Afterlife as an Obolus

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while.

"Rise and shine, Blaken," someone said.

There was a pounding in the air that shook me out of my meditation. The

two guards were back, with someone else. The guard was using a nightstick to bang on the bars of my jail cell.

"Time to go," he said.

I got up and almost fell over. I'd forgotten that my hands were still bound

behind my back. I carefully got to my knees, then my feet.

I checked out my Masquer escort. She wore a gray cape that flowed over a

black skintight suit. Her mask covered all of her face except her mouth. Her

lips were the only colorful part of her, and the blood-red stood out against

her darker suit and cape. The blood-red lips were sealed shut into amotionless expression that was neither a frown nor a smile nor a smirk. Her

mouth might as well have been part of her mask.

She kept her dull blond hair short, just below her ears but not down to her

shoulders. Her dull eyes examined me, and she was probably considering

what kind of accessory my corpus would best suited to make.

The guard opened up the jail cell and yanked me out, pushing me towards

the Masquer: "He's all yours."

She nodded silently and motioned with her head to the exit. I walked

forward, with a guard opening the door for the rest of us. I could run now,

but I knew it was useless. Time to face the music.

I was pushed and prodded outside of the courthouse, where there was an old-

fashioned carriage waiting outside, the door opened, waiting for me. Four

dog-like plasmics, barghests I think they're called, were strapped in where

horses would normally be.

"How quaint," I said, bitterly.

"Don't talk, get in," a female voice ordered from behind me. I felt a hand on

my back, pushing me almost down the stone steps. I moved forward, and the

barghests snarled and bit at one another as I stepped into the carriage. The

interior smelled like death and didn't look much better. The Masquer closed

the door and produced a whip from under her robe as she leapt up onto the

driver's seat. The whip cracked against corpus, the barghests whimpered,



and the old carriage lurched forward.

I don't know how long we rode for, but at least I had a view of the outside as

we made our way to my doom. We passed by the parts of the Shadowlands I

was familiar with, then into an area of town that the local wraiths knew to

keep away from.

The streets were deserted, and a group of mourners could be heard in the

distance. If there was a Hell in the Shadowlands, we were heading to the

heart of it. There were a few structures in the distance, and screaming and

moaning could be heard as we drew nearer.

After a few minutes, I saw that the buildings, the doors, the smokestacks,

and everything else, were all made of forged souls. My god, how many

wraiths, spectres and plasmics had been smelted to construct this hideous

place? I didn't want to ponder how many screaming souls I was looking at,and I certainly didn't think of what it would be like after I became one.

The barghests came to a stop outside of one of these hellish buildings, and

the Masquer woman dismounted and opened the door for me.

"Get out," she ordered. I did, and she followed behind me, pushing me

towards the door. She had no weapons other than the whip, but I wasn't

stupid enough to try and make a break for it. I would end up here at the

forges sooner or later...

The door was closed, and there was a slot to peek through and a largedoorknocker in the shape of a skull. My lady escort picked up the knocker

and banged it several times, the skull giving out a small, agonized cry each

time it struck the door.

We waited, and not long after the slot slid open from the other side. A set of

eyes peeked through, then slid the peephole shut. The door opened a

moment later, and a large, slightly overweight man with a large hammer in

his hand stood in the doorway. He was covered in the soot of fire and had

splatters of plasm dripping off of his relic smith's clothes.

"And who do we have here?" he asked.

"Arnold Blaken," the woman responded, coldly.

"Ah, Blaken, yes," the man smiled at me: "We've been expecting you."

He pulled me inside and thanked my Masquer escort for the delivery. As he



closed the door and pushed me forward, I took in my surroundings.

The place looked smaller on the inside than the outside. The ceiling wasn't

that high, the hallways were narrow, and the place was lit by torches dotted

here and there. The lighting was dim; not dark enough to be blind, but

noticeably darker than the outside. The firelight made the shadows flicker and change, making the place all that much bleaker.

The hallway I entered was narrow, as I mentioned, and lined with portraits

of the Artificers that worked there. The end of the hallway looked much

brighter, and with a larger ceiling. I was pushed in that direction. As I got

closer, I could hear screaming, talking, and pounding. The air got noticeably

warmer as well. The taste of soot snaked into my nostrils and between my

lips, and my tongue and nose disagreed with the dry, bitter taste.

Eventually, I was pushed and shoved into the main hall or room or whatever the forgers called this Hellish place. There was a huge well of fire, about the

length of a bus, in the center of the room. All around the well were the

forgers, made up of Artificers and a few Masquers as well. A few of them

were talking amongst themselves, and a few of them were by the well,

sitting on

benches, using what looked like huge forceps to hold wraiths by the neck

and insert them into the fire.

The screams were ungodly, and the fire danced with flames and flailing

limbs. As I gawked, one wraith disappeared into the flames, probably suckeddown into a Harrowing. Before I even knew what was happening, I felt a

cold steel clamp close around my neck as I was prodded over the edge of the

fire pit. I couldn't keep my balance, and I fell.

How do I describe the pain? Indescribable would be a good adjective. At

first, I felt nothing. The flames licked at me, and felt myself getting warm

under the collar, and I had time to think only one thought, which was, "Oh,

this is going to hurt soooooo much."

This thought only lasted a moment, because after that the flames penetratedmy corpus and sent me into a screaming fit of insanity. I wish I had been

sucked into Oblivion; at least Oblivion eating my soul would be quick. What

I felt was like a scalding hot stovetop smothering me, wrapping me

up in a blanket of blistering, fiery needles, searing every single inch of my

corpus.



Maddening agony shot through every part of my plasmic body straight to my

brain and screamed in a voice so loud "PAIN!! ABSOLUTE PAIN!!,

EXCRUCIATING PAIN!! MAKEITSTOP!! KILLME!! PLEASE!!" The

red-hot, skin-peeling heat scourged through my corpus and squeezed pain,

agony, screams, and pure Hellish suffering right out of my mind with

burning white-hot talons, ripping away sanity and leaving behind a bleeding

hole and nothing but scalding pain and fire to fill the gap.

The pain and chaos and pain and agony and pain and screaming and pain

and pain and more pain lasted too long. Even if I was lowered for one a

moment, I would say that it was one moment too many. I was lifted out, and

the pain held me in its embrace, the flames not wanting to let me go, and the

blistering heat smothering and spreading over my corpus like a disease,

melting my soul. The cold steel of the bench was a welcome relief, and I

could feel my corpus sizzle and the waves of scalding pain weakening ever so slowly.

Then came the hammer. The hammer was a new kind of pain. It hurt, oh

God did it hurt, but nowhere near as much as the Hellish fire. Besides, there

were pauses in between hammer blows, as the hammer-bearer had to raise

his arm again. In an inferno, there is no pause in the agony, no respite from

the scorching, mind-rending pain. So the hammer was a much more

welcome pain, and at this point, my sanity was so pushed to the limit that I

just didn't give a shit what

happened to me, as long as I was out of the fire.

The hammer pounded me hard, and I cooled down a little, which felt good.

The tool came down again, and by now I had cooled down enough to really

notice how much it hurt. The hammer came down yet again, and this time I

was fully out of the fire and could feel the sledge coming down with all its

fury. Like a steel piston to the chest, I could feel it cracking my ribs,

splintering my corpus into pieces.

By now my Shadow was wimpering alongside me like a wounded animal

begging to be shot. At least that part of me wasn't making any smartass

comments now. I would have liked to have been sucked into Oblivion then, I

really would have. But the hammer came down yet again and brought me

right back to the horror of where I was and what was happnening to me.

After the next hammer blow, I was actually thankful to be facing this type of

pain rather than the fire. Hell, after this many blows with the hammer, I

really didn't seem to care. They could put me through any torture, and I



would welcome it as long as they kept me out of that fire. The Artificer

banged on me again and again, pounding me, molding me, shaping me. I felt

my melted bones cracking and breaking, and I was in so much pain that I

didn't care anymore. I just waited for him to finish. After so many blows,

each one was like a scream through my soul, he left the bench.

Oh, sweet respite. Finally, the process was over. What they had done to me I

hadn't even begun to imagine. What was I? Where's my body? I could still

feel and see; the bench underneath me was still cold (thank God for the little

blessings) and I was staring up at the ceiling.

However, I couldn't move my eyes or my head: the only way I could see

something was if someone would point me directly at it. I didn't have arms

or legs, and I didn't expect to, either. What shape was I? I couldn't tell...

Where was my shadow? The voice in my head had been quiet for a while,and I tried to seek it out. I called to it, wanting it to come to the surface of

my personality. Instead of feeling my darker self, I felt an empty hole, an

odd nothingness. Maybe it was hiding, or maybe it was gone. As

the saying goes, the lights were on, but nobody was home. When the

hammer had slammed into me, I guess it had smashed my Shadow out of my

corpus and straight to Oblivion.

So the rumors were true... But I missed my Shadow right now. He was me,

and I was him, and right now, staring at the ceiling, I really wanted someone

to talk to, and the Shadow had been there with me, screaming all along beside me, within me. And now it was gone.

I was picked up by an Artificer and carried down a hall. Whatever I was, I

was small enough to fit in his hand. He came to some room, and I think there

was a desk with a woman behind it.

"Subject's name?" she asked. She sounded like a machine, almost. No

feeling, no life in the words at all. She'd probably been asking the same

words for decades, and from the sound of it, they weren't very exciting

anymore.

"Arnold Blaken," the Artificer replied.

"Forged into?" she asked in the same monotonous tone.

"Obolus," he replied.

So that's what they did to me. I was turned into a coin. Well, there were



worse things to spend eternity as.

I heard a rustling of papers, and heard her scribbling a note down.

"All set. Put him with the others," she said.

Without another word, I was carried down a side hall and through a doorway

into a small, torchlit chamber. There were some shelves in here, holding

what looked like very old, well-used cardboard boxes. Before I knew it, my

carrier stopped dead in his tracks and I could hear a box pulled out from a

shelf. I was lifted up and dropped inside, and I heard the box shoved back

into place and footsteps walking away. The door closed, and then there was

silence.

So, this was it: I was to spend the rest of my afterlife as a coin. Things could

be worse. They could be better, of course, but I considered myself somewhat

lucky. I sat in a box with (I assume) other oboli, although I couldn't speak to

them, or even see them in the darkness. Even in a crowd, I was alone. I

didn't even have my shadow to keep me company. Even though I didn't have

much left in the way of Pathos or Corpus, I figured that I might as well try to

sleep.

After all, what else was there to do?

* * *

Afterlife as an Obolus(Pt. 2 of a New Serial)

by

Mike Spera

It's funny how time passes when you're dead. A second, a minute, an

hour ...even a week, a month, or an eternity... none of these words meananything. It all sort of blends together, and the only words used to describe

anything are either "now," "soon," or "in a while." Of course, "soon" could

be a week to one person, a year to a wraith, and a century to a vampire.

To some, this paradox means little. To those with no arms, legs or mouth, it's

sheer Hell.



I sat in that dark box, staring at nothing, hearing nothing, and saying

nothing, for some indeterminate amount of time. It might have been a day or

two or seven or 100 or 30,000. No clocks or calendars in the Shadowlands,

no sun or moon to count the days and nights.

The dark stagnation was eventually disturbed by the sound of a door opening. I would have cried out if I still had a mouth, but instead I just

hoped and prayed that it was time to leave. I felt the box shift, and it

bounced up and down as it was carried out of the room. Finally some action,

some event to stimulate me.

I was carried with the other oboli to some place, then plopped down on a

surface.

"How much do I owe you?" said a voice that sounded watery, gargled, and

generally not too human.

"Four," said a cold female voice. Uh-oh. I recognized that voice.

A hand reached in and clasped its fingers around myself and three other

oboli. We were thrown on the table, and I bounced and rolled to a stop

looking up at a female wraith with a dark skintight suit, a mask to match,

and blood red lips.

She looked down at me. Did she recognize me in my current state? If she

did, she certainly didn't show it on her face or body language. Then again,

she never showed ANY sign of ANYTHING with her face or bodylanguage.

I was picked up off the table and placed in a pouch at her hip. The pouch

was made of a very thin fabric, so at least I wasn't stuffed into a dark place

again; I could see what was going on.

She turned around and walked away, turned a corner and opened two VERY

large, identical wooden doors. She walked outside and down the front steps.

The streets were busy, like any average living city or any average night, and

wraiths mingled with each other and went about their own business. Thenoise of chatter drowned out the footsteps of my new owner, and she made

her way into the crowd of souls to mingle as well.

Dodging in and out of different wraiths, the lady Masquer finally made her

way onto a not-so-crowded sidewalk. She stopped and turned around,

paused for a second (to see if she was being followed?) and continued...



slowly... on her way. Her hustled step had slowed down, and I could get the

feeling that she was feeling very tense.

"Diana," a voice boomed out behind us.

She stopped, turned, and I saw, from within the coin-holding pouch at her side, a tall, gaunt-looking wraith. He was male, wearing a black toga, with

black skin to match. His face was covered in shadow, even though there

were no other shadows in sight. Two small pinpricks of Hellfire looked out

from the blackness of his face, examining Diana.

She said nothing, only waited for him to get on with his business.

"You're late for a payment,"

"I'm also late for an appointment," she snapped back without a pause.

"I'd hate to have to kill you,"

"The feeling's mutual,"

He, or whatever gender it was, was taken aback by her boldness: "You are

foolish to shoot your mouth off. I would hate to have to remove it from your

pretty face. I am on my way elsewhere, so I will let this meeting slide.

However, the next time I see you, Diana, I will not let your debt be delayed

further."

She turned and walked away, and muttered what sounded like "asshole"under her breath.

The street was long, each burnt-out, boarded-up building looking just as

generic as the last, if that were possible. She crossed the street at one point

and walked through the brick wall of one of the generic brick

establishments. How could she tell which one was which? I discarded the

question: how she found the place was irrelevant to me.

As she passed through the wall, I seemed to become incorporeal along with

her...and her clothes, and her other possessions. From being put in her pocket, I was like a part of her, like a finger or piece of clothing. I became

incorporeal and corporeal just as she did. That reminded me again of my

fate: no longer an individual, but a possession. I would have to deal with this

many more times over the course of eternity.

When she and I became solid again, we saw four male wraiths sitting around



a creaky old table, as if in conversation. The room was furnished with a

faded carpet, four rickety chairs, and the aforementioned old table. It looked

like the mold was the only thing keeping the furniture together. The four

souls seated around the square table were all male, with grey beards. They

looked almost the same, except for a few subtle differences: one had a

toothpick in the corner of his jaw, one had a cowboy hat on, one had talons,

and the last one had no eyes.

"Who's that?" the no-eyed one asked.

"Diana," my owner responded.

"Been a while, girl," Toothpick said: "What have you been up to?"

"Business as usual. Same deal, different day," she responded.

"So, what can we do for you?" No-eyes asked.

She opened up the pouch and grabbed the obolus next to me, tossing it on

the table. It clacked once on the wood as it bounced, then clacked again as it

landed flat. The one with the cowboy hat reached out a skeletal hand (and I

do mean skeletal, as in "stripped of all flesh and muscle"), grasped the coin

on the table, and withdrew his hand to his side again, dragging the poor soul

in his clutches with it.

"You seen Rayhand recently?" Talon-hands asked.

"Because he's been looking for you," No-eyes said, finishing the sentence

without a beat.

"I ran into him a few minutes ago." Diana said in her typical, emotionless

tone.

"And?" Toothpick inquired.

"He's getting impatient," she reported: "I'm going to pay him soon, and he

knows that I'm always busy, so I wish he'd stop harassing me about it."

"You know Rayhand," No-eyes said: "Always keeping on top of his debts

and loans."

"Right," she said: "Can I bother you good old boys for some information?"

"What do you need to know?" Cowboy hat said.



"I think I'm being followed, and not by one of Rayhand's boys. You know

anything about that?"

There was a pause, as Toothpick, Cowboy hat, Talons, and No-eyes looked

at each other, considering what they should say to Diana. Talons turned his

gaze to her.

"I think I recall someone having a problem with you, but I'm not sure how

much I should tell you..."

He stopped, waited. Diana paused, considering. Finally, she dug out another

obolus and slid it onto the table. Talons took it with his knitting needle-like

nails and grinned as he spilled everything he knew.

"His name is Jacobs. He's part of a Heretic-Renegade gang, or cult, or

whatever. They call themselves the Riders of The Wheel. Buncha friggin'

lunatics. Heavy gamblers, and damn good Oracles. Real big into Fatalism,

Chance, Fate, gambling, Riding the Wheel, whatever you wanna call it.

"Anyways, according to him, you sent one of his Circlemates, can't

remember the name, into a Harrowing. The guy came out of the Tempest as

a spectre. The spectre killed all of Jacobs' circlemates until Jacobs himself

managed to put the thing down.

"Jacobs found out that you were responsible for sending the guy into the

Harrowing, and now your name is at the top of Jacobs' hit list. He's pissed,

he's got connections with other Riders of the Wheel circles, and he knows alittle Fatalism, so watch your step."

"Thanks for the heads up," Diana said: "You know where he hangs out?"

"No I don't. And to be honest, I don't want to know where that freak spends

his spare time." Talons responded with a something in between a shrug and

shudder.

"Thanks again," Diana said as she stepped out of the brick wall, leaving the

four inside to their business.Once Diana got her corpus back together, the milky veil of incorporeality

dropped from my eyes and we both could see some plain old Joe Somebody

standing on the sidewalk with his hands casually clasped behind his back,

like a military man at attention or a gentleman at a party. He was smiling a

nice, big, ear-to-ear grin that I didn't like one bit.



"Hello," he said in the friendliest of voices, before whipping his arms into

view. I barely got to see how long the blades were before the happy boy

plunged both Moliated arms into Diana's chest, up to his elbow. Ouch.

She fell to one knee, but didn't go down all the way. Like a flash, her hand

whipped to her side and brought out something. The other wraith removedone arm from her chest and used to block the small dagger that Diana had

tried to use.

With his left bladed arm fending off my owner's attempted attack, he twisted

his right arm a bit, rotating the blade inside her body. She cried out and fell

to both her knees, then to her side.

"To whom do I owe this pleasure?" She managed to choke out. The

assailant, still grinning the polite grin of a lawyer or door-to-door salesman,

kneeled down next to her, with his elbows on his knees and the 2-and-a-half-foot blades for arms pointing at her face.

"The name's Jacobs," he said, then swooped down with one arm and sliced

Diana once, twice, three times, again and again, one cut after the other, until

she stopped twitching.

After she lie still for a moment, the sidewalk below us started to swirl.

Jacobs didn't seem worried. On the contrary, actually; he looked rather

pleased with himself. The swirl on the pavement turned black, and four

black arms reached out of the inky abyss, grabbed Diana's body, and rippedit down into the Tempest before the portal shut as quickly as it had come.

Diana's cloak, outfit, weapon, and mask lay on the sidewalk. And her pouch

of oboli, naturally.

Jacobs leaned down with a bladed arm and slid the tip through the eyehole

of her mask, picking it up to eye level. He examined it, admiring it like a

trophy. His hand became soft suddenly, and mutated back into a normal-

looking hand. When it had had transformed back into its natural image, still

holding the mask, he tucked his new trophy under his arm.

His other hand began to reshape now. He picked up the dagger and the

pouch containing myself and the other obolus, tucking the blade into his belt

and putting the pouch in his pocket.

I could see through the pouch, but I couldn't see through Jacobs' pocket. I

could feel him walking down the sidewalk, though, whistling to himself. I



counted 10, 20, 30 steps, then gave up and stopped counting. Seems like he

was going to be walking around for a while. Would it be a few seconds? A

minute? An hour?

It's funny how time passes when you're dead.

* * *

Afterlife as an Obolus

(Pt. 3 of a New Serial)

by

Mike Spera

Jacobs, the one who belonged to the Riders of the Wheel heretic cult, now had me in his

possession after killing Diana. I don't know where exactly he was taking me, but I had a

suspicion that he was taking me back to wherever the Riders of the Wheel hung out.

After walking for some indiscernible amount of time, he came to a stop. I was still in his

pocket and couldn't see anything, but I heard him knock on a steel door. Not just a normalknock, though: this was a series of raps with slight pauses. It was a code. A moment later,

I could hear the door unlocking and the old, unoiled door open up with a squeal and a fewcreaks as it set into place.

"Jacobs, glad to see you," someone said wholeheartedly. "Come in, come in. What have

you been up to? We haven't seen you all damn day."

"Taking care of business," he said nonchalantly.

"Say no more," Jacobs' companion said: "Because I'm better off not knowing."

Jacobs laughed and they both walked inside.

I could tell from the other voices inside that we were not alone. Far from it; this placewas buzzing with shouting, talking, laughing, and all sorts of other noise clashing around

the air. Jacobs eventually pulled me out of his pocket and slammed me down on a table

next to a series of chairs. He took one chair, the voice that had answered the door took aseat across from Jacobs, and a few other wraiths were already seated at the table.

The setting looked like a hangout, presumably for the Riders of the Wheel. There weremany, many wraiths in the background (too many to begin counting), and they were all

laughing, having a good time, talking, and more than a few were playing cards and



tossing oboli, masks, weapons, and other goods around.

Jacobs had put me down on the table, keeping Diana's mask and knife inside his overcoat.One of the other wraiths at the table took out a deck of cards and began shuffling. I

remembered then that the Riders of the Wheel were fanatic gamblers. Jacobs would

probably use me as a starting bid, and would toss in Diana's mask and knife if the antewas increased. That made me wonder what other hidden treasures the other wraiths

sitting around me had in their pockets.

The cards were wordlessly dealt, and it was only after every had been dealt a hand that

the conversation began. They exchanged dialog about so-and-so making a deal with

someone else, and how somebody had been screwed over by somebody else in a game of

poker. There was a tension in the air, and it wasn't because of the game. Indeed, no onehad even thrown a card on the table yet. The tension had to do with the air of the dialog.

All eyes kept shifting towards Jacobs, but nobody asked him what he had been up to

recently. It was as if they wanted to ask, but were afraid of the answer...

As the trite dialog died down, the wraiths began to play poker in silence. Cards werethrown out, and the others were tossing things into the ante. I'm surprised that Jacobsdidn't throw me in. I couldn't see his hand, and his poker face revealed nothing about his

luck, both for ill or for good.

After a few rounds of poker, a tiny hand closed around me and quietly took me off thetable. For a moment, I couldn't see; I was enclosed in the darkness of this thief's palm.

Almost as soon as the darkness came, I heard Jacobs call out "Hey, now!"

The hand that had snatched me off the table now released me, and I fell onto the floor.

From my worm's-eye view, I saw a child wraith, a little boy of about 5 or years years old,

looking with fear into Jacobs' eyes. Jacobs was holding the thieving boy's wrist in his

hand, and it looked like Jacobs had twisted the boys arm in order to make him drop me.

"What were you trying to do, steal my obolus?" Jacobs asked in a scolding tone. He voicewas stern, but not terribly angry... Like a parent catching their child stealing a pretty-

looking piece of jewelry for the first time.

The child wraith looked so frightened that I thought he was about to cry. "Jacobs, I wantan obolus."

"Why mine?" Jacobs demanded.

"I dunno. Everyone else has one. I don't. I want one. You have lots, right? Grown-ups

have lots, and they don't give me any." The boy pouted and looked down at me, sadnessand longing filling his dead eyes. Jacobs sighed, considering what to do with the thief. He

let go of the child's arm and hopped off the chair, reaching down to pick me up. There

was a moment of silence as I was enclosed in his hand. He was thinking...

"I guess I'll let you have this one. I have other goods to bring to the table tonight." Jacobs

let me go and dropped me into the cupped hands of the child wraith. The little boy held

me in his hands and had the widest eyes I've ever seen on a wraith. So young, so



fascinated with this new toy. He closed his hands around me, quickly thanked Jacobs, and

ran off somewhere.

The boy had a tight grip on me as he ran. It was strange to see such excitement, such

happiness in the Shadowlands. He really was excited to be my new owner.

He stopped running at one point and sat himself down on the floor. He held me in hishands and eyed me closely. He ran his fingers over me, feeling the contours of my eye on

one side (I could still see), my ear on the other side (I could still hear), and my corpus allaround. He rubbed me and looked me over again and again, simply fascinated by the

concept of a coin made from a soul.

Normally I would be annoyed at someone handling and ogling me this way, but a childwas different. He was delighted, even ecstatic, to have the privilege of holding something

that only "grownups" had access to. He was naturally curious about me.

After a few minutes he put me on the ground and pulled out sack from behind him.

Normally, I would call this sack small, but given my worm's-eye view from the floor and

the fact that the sack was actually taller than the sitting child, it looked large and a bit toointimidating.

The child shuffled around in the pouch, actually breaking eye contact with me for the first

time. After a few moments the boy pulled out a hammer, a nail, and a string. Grasping thehammer in his little hands, he turned his gaze towards me again. The wonder and

fascination had disappeared from his eyes, and his smile was leaning more towards glee

with a streak of sadism. I wasn't going to like this...

Slowly, carefully, the boy put the nail just above my center, my "eye" you could say.

Memories of my hideous soulforging came back to me. The sharp pain, the throbbing

agony of being pounded with a hammer repeatedly. Oh, dear God, not again.

The child slammed the hammer down, and I felt the edge of the nail split the exterior of my plasm. If you can imagine stomping your foot down on a nail, then you can imagine

my pain.

The pain from the first blow had just settled in when the second strike came crashingdown. The nail impaled itself deeper. It was halfway through my corpus now. If I could

only scream, or thrash, or do something to distract myself.

But no, I couldn't. I could only lie on the floor where I was placed and sit patiently while

this child played with me. It was like being raped, I suppose.

Again, the hammer came down. I felt the nail break through the other side of myself and

heard a slight clang and it embedded itself into the floor. My plasm screamed for release,

but I had no mouth to let it go. The pain rattled around inside me as I prayed to Oblivion

to come and suck me down, to take me away from all this.

But thankfully the child was finished. He put the hammer down, and my soul breathed a

sigh of relief even as it shuddered from the pain of that third and final strike. The boy



reached his hand down, and I began to feel a twisting sensation. The nail that had impaled

me through the floor was being taken out, and I could feel every particle of it slide its

way through my plasm as it was withdrawn.

The boy put the hammer and nail back into the sack and picked me up in one hand, the

string in the other. I felt the string move against my corpus as it weaved through the freshhole that he had pounded into me. The boy tied the string together and placed his head

through the loop, wearing me like a necklace.

I hung on the string, dangling just below his neck. He let me hang from him for a

moment, then took me in his hand. He brought me close to his face, grinning from ear to

ear. The boy had his very own obolus, a brand new necklace, and a new toy, all in one.

The childlike fascination had returned to his eyes as he flipped me over and over again,examining one side, then the other, then the first again.

After a few moments, he let me go and bounded off, taking me along with me. I bouncedup and down around his neck as he ran, passing by adult wraiths as they talked, argued,

or gambled. Now that I had a moment to think clearly, I was glad that this had been doneto me. After all, I could see more of the Underworld hanging from somebody's neck,rather than spending eternity stuffed in someone's pocket.

* * *



by

Mike Spera

The child wraith at the Riders of the Wheel hangout had pounded a nail through me and

now had me dangling from his neck like a medallion. Although my corpus still stung with

the pain of having a small hole punched through me, I could see much better dangling

from the child's neck than from the inside of his pocket like any other obolus.

The Riders' hangout looked like a pretty exciting place now that I could actually see it.

The walls and floor were made of stone, and just about everything else was made of

wood. The area had the feeling of an old English or Scottish pub: laughing, drinking, and

a whole lot of gambling. Perhaps even a fight or two. The place was lit from table lampson the ground as well candles hanging from the chandelier above. There were gambling

tables all over the place: craps, poker, roulette, and a few simple tables where wraithsheld arm wrestling contests... all of this was bet on by the participants and the spectators,

of course.

There were two blood-red doors on the far side of the den, and this pair of doors were

guarded by two wraiths who looked like they'd seen it all, heard it all, kicked its ass, and



lived to tell about it. Their muscles bulged out from underneath bloodstained muscle t-

shirts, various scars and cuts ran over their arms, necks, and faces, and while their

expressions were emotionless, their eyes never kept still. They were watching the wholescene, taking everything in, keeping an eye on every wraith, every table, and every detail.

If these guys needed to break up a dispute, they wouldn't have much trouble from the

looks of it.

The boy finally took me into a corner and twisted me around to face him. He was

grinning ear-to-ear, and he started rubbing me again.

"You're mine now," he said to me: "All mine. Now I have something that the grown-ups

have. My friends might get jealous, but forget them. I can get new friends. Friends with

oboli. And then I can trade you. Then I can-"

The boy's speech was interrupted by a huge crash. He let me go and stood up to see what

was the matter. From his chest-eye view, I couldn't see that much {this kid was only 5 or 6 and wasn't very tall} but it looked like something outside had slammed into the double

doors, trying to get it.

"They're Back!" one of the two tough-looking wraiths that guarded the door announced.

Everyone in the den started cheering and applauding, grinning ear-to-ear. Even the two

scarred and muscular guards were delighted.

The doors behind them shook as something slammed into them again. Behind the sound

of the cheering and the door being pounded, I thought I heard something else. It sounded

like... wailing? Crying? Screaming? All three? The little boy started jumping up anddown in excitement, chanting to himself. "They're here They're here They're here!!!"

The doors bulged again as "they" slammed into them. At this point, everyone in the place

was facing the door and kneeling. Some on one knee, some on both. The frantic shoutingthat was present a few minutes ago had now dimmed down to hushed, excited

whispering. I could definitely hear wailing now, and the sound of chains rattling. I didn'tlike this one bit.

The little boy was the only one that was standing. Every other wraith in the place except

for one of the tough-as-nails guards was on his or her knees. The excited whisperingcontinued, as the hideous screams of desperation and agony came from outside,

accompanied by the sound of chains rattling. The standing guard called out to all present,

"It looks like they're eager, so I won't keep them waiting. Let's see who the lucky winner is this time." And with that, he slid back the horizontal latch that kept the doors shut. He

quickly dropped to his knees like the rest of the group. And then the doors burst open.

A tall, gaunt-looking figure wearing a black-as-Oblivion shroud that was bound with

chains pounded through the doorway and into the den. Its face was ghastly white and

twisted into a hideous expression of both sadness and rage. It moaned at the top of its

lungs, and the sound was so loud that it made the chandeliers above rattle. It carried in itsskeletal hands a loop of heavy chains and a thick manacle. It stepped into the den and

looked among the crowd, and I could see that there were four more of these hideous

things waiting outside, decked out in black shrouds and loops of chains as well, vomiting



that unearthly howl from their mouths.

The tall, dark-shrouded thing stalked among the crowd of kneeling Heretics, looking eachone over in turn. The boy to whom I belonged still stood. In my head, I was screaming

for him to get down, to hide, to not draw any attention from these things, but I had no

mouth to scream.

He didn't want to hide. Indeed, it looked like he wanted to get their attention. As the thing

let out another lamented wail and turned his head, the boy started waving his arms. Heshouted, "Over here! Choose me! Me!"

The thing turned its attention to the boy, and for a moment I stared into that hideous,

twisted face and into those deep, hateful eyes... and in that moment I saw somethingfrightening. I saw deep down its eyesockets and its twisted soul, and if I'm not mistaken, I

caught a glimpse of the black light of Oblivion itself. The gaunt figure took a step

towards the boy and reached out with its chains.

"You want ME!" somebody shouted to the left. The figure stopped, confused, and started

reaching for this new target.

"Choose me!" someone else in the den shouted. "No, me!" came from somebody else.

Before long, the entire den of the Riders of the Wheel were off their knees and on their

feet, begging for this thing to pick them as a "lucky" winner.

The creature let out a howl of rage and stomped into the crowd, wrapping its chains

around somebody and locking the manacle around his neck. And now that this creaturehad its chosen victim, he turned towards the door and stomped away, dragging this

Heretic behind him by the manacle around his neck. The Heretic looked like he had just

won the lottery.

"Yes! I'm the chosen one!" he shouted to the group. "He chose Me! I'm the winner now!

Screw you all, I'm moving on. I'm the chosen one, and I'll see you all in Hell!"

The hideous, shrouded creature screamed again as he dragged his victim out the door, and

the creatures outside screamed in response. Only this time their wail was different. Were

they screeching with delight? Like they had found what they'd been searching for? Ididn't want to think about it. The doors slammed shut, and eventually the clanking of

chains and the ghastly wailing faded into the distance.

* * *



by

Mike Spera

After the Riders of the Wheel den saw one of their numbers dragged off in chains by a



group of howling... things, events simmered down and they started going about their

business again like the whole thing had never happened. Nobody talked about it, and

nobody seemed to be mourning or even thinking about the fate of that poor soul who wasdragged away.

Of course, the whole lot of them had been begging for the creatures to choose them astheir victim, but I wasn't even going to guess at why the Riders saw those things as

saviors of any sort. The psychology of Heretics was something that I just shrugged my

shoulders at and said, "Okay, whatever you want. It's your soul, you can do whatever youwant with it."

The child that had me dangling around his neck went back into his corner and pouted a

bit that he hadn't been chosen this time. A few minutes later, he got over it, and found arelic puzzle to play with. He must have done it a lot in his living days, because he

arranged the whole hundred-something piece puzzle in about 5 minutes.

The picture, once put together, depicted a beautiful sunset by the ocean. The child started

at the picture for a few minutes, and I gazed at it with him. I wondered what he wasthinking right then, and if it was anything at all like what I was thinking.

I was thinking back to my breathing days. I missed seeing the sun and the ocean. I'd been

dead for Lord knows how many years, and haven't seen the sun or the sea even once in

my time in the Shadowlands. How long had I been here? How long was I going to stayhere, smelted into the form of a coin that can't talk and can't move by myself?

At least my time as an obolus hadn't been boring. I'd heard of worse shapes to be smeltedinto: torches, the arm of a lawn chair, an ashtray, a portrait to be stuck on a wall

somewhere. At least as a coin I was getting circulated and seeing new sights.

But how long was this going to last? For eternity?

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of banging on the twin doors to the outside.My first thought was that those black-shrouded, screaming creatures had come back

looking for someone else, but I didn't hear any screaming or clanking of chains like last

time.

The boy stood up at the noise and turned towards the door. I could see the two wraiths

that acted as doormen opening up a horizontal slot in the door and peeking outside to see

who was there. After a moment, the peephole slammed shut and the door was opened.

A woman stood there, her clothes ripped and her corpus in tough shape. "Where is

Rikkit?" she called out to the group.

"Rikkit's gone," somebody I couldn't see called out.

"Dammit," the woman spat out, and ran her long fingernails through her shoulder-lengthhair: "Is there anyone here who's a talented Pardoner?"

The kid stood up and raised his head as far up as it would go: "I am," he said.



The woman in the doorway did not look impressed: "YOU? The best Castigator you guys

got is this kid?!?"

"I've only lived for five years, but I've probably spent more time dead than even you

have," my owner boasted.

"He's right," someone off to the left added: "He's been here longer than even I have. He'snot bad."

The woman rolled her eyes in exasperation, but gestured for the boy to follow her

anyways.

"Fine, follow me. My friend needs help, and quick. I think he's on the verge of aCatharsis. What's your name, anyway?"

"Nicholas," the boy replied. I heard the doors slam shut behind us as this woman led Nicholas and myself down a barren street.

There were no other wraiths in sight but us. We passed by relic buildings of old antiqueshops, forgotten restaurants, and closed-down record stores. A boarded-up cathedral

loomed over the other buildings from down the street a ways. The only thing I could hear

was the sound of a faint wind blowing, and the sound of weeping coming from a distance.

As we walked along, the sobbing sound grew louder. It appeared that this woman was

taking us right to it.

"I hope it's not too late," she said to Nicholas: "He's been like this for at least an hour.

Take a look at him and tell me what you think."

She stopped suddenly and gestured down an alley between the Shadowlands relic

buildings of 'Joe's Cafe' and 'Picker and Co. Life Insurance.'

Sitting in a little ball, with his knees up to his chin and his head buried in his hands, was a

very thin and very miserable-looking man. He an older man, in his 70's or 80's, with more

hair on his short, white beard than on his balding head. His skin was wrinkled and his

bones exposed themselves like they were trying to escape from his skin. This crying manwas shoeless and shirtless, and his dress pants looked like they'd been through Hell and

back. Overall, it looked like this guy looked like he'd just spent a few months stranded on

an island starving to death.

Nicholas took a cautious step towards the wraith, who hadn't even seen us yet since his

face was buried in his hands. Nicholas examined him for a few moments before turning back towards the woman, who had been silent during all of this.

"What happened?" Nicholas inquired.

"Well, we were making a raid against a Hierarchy soulforge, when-"

She stopped and pointed behind Nicholas: "I think he might be coming out of it now."

Nicholas turned around and we could both see the man wiping his eyes and looking



around, as if seeing his surroundings for the first time. Did he even remember how he got

here? Eventually his eyes rested on the woman and Nicholas. After that, his eyes rested

on me. Not on Nicholas, but on me, the small object hanging around his neck.

"My family's heirloom," he mumbled mostly to himself: "That's my family's heirloom

that boy's got there!"

The thin old man pulled himself to his feet, never taking his eyes off me. Nicholas took a

few, cautious steps back.

"I think you're mistaken, mister." he said: "This necklace is an obolus, and it's mine."

The old man took a few steps forward, leaning down to take a good look at me. Nicholastook a few steps back in turn. I hoped that this old, senile wraith would realize his

mistake, but part of me knew that this was turning very bad, very fast.

"That necklace is my family's keepsake, and it belongs with ME!" the old wraith

corrected Nicholas. His voice was getting louder, and his eyes were growing wider with

greed.

With a dash, the old man rushed Nicholas and made a grab at me. Everything went black

after his palm enclosed around me. I heard the sound of string snapping and just knew

that the old guy had torn me away from Nicholas.

The boy shouted something a couldn't hear. I still wasn't able to see anything, but I could

hear the sound of bare feet running against pavement, and the sounds of heavy breathingcoming from an elderly man's lungs. Part of myself wondered why a deceased spirit

would need to breathe in the first place, part of me concluded that old habits die hard, and

the rest of me was too terrified thinking of what kind of situation had befallen me now.

I don't know how long we ran for (remember my pervious ramblings on how time passes

when you're dead), but eventually the movement stopped abruptly. Too abruptly.

I heard the sounds of bodies colliding and then the old man let me go... or dropped me,

from the looks of it. I landed on the pavement, looking up at the bleak Shadowlands sky,

and at a wraith dressed like he was in the Dark Ages: studded leather armor, shield at hisside, and a huge sword in his hand that gave off a soft but malevolent dark blue glow.

Stygian steel.

Whoever this guy was, he worked for the Hierarchy and was higher up on the political

ladder than most. His long black hair swirled around his face as he looked down at the

wraith of the elderly man, who had literally just run into him. The knight did not look happy.

The old man snatched at the broken string of Nicholas's necklace and picked me up off

the street as he hurriedly apologized to the knight. "Terribly sorry, sir. I'm so clumsy. Iwas fleeing from these Heretics and-"

"SILENCE!" the Hierarchy wraith shouted. The old man shut up.



"You were the one who just attacked the smelting forge, aren't you?" the knight accused,

as he grasped his sword even firmer than he had a minute ago. The old man had no

response whatsoever. Dangling from his hand, I could see that his mouth was openingand closing, but no words came out. His brain was probably scrambling for an excuse to

explain himself, but as the Hierarchy official raised his sword, it appeared that the old

man's brain wasn't scrambling fast enough.

Without any further word from either of them, the glowing blue Stygian steel plunged

into the old man's chest, and out his shoulderblade. The skeletal wraith fell to his knees,looking up at the knight, who in turn twisted the blade and plunged it deeper into the

victim's chest.

The sidewalk started to swirl underneath the old man. The Hierarchy wraith quickly pulled his sword out and backed away a few feet.

As the sidewalk rippled like water, it transformed into a dark hole. The Tempest layunderneath us now. I couldn't see anything, but I could certainly hear the cries of spectres

and the screams of damned souls emanating from the hole.

Several pairs of black hands reached out of the hole and grabbed onto the elderly wraith,

one hand grasping each limb. They began to pull him (and myself) down, into the

Tempest.

The last thing I saw as the nihil closed and the sidewalk reformed was the expression of

grim satisfaction on the Hierarchy official's face.

* * *



by

Mike Spera

The darkness enveloped me and the elderly-looking, sickly thin wraith that held onto me.

I knew we were in the Tempest, and I was wondering where we were spiraling to,

although in my gut {not in the literal sense of the word, mind you} I knew damn well

what was happening to us, and I didn't like it one bit.

Eventually, we hit a wooden floor. Darkness surrounded us. I fell a few paces away fromthe man, but he scooped me up in his greedy hands before he even got a decent look at

his surroundings.

Frankly, there wasn't much to look at. He was sitting on a wooden floor in a circle of

light that seemed to come from a spotlight above. There were no walls around us, just the

floor of an eternally huge room full of nothing.



The old man looked around for the first time, then turned his gaze down on me. He

turned me over and over in his hands, rubbing every inch of me with his thumb. It was

almost as if he was more concerned with me than with himself.

A light flashed suddenly in front of us. Another spotlight from an unknown source above

shown down on a pile of coins atop a pedestal.

The old man seemed to forget about me immediately and ran towards the golden treasure

that lay ahead. I bobbed alongside him, the string which ran through me clutched tightlyin his hand.

He ran towards the money, arms and legs pumping madly. The stack came closer and

closer until the old man seemed to ran into something invisible. He hit a wall or barrier,or something, and bounced off, falling flat on his back.

He groaned and rubbed his head for a moment, then pulled himself to his feet, still gazingup at the stack on money on the pedestal. He walked forward again, cautiously this time,

until he walked into the invisible wall again.

He placed a hand on it, feeling around to see how tall and wide it was. Apparently it was

tall and wide enough to prevent him from getting to his prize. With his other fist he

pounded on the wall, which made no sound of impact whatsoever.

Behind us, another light flashed on, revealing another stack of coins on another pedestal

behind us. The old man took a cautious step towards it, then another, then another. And

then he reached out, and eventually touched what we both suspected would be there -another non-visible barrier.

Another stack of coins appeared to our left, a mirror image of the first pedestal. Another

pedestal appeared to our right. Then another, and another, all around us.

The old wraith whirled around in a circle, eyes gleaming with the thought of money, buthis cheeks and lips melted into a frown knowing that it was all out of his reach. Around

and around we turned, until we realized that we were stuck in a maze of glass and

mirrors, the kind of you tend to see at carnivals.

The old man gazed down to see the word "EXIT" on the floor, with a green line going off

in a certain direction. It zig-zagged a twisted path through the mirrors, glass panels, and

the taunting coins. Another line of the floor glowed with a golden hue, and it shot itself down another path that led deeper into the mirror maze.

"Go for the gold!" a voice echoed around us: "You have no idea how much is in this place!"

The man looked around to see who was speaking, but was only greeted with the sight of

the false treasure all around him.

The elderly wraith gazed at the green and golden lines on the floor, leading to the Exit

and the treasure. This was obviously a setup, and I was hoping that he'd see through theobvious trick, but his eyes kept roaming from the golden line to the treasure, then to the



green line, then back to the treasure. I was trying to scream "Don't be an idiot," but,

naturally, I was unheard.

The voice made itself audible again, offering more riches than the man had ever dreamed

of. "It's a stash of Relic treasure, tucked away in the Tempest. This is the only way to it.Only a lucky few ever find this entrance." The elderly wraith seemed unconvinced, as hetook a few steps along the green line towards the exit.

"This is the only chance you'll get at this, my friend!" the voice continued to offer.

"Go to hell," the old man responded, trodding down the green line that led to the exit.

"If you want to leave, you can," the voice said with a disappointed tone: "But if you want

to take just a few items before you go, you're welcome to."

The old man stopped mid step: "Can I take just one, then leave?" he inquired.

"You can take more than one if you wish,"

"I don't believe you,"

"Then why haven't you left already?" the voice inquired. A golden line appeared to burn

itself into view, straying off from the green path towards the exit: "Just follow the line,

take what you want, then turn around and walk straight back to this point and continuetowards the exit. It's as simple as that."

The wraith that still held me in his grasp seemed to be turning the offer over in his head. I

was screaming at him without being heard again. The old guy knew this was a setup, so I

hoped that he wouldn't step off the path.

He stood there for a while, thinking and thinking. Maybe it was a minute, or two minutes,or even five minutes, but he could have made his decision in a nanosecond for all I know.{It's funny how time passes when you're dead...}

Eventually he took a step off the green line and began following the golden one. That's

when I knew that we were both screwed.

The voice from no one went silent as the old man trod down the golden path, through the

mirrors and glass walls, and weaved his way through the fake images of treasure. Hefollowed it until it ended in front of a golden pedestal with a treasure box on top.

The box had shiny silver edges with red velvet covering most of it. The hinges and the

latch on front reflected the light that shone down from above. The old man took a fewsteps towards the box, reaching out towards it.

I was screaming in my mind for him to stop. I was praying to God or Allah or Yahweh,Zeus, Ra, Quetzalcoatl... or any other god that might have been listening at the moment.

Apparently, my prayers were going unanswered today. The old man flipped the latchopen and leaned the top part of the chest back, peering inside.



At first, nothing greeted us - a whole lot of nothing. There was no bottom to the box, only

a small square portal that gazed into the swirling blackness of the Tempest. I could feel

the old man's shoulder's dropping in disappointment.

For a moment, there was complete silence. Then there was chaos.

A black fist shot out of the swirling madness and grasped the wraith by his throat. Theold man gagged and tried to pull away, but a second hand shot out and grabbed his hand -

the held that held me.

The fist was no more than a mere number of inches away from my dangling self. It was a

firm, strong hand that looked like it was formed of strong flesh. It held the poor doomed

wraith like steel. Glancing over at his other hand, I could see it was trapped in a similar vise-like grip.

Then two ebony arms popped out, and wrapped themselves around his waist. And theyall, as a group, began to pull.

The old man was frantic now, crying out, pleading for them to stop. He was pulled face-first through the bottom of the treasure box and we were both dragged into the Tempest.

And for the first time since he picked me up at the beginning of this Harrowing, he let me

go.

I watched him drift farther and farther away, until he was nothing more than a pale dot in

the distance. By now, his wailing was lost to the eternal silence of the Abyss.

* * *

Now I'm drifting aimlessly. I float through the air, although it feels like I'm flowingthrough water at the same time.

On the side of me that can see, I catch an image of a spectre flitting about. There is a byway nearby, and the spectre lies in wait.

I see other things floating around as well. Teddy bears, watches, a few keys. Forgotten

objects. Forgotten objects like myself.

On the side of me that can hear, the sounds of water and wind make themselves audible.

The wind I can understand, but I do not see any water nearby. Or maybe I am floatingunder the water. The laws of physics are sheer madness in a place like this, and now I'm

experiencing it for the first time without a way to escape it.

My vision of the spectre lying under the byways drifts away. Either I drift away from it,or it drifts away from me. Either way, it gets smaller and smaller until it's gone.

I pass the time now by watching nothing flowing over nothing. I count out to myself tokeep myself amused. After counting to 1,527 I decide to stop. Keeping track of time here

is pointless.

I begin to sing songs to myself in my head. I go through one song, then another, then



another. I used to have a vast music collection in my living days, and now I'm singing it

all, only with no voice.

After a while, I finish singing the last lyric of the last song of my music collection. How

long did that take? An instant? A few minutes?

How much time has passed now? A day? A week? Has the end of the world already comeand gone, and I missed it all by being here, floating eternally in dark nothingness?

It's funny how time passes when you're dead.

END

Documents

Afterlife as an Obolus