The reapers congregate in the doom of the night. There are no stars in this night’s dark sky. The drab robes swirl in the sharp icy wind, jumping from one gust of wind to another in a playful symphony. The deep blackened hoods veil the horror of their grimace; their ashen eyes flicker of the past forgotten; their voiceless voices speak of the future forbidden.
They are the walking gods; giants among mice. They are the messengers of the final date responsible for the ultimate triumph of human fate, the prize of death. They are the harvesters of flesh; the binders of life and death. The pickers of souls; the transporters of dead. The visitors of ill, attending to those whose time is up. There is no escaping death. A reaper will come to take your last breath.
Their brandished steel knows no mercy, their fiendish gaze remains sturdy. In your final hour you hear the rat-a-tat of the scythe on your chamber door foretelling you ‘no more’. Upon your dying moments you feel the icy grip around your throat and you join others on the deathly boat.
The agents of death, rewarded with the power of heaven and hell, scour this unholy earth. Cold, cruel shadows of the cursed world, their legions are dispersed. It is rare for the reapers to meet but here they are discreet discretes.
The meeting of tonight in the hours past midnight. The murder of crows hanging out above over the lonely graves down below. The reapers have come and the life around them retired in a tranquil harmony. Only the laborious snorting of their mounted beasts disturbs the rest of the deceased. Under the eerie cover of the moon, the reapers are ready to commune.
In the longest night of the year, the reapers congregate amid the dark. Shrouded in the night’s blanket, the tall dark figures discuss the deathly business of tonight: A matron had entered the ranks of death. These are the news unheard!
The brotherhood of death is a sacred ordinance, not a place for a woman. Since the dawn of the dark, they were the rulers of the earth. The fiercest of kings and the bravest of warlords bowed before their presence. The young, the old, the rich and the poor feared their touch.
The centuries of carnage and fighting, made them the artists of their plight. They are the formidable, the powerful yet now their status becomes direful. Female reaper tarnishes their legacy, shatters their identity. This miscarriage of duties spells the mournful end of their reign’s beauty.
Who would dare to disturb the order? The chastity of a female lead is a tragedy that violates the creed. The blasphemy of female harvester is an anomaly in the ranks of … gods.
What agenda there may be for a lesser she? Has the world gone mad to appoint such a fad? The present case is an insult to their place. In the horror of the night, their rage is burning outright. Dark angels of death, fathers of the mighty Macbeth, rulers of the earth – they will not be oppressed…
In the earth’s sleeping grip, they are conspiring to undo this glitch. The order requires for the aberration’s indictment. Their boundless fury will make them the grand jury, though there will be no fair trial.