Shortly before the War of Kane there was a woman. She was called many things for what she did. Some called her a Shaman. Others called her sick, ill. That was the popular opinion. They say she got some sort of kick out of doing her job. Her actions caused even hate and misery to leave her heart. She was nearly devoid of emotions. She had to be. She was the only executioner for many, many leagues in any direction. Few take the job, but she did. She forged a scythe for her...profession. She felt it the right thing to do. When asked how the strange weapon came to her mind she could not answer in a satisfying way. It had just come to her as she stood in the forge for one day and one night trying to figure out how she wished to be represented. She felt her instrument, as she called it, had to be unique. Special.

Perhaps it shouldn't have mattered, but it did. It was the first, or at least one of the first, of it's kind. She felt she invented the weapon, which in a sense she did. She's the only one at the weapon's origin, or at least the easiest answer to find. With this new weapon she needed to form a way to wield it. She couldn't simply swing it around willy nilly, now could she? The curve of the blade made for easy slicing, and the shaft made for good blocking and thwacking. After some years of starting her duty, as she thought of it, she was threatened. She did not want to be seen in public, whenever she left home she now wore a hooded robe that concealed her face for the most part, but she couldn't bring herself to leave the Scythe. She always had it with her, always. The hood, instead, acted as a shield from the petty spitting and somewhat shut out the insults people would utter.

But...why was she hated? There had always been executioners before her. There would always be executioners after. The thing that made her different was that she showed no emotion. She seemed to not care. These people were accused of being unholy and thus evil. Even the most vicious looking executioner always hesitates. They may often wonder if what they are doing is right. Does the person deserve death for what they did? She, instead, stared at the men and women who were bound in chains or rope before her, on their knees. They would beg for their lives, this usually had an effect on most - however slight. They terror and sadness in their eyes would unnerve many, if not most at least a little. It did nothing to her. She just stared and waited until they gave up...

"Please! I have children! I have three children and a wife! Please, I beg you! I will never do it again! I didn't know he would die!" The man in shackles cried out to the robed woman whom wielded a terrifying weapon. She stared at him unrelentingly, never breaking eye contact, always seeking it when it wasn't there. "P-please! I don't want to die! I was in a hard place! I didn't think the cut was that deep! I needed the food, I have...children..." he pleaded and begged. This would usually go on for many minutes, sometimes upwards towards half an hour. When he finally calmed down, or stopped talking she would not break her gaze and not move, hardly seeming to breathe. Her eyes, an impossible pale blue seemed to stare into the heart of the man. In a certain light it was almost as if her eyes were white, and she rarely blinked. At least, few have been able to see it. She looked like a ghost. "Are...when are you going to kill me...?" He whimpered. "Am I...free...?" He asks, hopeful. She shakes her head. Her voice is raspy from rare use. "You have been judged. You would have been a wise man to have thought about your family before doing what you did. You've killed a man and in return you shall be executed. This is only fair, is it not?" It was always the same, with slight differences depending on the person she was executing at this point. They would stare in defeat into her eyes for a moment, then look to the ground. They rarely protested at that point. She stepped, or as it seemed to others watching, glided towards the man and in an expertly quick motion his head rolled from his shoulders and his body fell limp to the ground. The day went on like this, much like any other day. When she was through with them she would remain there, just standing in the middle of the blood soaked ground, staring ahead. She would not clean her scythe of the blood of the people she killed this way. She stayed there for one day and one night.

There were some, however, who did not think the same as everyone else. Those who looked upon her with with curiosity, wonder, and even respect if they ever decided to talk to her. Which many started doing. They found she had a heart, indeed. She didn't talk like an emotionless shell, she was like anyone else. She almost looked happy, if not thrilled that people were talking to her - and for once they weren't throwing stones, spitting, or shouting insults and curses! It quickly became known to any who would speak to her that she came off as shallow, one dimensional, and just uncaring because she had to or she would quickly start to slip into insanity. When your job is killing people you have to deal with it somehow. She stood in place when she killed to respect the dead. Even those who desperately deserve death deserve the respect the dead all get. But, there was a darker side to this woman, well, for some.

She was possessed, so it seemed, by some sort of demon. Inexplicably, she would lose control to the demon and become completely different. A wolfish grin would never be far from her face, mischief was always keeping this one company. She looked malevolent, to the untrained eye. It's all first impressions with these people, isn't it? Yet, her close group of friends were skeptical of the other's claims of possession, or that it was necessarily so evil, so wretched and just plain bad. So they accepted this side of her as well, and as a result learned of an artistic streak in her demon. They never noticed the instrument, the lute, in her home before. It was just there and seemed to be slowly gathering dust. She played for them like this, incredibly talented. The way she played made even the most simple of songs sound like masterpieces and look like they would take years of practice to master!

This darker side was not always present, however. In fact, it was rather sporadic. However, she did not lose her ability in any way in the slightest as she was normally. She was delighted when they asked to her to play for them almost every week. And this is how it started. She changed their views over the course of years, and more hopped onto the "train to the Nether" as some of the common folk referred to their little gatherings as. They were fine with that. With her music, her gradual teachings, and her kindness in turn to those who showed her kindness made a sort of group. They followed her around. As years passed they all agreed privately, without her knowledge, to wear what she wears and to be like her. There needs to be more people like her, they agreed.

One cannot even imagine the delight that not only did people like her, respect her, but they followed her! They agreed with her! Now, whenever she walked through town to her rather unpleasant job she had about 10-15 other hooded figures following her in a near formation. No one insulted her, threw rocks and sticks and things at her, hurt her. They just watched. She wasn't alone when she had to do her job now, and they even stood with her to pay the respects. They understood it was something to be done with little idle chit chat and stayed silent, for the most part. She decided it was unfair that she got a scythe to lean on and they didn't, and in time each of them had one of their own.

Then came the whispering. That the woman who lead them was the grim reaper incarnated in human form, and those men and women who followed her were Death's servants. It was not widespread, but word did get around a little. Mostly within their town, but it was enough. The Reapers, as they came to be known, was never something that was intended, planned, or dreamed of. It started as a group of close knit friends who wanted to help someone.

They stayed in that town for many years. Several people every few years would become interested in what they did and why they did it, people like the Reapers. They accepted them in with open arms to their little circle and were starting to gain quite a following. They were each given Scythe's, every new member of their "family" was required to have one and wear their garb. They explained to each of them that the reason they primarily used Scythe's was to represent Sulena, the Goddess of the moon, with the crescent shape the blade made. They were trained how to use the Scythe's effectively, in both defensive combat and executions. In a matter of years each would become proficient in the ways of the Reapers.

At the age of 45 the woman, who was given the title "Deliverance" and was called that since she was 30 by the Reapers, started to write a book of her teachings. The book had been copy'd since then and given to every Reaper coven so they may never lose sight of their goals. The covens spread far and wide and rapidly. They had hold of many small settlements and no one opposed their presence there. It might have had something to do with the crescent shaped weapons they all possessed. The book taught each of them, their children, and anyone they invited to join them the technique in wielding such a weapon as a Scythe, the teachings of Deliverance who was believed to be Sulena's messenger in human form, how to craft a Scythe, and how to go about executions and respecting the dead.

Something that was widely known and never questioned was Deliverance's sex life. She had grown to love each and every one of her original founders, her friends, and shared her bed with them. If you are a woman with such power you need not worry about a witch hunt because of your whorish lifestyle, especially when you can silence just about anyone with a single strike. No one complained, this is for certain, however she only had one child. The child's name was never named, by advice of his fathers, until much later in his life. They had to find out if he was like his mother, if he would also be a messenger from Sulena. And it was decided. He inherited his mother's odd personalities and followed the book she wrote closely. When he turned 10 he was offered a Scythe, to which he accepted. For ten years he trained and was christened as his mother; Deliverance.

However, all was not without danger. They had gotten to comfortable, and in the middle of the night several men garbed in black from head to toe were sent into their home in the dark of night to end the mother's life. The twenty year old Deliverance woke up. Some say it was Sulena, whispering into his ear that there was danger. His family was in danger. He knows the truth, he found it funny, really. He simply heard them. He had never been a light sleeper. He stood, the slight creaking of the floorboards giving the intruders away. He listened, he could tell. There were 5 of them. He took up his Scythe and walked quickly and noiselessly, looking as if he was a phantom as he seemed to glide along the ground. He ducked under his doorway and found his mother's room. He listened intently at the noises inside. He heard the spurting of blood and the low chuckle of men. His mother was dead.

His calm, emotionless face twitched, twisted. He fell against a wall, leaning on it for support. Something was fighting for dominance, something that he has always tried to suppress. Emotion was something he was afraid of, and it was coming out. His breathing calmed, and they opened the door and found him leaning against a wall. His eyes looked to them and he chuckled darkly and stood from the wall. They were lined up, they could not surround him. They could not use any sort of tactics, strategy, anything. And they were amateurs, good for nothing but stealth and slitting throats - neither of which would help them here.

There was one remaining, and he was wounded terribly. Deliverance had a twisted grin as he crouched down and collected the four heads of the men by the hair and held them up to the survivors face. "Do you wish to end up like your friends here?" He asks, to which the man shook his head vigorously and whimpered. He threw the heads at the wall with unmatched force, shattering their skulls with a sickening sound. He turns his attention to the cowardly man leaned against a wall, nearing the fetal position. He crouches down in front of him and grins wolfishly. "Then you need only tell me one thing... Who sent you?" The man sputtered out as if it were a life or death situation, "Th-The K-king! He sent us! He decided your people were sick and evil, and he sent us to silence your figurehead!" Deliverance makes a face and laughs loudly. "He fancies himself a King, you say? He is King of nothing! I will crush his crown and take his little tiara for myself as a sort of token! The man speaks up again, "C-can I go, p-please?" Deliverance stared at him for a moment and shook his head. "No. You have committed a terrible crime. You have murdered the Messenger of Sulena in cold blood, and you will die." His personality had quickly changed, now that the heat of the moment and the blood bath was over, for now. He swiped his Scythe at the man's neck, cutting it clean off and letting the blood spurt high into the air from his neck. He walked to the foot of his mother's bed, the last of her blood leaving her throat and stared at her. He planted his Scythe into the wood floor with such force that it splintered and cracked, leaving a spiderweb of damage around the butt of his weapon. The blood drips down to the floor slowly from the crescent blade as he stands there, unmoving and unfeeling for one day and one night, no matter who tried to rouse his attention.

After that day, he did not sleep for many days. He organized an attack very quickly. Their guard is not strong enough, they have few men to stop the entire Head Coven invading the mansion and doing carrying out the execution of the King. In reality, the King was not much of a King, more of a mayor, but he demanded he be treated as a King and would punish any whom seem to threaten him in the slightest. He was corrupt, and evil. He had to be destroyed.

They entered the mansion the day after without resistance. The few guards available would cower in fear of the thirty hooded men and women with brutal killing weapons in hand, and their leader; Deliverance, with five heads in hand by the hair, dripping a trail of blood. Nobody asked questions, nobody did anything to oppose. They just walked in briskly, climbing both stair cases for efficiency to the large, oak archway door of the King's chamber. The man was wealthy, no doubt. But they had no idea just how wealthy he really was. When they opened the door no one was inside, but they knew the King was in the building and ignorant. It was dimly lit except for the center of the back wall across from the doorway. There stood a golden throne. They stepped inside and looked about. Archways held up the outside perimeter and cast could be used as good cover, along with the shadows behind them. He walked into the center of the room and told them to hide themselves. They did so, and Deliverance took to the throne and stood in front of it, waiting for the sound of a door to open.

The chuckle of several men is heard, all oblivious to what awaits them. They enter the room, ten guards and the King, taking the lead and conversing. Clearly intoxicated. They were his pitiful private guard. They walked into the center of the room and stopped, having just noticed the hooded man with the tall, brutal weapon planted on the floor standing before the king's throne. "Wha? What do you think you're doing in here! Get out! Now, before I have my guard throw you in prison." They hear nothing of the silent shuffling to block the exit, or to get in a better position. Deliverance turns and looks him dead in the eye. "You've murdered the Messenger of Sulena. I have come to carry out her will, and remove your crown. Permanently." Deliverance's mouth twitched at the corners into a slight grin for a split second, his eyes turned wild, before his face returned to it's usual calm demeanor. The King laughs, and points to him. "This fool thinks he is a threat to me. Please, do take care of him, won't you?" He orders his guards, who all step forward.

Demotheus cocks his head to the side ever so slightly as they start to move forward. His thirty men come out from behind the pillars and in the shadows, the guards hear this and stop. They look around, the colour quickly draining from their face. The King continues to laugh for several second more until he realizes his guards have stopped moving. He hasn't noticed. "Well!? Get on with it! I want his head, now!" He shouts at them. "M-My lord," one speaks up, "They're everywhere..." The King looks around for the first time and his face now drains of blood. "No...You...you can't do this! I am King!" Deliverance smirks, a lapse in personality. "King Nothing." He says sharply. He twists his Scythe slightly and the bloodbath ensues. The King simply stands there, seething. Watching Deliverance with hatred as his men are slaughtered around him. His fate is sealed, and he knows it.