. Hundreds of thousands, potentially even millions of thoughts, emotions and memories she didn't own flooded her mind, all simultaneously. This was the feeling of when thousands of souls leave, escaping to the space between guidance and the afterlife. A dark void of waiting. They would wait there until she returned, as now being a mortal meant she would no longer fulfil her godly duties of passing souls on to the afterlife, not until she was done. But the feelings faded as fast as they streamed in, and Deiie glanced up across the field and town before her, all the way over to the shelter of the dense forest line, tears streaming down her cheeks, salty and unwilling. Trying to stand, she struggled as the weight now bore down on her. It was her scythe, the one she so easily carried just a minute earlier. Being a mortal meant that mortal problems affected her now too, and her weapon was supernaturally heavy, an estimated five tons weighing down on her fragile body. But she still had some godly strength left in her, not all was sapped away. Again her legs shook violently, but this time from the physical effort of heaving upward her prized possession.