[center][h2][color=red]The Disappearance of Clara Deimos Erdrigan[/color][/h2]
[i]A week and a day ago, Clara's basement.[/i][/center]

Unbeknownst to the majority of students, and even many amongst the committee there was a secret area underneath the greater St. Lucifer's campus. It wasn't so large, but it was no mere panic shelter. A little larger than the average basement, but it was divided into several rooms.

This was Clara's workshop. Many unspeakable dark rituals had been performed here, but she also sometimes came down here to study. Right now, she was laying back on a velvet couch. The only sounds in the room were her quiet breathing, and the slow dripping of blood in an IV as she siphoned it from her body.

Blood was required for her contracting ritual. Riches pay for the price of a soul's departure into the world beyond, but to take a life requires some measure to pay for that life. Blood pays the price well enough. She had to take care to watch the amount. By carefully controlling her nutrient intake she could maximise the amount of blood she could take without developing adverse health conditions.

The amount of blood required differed between being to being, but the logic was simple enough. "The same measure of life as would be required to end it." In other words it was enough blood for the creature to die if they were the one to lose it.

Many creatures she had contracted to were possessed of a much higher vitality than her. Many of her smaller ones, when their numbers were added together would be enough to kill her as well. Preparation was essential as well as pre-planning. Unplanned additions to her army were few and far between, but if she saw a chance attractive enough she had to seize it. Unfortunately that hadn't worked out so well for her in recent days.

She let out a sigh as she gripped her arm tighter. Enough of her blood had been collected. She carefully extracted the needle, only taking note of the pain once it had exited her flesh.

She went through the motions of dressing the wound. She wiped the blood with a cotton swab and covered it with a bandage. For her the act was close to meaningless, really. It was important to dress the wound, but what else was there to it than that? It was like having the wound was more of an inconvenience. She took care to choose a bandage which blended in with her skin to conceal it. The image of an unblemished, unmoving leader with clean hands at the forefront naturally helped obfuscate her reach behind the scenes. She needed it, really. She had been walking a spider's web all her life and now it was stretching rather thin.

It was the nature of a web to stand even if one strand snapped another would hold it together. But just as each line in the web acts as a support making it stronger, each line snapping made the web weaker and it could be catastrophic to the shape if she let things continue like this. And truly, what shape could she claim the web was in now? She couldn't afford to let go of her threads.

The shape of her web and how tightly the strands were woven were a factor. But more than that, perhaps it was just what manner of spider she was.

She felt a presence weighing on her mind. A presence she had felt many times before.

[color=red]"How is it that you only appear to me when it's convenient for you?"[/color] She spoke to the empty air. 

[b][color=darkslategray]"…I only appear when Death is to have a presence."[/color][/b] A voice said from the darkness.

This was the God of Death. There was a class of gods known as the Reapers who were responsible for managing the afterlife. Long ago in the days of the Ancient Evil, the concept of death existed as only a minor presence. Humans, the favourite creations of the Gods were immortal. Of course, they would not allow Death to touch them. But when the Ancient Evil appeared, they too were unable to be slain by normal means.

The blessings of the gods proved sufficient to stand on equal ground, but not sufficient to regain the ground already taken by the Ancient Evil. Seeing that something had to be done, the Gods reached a second great agreement. None in the realm of the Gods would be spared Death. Not even the Gods themselves. At once they rewrote the rules of their existence, and Death was visited upon the Ancient Evil. So it was written.

The Reapers existed to embody the concept of Death in the Gods' realm. Each of them has the ability to separate a soul from its body, but they had vastly different roles. The True God of Death was the one who watched over all of Death's domain. They watched over the dealings of the other Reapers while officiating pacts and bargains.

That statement that they had made stretched a little further than mere presence. The Death God was only visible to those who were to have Death visit them at a time appointed for them. Clara had only ever been able to see the form of Death when forming a contract with someone. Where Death needed to be promised if the terms of their contract were ever broken.

[b][color=darkslategray]"There is no issue with the payment. I shall place the seal."[/color][/b] The invisible presence said.

A black ring formed around each blood pack. When preparing payment ahead of time, the most important thing is verification. To make sure you're not cheated one needs an assurance. The presence of Death is one that can be felt by all beings in the Human realm. Although besides that, the seal didn't do anything else except preserve the blood she'd lost. Not unlike an RFID chip, or the security measures in place to ensure the legitimacy of bank notes.

It was all routine at this point. 

Clara's mind was muddled. From the blood loss, from fatigue… from everything. She was tired. Just tired. She felt fear creeping up on her, fear that she would lose it all. 

…How long had it been since she was last afraid?

[b][color=darkslategray]"…If that is all, then I will take my leave,"[/color][/b] The God said, cutting through the silence.

If this had been her normal days, she would have simply left off with a polite farewell, but Clara turned her head to fix her gaze on where the God should've been. She imagined the face of the God she was all too familiar with as she uttered her question.

[color=red]"…Why?"[/color] She asked.

[b][color=darkslategray]"…"[/color][/b] The God paused for a moment. [b][color=darkslategray]"…Why?"[/color][/b]

[color=red]"Why do you… help me?"[/color] She instinctively choked on the last syllable of her sentence, but it was too late to stop herself from asking it.

She already knew the response she would receive from that question. She wasn't receiving help from the God of Death, she was merely an extension of their duties. But she couldn't stop the words from welling up from inside her. She had to salvage this situation. She already knew the real question she wanted to… ask.

[color=red]"Why… did you bestow your blessing upon me?"[/color] She said. There was more she could have said, but she stopped there. She was going too far already.

[b][color=darkslategray]"…I told you that answer a long time ago."[/color][/b] The God simply replied.

Clara felt like the floor had disappeared beneath her. Her mind raced. She could not for the life of her conjure the memory that the god spoke of. She could not reconcile what the god said with reality. Her memory was one of her greatest assets, but all she could trace from it was void.

The God of death was not one who jested, nor one who lied. But the truth that they spoke of was one that Clara could not find.

[b][color=darkslategray]"If that is all, then I will take my leave."[/color][/b] The God said.

Clara could return naught but silence, and so the God left.
[hr]
It was with the events of the days prior burning in the back of her mind that Clara awoke the next day. The same thoughts burned in her mind as she made her calls and mended her web. On her final call, they had worn her down to a point lower than any of her days at Mephisto's School for the Wickedly Inclined. She delivered her message, and as her phone fell to the table, she sank far deeper still.