Memento Mori

Mornings in the back halls of AFW could be rather peaceful if a tad boring. There weren’t many stagehands drifting through as there weren’t any shows scheduled for the day. There was no particular rush and it showed. Stage equipment and tables were left off to the side to gather dust, dingy fluorescent lighting flickered irrevocably some feet above, in the distance, a muffled choir of overlapping vernacular echoed through the empty halls from the front atrium.

On the bench in this hall sat a beautiful woman of one thousand talents, handling a needle between her elegant fingers with all the care and precision of a master at work. The edge of silver danced in her grasp like a bird low in flight in a sky all its own in the palm of her hand.

A kind soul:

Her work on the other hand was anything but. Of all the things that could be in Margaux’s hands - perhaps a delicate piece of cloth from back home, or some piece of her wardrobe that required more personal care - a stuffed rabbit should not have been one of them. It was a filthy little thing riddled with fleas and discoloration, the target of quite some abuse evidently. A closer look at the fabrics would give some hints to just how old this particular toy appeared to be. It was decades old and growing a barge hue. It would have been a perfect fit in a lonesome hermit's home, drifting underneath decrepit drapes and beige plaster from a simpler time. Forgotten and lonely.

Margaux sought to stitch the poor and suffering thing back to life. Think of it as an act of redemption from a lifetime of sinful pleasures. A kind act, she believed, would go some way to balance the karma she’d taken upon herself.

Though she was having some...trouble. Every other second fluff and guts were spilling from the poor bear’s gullet to the floor between her feet. Its soft white innards were strewn all about and stuck between her fingers, dug into her nails, caught in the palm of her hand. Its kind heart was failing. The more she hacked away at its exposed core, its frayed hairs ruffled and pure black eyes seemed to glisten with invisible ears. If only some tender soul would be so kind as to stop for a moment and put an end to its suffering with a guiding hand. It was unlikely, but the Frenchwoman was keeping an eye out, occasionally spying to her left and right to see nothing but empty hallways both ways. But she kept looking.

Just by chance. Just hoping.

Listening to silence...

Daytime workers progressed with their morning rituals, traveling about towards varied workroom locations where their deemed of most importance and henceforth acting as the pulsating lifeblood of this gargantuan entity having long since taken on a life of it's own. Blissful ignorance abounding amongst the general public holding onto their coffee cups and filling the halls with congenial chatter to the clomping resonance of their footsteps. An environment deemed wholesome through it's mundanity thanks in large part to the inherent human condition of finding serenity and purposefulness through repetition. Aside from passing glances directed towards the peculiar sight of a young lady tending so dearly to a stuffed animal...nothing seemed at odds with the usual going's on and day to day happenings...

...were it not for one less person seemingly making their rounds. Their absence scarcely noticeable at first. Until their numbers would grow, one by one and with a steadied tempo as the hallway's pulsating lifeblood would start dissipating and begin dying down with every passing second. Whatever warmth there was had been dulled into chilled numbness from wafting frigidity that could perhaps be attributed to the building's air conditioning on the fritz. As could the blinking light-source be attributed to the faulty fluorescent lighting, struggling to remain luminous in spite of what was befalling it. A far off door creaking ajar seemingly unprovoked by human hands given that none were currently occupying the hallway aside from the lady sitting at her bench...and the lone women standing beside her in the opposite direction of cracked open door.

???:

Shrouded in darkness and her tattered trenchcoat, the lone figure stoically remained there in abject silence after having seemingly materialized with nary a sound. Soulless menace directed down at the teddy bear care-taker being over-shadowed by an aura that somehow felt beyond spectral or even subhuman. From inside of her jacket came her gloved right hand. Descending down with an open palm towards the lady's face as if to permanently close her eyes and have it be the last vision she'd recall before falling into an endless abyss...except that hand would than abruptly be directed down at the lady's lap to clamp onto the afflicted ursine and her needle. The shadowy figure calmly sitting beside her on the bench with dutiful attention paid towards stitching up the teddy bear. Dutifully...and professionally.

Margaux suddenly felt cold. Chilled to the bone. It wasn't uncommon to feel a brisk wind on one's shoulders in these side hallways, where the air conditioning could flow much easier compared to the sweltering heat of the main arena. For some these beige arcades of mundane life could provide a respite. It was partially why Margaux had chosen this particular spot for her delicate suturing.

But only partially. The much more important reason must be the same one for this deathly chill so close to her neck. It didn’t feel like a draft. It was a reaction. Something in the flow of life around her that her body was reacting to, even if her mind was currently dedicated to the ornate task at hand. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up on end as her blood turned cold and her skin clung tight to her bones.

Crrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeaakkkkk.

The Frenchwoman’s hands stopped mid-motion. Her head rose slowly from the bench at the unknowable presence so close at her side. There was nothing to which Margaux had become more attuned than the feeling of death looming at her side. Though this had to be at its most literal and most sudden as if the figure had simply emerged from the shadows at her back.

Perhaps that was the reason for that odd smile that stretched across her lips, the one which would greet Death Bunny as the pinkette slowly craned her neck to meet her. She didn’t know precisely what to expect when the time finally came to meet this woman - this shuffling horror. What would she think, what would she say, what would she do? Of all the innumerable possibilities that dwelled in her mind for the past weeks on end, the one scenario Margaux hadn’t imagined out of its sheer impossibility, - the downright preposterous response from someone of her standing - was what came to fruition.

Margaux simply sat and stared, gazing up at those haunting eyes with wonder which in turn stared darkness back into her ad infinitum. Information had been so mixed, it had been impossible to surmise an accurate profile of AFW’s resident specter until now. So many mixed reports, so little to go on. Now she finally had the full scale of the monster. Looming large in a veil of black with irises shimmering through the shade of the brim of her hat. Listen closely and you could hear the screams, the fear and anguish hid under that trenchcoat.

Her mouth slowly parted to say something when she suddenly found a deathly grasp clouding her eyesight, growing larger and engulfing her further each second. So this was the end. This was how it happened. Somehow she knew it would be like this. Without a fight, without a struggle. Simply Death’s hand and the silence that came thereafter. Margaux closed her eyes and braced herself.

One moment. Two. Dare she make it to three? Her eyelids slowly opened, somewhat fearful for what she might see but thankfully still within the world she knew. Death Bunny was at her side, working with an oddly familiar-looking stuffed rabbit and needle. Margaux quickly glanced at her hands to find the one in her possession had been taken, but not as far as the underworld. No, it was within the bunny woman’s delicate hands, fashioning it with all the skill and diligence of a lifelong artisan, and with more than likely the amount of love. As an orphan, she’d seen children reunited with their mothers time and time again. She couldn’t help but recall those tender scenes as she watched the Dead Woman work, even if the exact sentiments were lost on herself.

Well. This had worked better than she’d hoped.

Margaux folded her hands on her lap, correcting her posture seeing as she was still blessed with a beating heart and a tongue to speak. "Have you come to take my soul?"

Online wrestling forums were not typically a bastion for reliable information backed by credible sources. As a matter of fact, one would be lucky enough to discover anything of note aside from either bitter flame wars between those decrying the AFW product and those ravenously coming to it's defense, or voting polls determining a number of fascinating quandaries. Such as who on the AFW roster was the most skilled competitor, who was seen as the brightest up-and-comer...and who merely had the best ass. These being the more popular threads due to their inclusion of numerous pics and gifs for which people can discern and make a well-educated opinion about such an important topic of discussion. Although somewhere amidst all of that shamelessly lecherous servicing of fans were threads that spoke about paranormal superstitions of an occultist inkling. Banding about hearsay and conjecture that had some element of intrigue to them considering that thr AFW building has long since housed a plethora of darkly denizens claiming to have committed acts of wanton and debauched maliciousness...

...or even proclaim themselves to be not of this world. These are the ones around whom shrouded mystique abounds, and none moreso than around a certain Avatar Of Death. Her infamy catapulting her into the stratosphere upon becoming a fixture on AFW for some years now. But that has done little to lead wrestling journalists to determine the origin of such an enigma whose backstory can only be traced back to the now defunct wrestling league the current GM used to helm. And therefore, in the absence of facts, speculation fills the void with theories ranging from the outlandish, to the reasonable, to those so ridiculous that they may in fact harbor some truth to them. Buried between pages of rambling conspiracy theories, one user by the name of BanditKeith97 states that...

"There's this rumor going around that if you go to a certain part of the AFW building at a particular part of the day...sit at a bench and bring a thrashed stuffed animal with you...there's a chance she'll appear to you. But after that no-one really knows what happens. My cousin knows a guy who knows a guy who works there and tried it...but now he's disappeared. All they could find of him was a stuffed animal on the bench. All stitched up and good as new..."

*...sigh...some people today...* Death attentively went about her sewing with meticulous skillfulness and her own specialized set of tools, bemoaning the carelessness of others in regards to proper maintenance of their furry companions. And the lengths some would go to just to seek an audience with her. This not being the first time someone figured out what peeves her, and it's doubtful it would be the last."I'd say that depends entirely on how this conversation pans out..." She replied, the prickled point of her sewing needle glimmering underneath the hallway lighting as she stitched and seamed, her words echoed against the cacophonous silence of an emptied hallway that has yet to be occupied by another passerby. As if the pairing now existed in a vacuous void that forbade the existence of another living soul so long as the The Grim One herself remained there. "Although I have to say...yours is a soul of a very particular type...Margaux Lefeuvre, is it?"

It appeared as though she would have to concede this point to her dearest Charlotte. When the Madame asked her to dredge up whatever she could find on their ghost of mutual interest, she wasn't expecting too much in the way of tangible results. Whatever information AFW had managed to present undoubtedly was provided through publicly-available, heavily censored sources. Nothing she couldn’t find by herself with a morning hour and a cup of tea. Her desires demanded more than speculation and hearsay. Something concrete, something feasible. But in matters concerning the Grim Hopper, mystery defined the new reality.

Thus, when her dear associate cross-referenced several postings amongst the AFW forums and uncovered an eerie connection between a simple rumor prognosticated by madmen and a bloody stuffed rabbit found all alone in the same hallway she now sat, Margaux had to accept that new reality. It was the only way she could ever convince herself to move forward on nothing but a whim. Who knew, after all? At best, she’d find the one she was looking for. At worst, she would waste an hour of her life talking to a stuffed rabbit and go home to a lovely crab rangoon with a glass of La Grande Rue.

...no, actually. At worst, she would never be heard from again.

Hindsight could be such a nefarious jester. It was only now that Margaux sat here, only a foot from a demon shrouded in midnight that the horrors of this new reality fell on her shoulders all at once. Space seemed to bend around the Dead Woman, thinning the air Margaux attempted to breathe and staking her gravity to the wood of the bench. The tension inside was only seen in the way she fumbled with her hands in her lap. For once in her life, she wasn’t quite sure of the response she would receive. Though of all the myriad of replies she could have conceivably ventured towards, not in one of them did she expect to hear her full name. It would seem she wasn’t the only woman keeping tabs in the dark.

Margaux clapped her hands together excitedly with a smile brimming wide on her face. The Frenchwoman perked up straight away. It was as if she'd completely forgotten that the person next to her was threatening to devour her spirit. Amazing what a kind word could do.

“My oh my! I am so deeply honored to hear that my exploits have carried the Lefeuvre name to a place where even the Dead whisper of my triumphs. Perhaps it is that we are kindred spirits after all! I have been looking for you for quite some time, Madame Death. It is quite impressive how a woman of such renown might so effortlessly make herself scarce, even to my eye. No small feat, I assure you."

Death never was one to engage in conversational gymnastics. Often times she'd prefer to forego obligatory formalities or coy fishing to ascertain whatever information the other party may or may not know...and just get straight to the heart of the matter. She'd prefer not to stomach foolishness whenever possible, and dancing around the primary motives of a conversation was a tip-toed tango it pained her to engage in. Hence why she opted to make it known right off the bat that Death knew whom she was sharing this bench with, although D.B. would kind of take it as a professional insult if Margaux thought someone of her own infamous renown would somehow make it passed Death's world-sweeping radar. That last name of hers being synonymous with blood splattered gore and multitudes of "missing" people that French authorities have yet to unearth...a term meant to be taken in the most literal of senses.

But what piqued Death's curiosity was how seamless this demure French-woman was in portraying herself with such naive innocence. All of that fawning admiration and those trumped up platitudes were not what she was expecting to hear from someone with such a sanguine soaked ledger. It almost made Death question as to whether or not she was talking to the right person, but it was a doubt quashed instantly without even a second thought from sensing something within that cavernous pit where her soul should be. Death's sewing needle digging beneath the fabric of the stuffed animal in a rhythmic motion that never ceased throughout Margaux's retort, although she did prefer it if Margaux eased up on the sugary sweet sunshine over there...it was getting increasingly more difficult for her to concentrate on the sewing task at hand knowing full well that their was someone right beside her smiling cheerfully.

"Easy there, Mags. Don't get your frilly French panties in a bunch. What I know about you is nothing more than whatever information my sources can scavenge from within Interpol. Aside from that it's just a hodgepodge of rumors, conjecture, and hearsay...*sigh*...and please don't refer to us as kindred spirits." Death having an odd inflection to her voice at those last few words as she finished tying a knot on the stuffed animal's freshly sewn limb, before tugged the string attached to the sewing needle upward and biting into it. One major aspect of the operation finished, several more to go. "You know...the fact that I'm not so easy to get an audience with, is by design. I appreciate my privacy, and the peace of mind that comes with it. So...to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?

Interpol still had agents on her? She was thoroughly convinced she’d had the last of them dealt with before she left France. It looks like she would have to have Olivier visit some of her old contacts with a firm reminder of what the word ‘everyone’ meant.

Though everyday truth and honesty imposed themselves as the bane of her existence, everything Margaux had said was genuine. Death Bunny may appear content to throw stones in her glasshouse for all she could ridicule Margaux for her sincerity, but her own description of the regal mobster - or lack thereof - only served to further build the prestige of the insidious hopper in her eyes. Overwhelming strength, a haunting visage, excellent fashion sense in addition to an international web of contacts? The potential of this one seemed to come off in waves. It was all Margaux could do to contain herself in her seat, looking every bit the composed and innocent maiden in white.

She didn’t bother to hide a dramatic whimper of disappointment at Death Bunny’s insistence to keep their names at arm’s length. It was true. The shrouded figure across from her would care little for her ideologies, her ambitions, her methods. The only thing that linked the two of them together in this moment was an empty corridor and a cold bench. But an artist could revel in the work of another. It required the eyes of a master to recognize true talent. In hindsight, however, distance would prove to be the better choice for their respective brands of madness. At least for now.

“To what indeed?” The Frenchwoman giggled to herself with a finger to her lip. Her composure faltered in that instant. This was all too exciting. She breathed and lowered her hand over her chest. “Je suis désolé. It would appear you are owed my sincerest apologies, Madame Death. It is true. This empire of wealth I’ve forged with strong hands has delighted my heart time and time again with luxuries beyond counting. Although, Death Bunny...Robespierre has been a treasure to me for longer than I would be comfortable to admit. He was a close comfort countless nights in my unfortunate youth. He was a tender replacement without the comfort of a small night light. Less so for the warmth of a mother’s hand, the kind words of a father I would never know. But time was not so kind to him.”

Her eyes seemed to grow dim, but the smile and straightness of her posture never broke an inch out of their picture-perfect line. Her hand gripped her chest as she spoke, the other at her side gesturing to the rabbit in the reaper’s hand. “I sincerely hope the same would not befall you. The decay of one’s nature...it is a frightful thing, no? There is nothing I detest more than the fruitless talent. Wasted potential. Perhaps as simply a mere budding blossom in this garden of bloodshed, the peak of her youth of the height of her vigor, I have no right to inject such a presumptuous statement, but, if I may ask…”

Her gaze cast off to the side, catching the dutiful eyes of Death between the wide brim of her hat and the flutter of her collar. “Were you always this pathetic?”

The perpetual irritation that came with eluding authorities was a unique inconvenience that Death could...begrudgingly, sympathize with. Her spider-webbed underworld network, as intricately woven as it was, had it's fibers shaken whenever successful police raids interrupted her operations. Death had her war stories when it came to fending off incarceration. One particular urban legend detailing how during one police raid on a fight club she'd just so happened to be supervising that night, she'd squared off with and decimated an assault rifle bearing Special Assault Team with nothing but her bare hands. Operating under her morbid identity meant no proper name for police to track Death, that anonymity being one of the factors that made D.B. such a headache for authorities to nail down. But Death had a feeling that Margaux wasn't the type to deal in the shadows...and was more the type to attend fanciful soirees, masquerade balls, resplendent operas, and just kinda be a foppish debutante who carried a parasol everywhere. Just a hunch...

Death breathed through her noses in discomfiture from already drawling parallels between them, in direct contrast to Death's previous insistence on Margaux refraining from that. She hoped that by nipping that notion in the bud it would stymie the similarities from popping into her thought process, but there they were. Margaux's mere existence conjured up questions as to how someone as seemingly soft as a French pastry could share with D.B. the same position of underworld tyrant. Albeit on the other side of the world. One word kept creeping up into her subconscious that seemed to be the premiere answer...duality. Death fixated on that one word, a cornerstone as to how Death was beginning to find her answers. But then Mags said her peace, and Death's sewing motions stopped on a dime. No visual emoting aside from a blink. When all of a sudden a raven would fly onto the nearest window sill, a squawking caw elicited from its beaked mouth before it's pitch black eyes centered themselves entirely on Margaux inside.

"...Hrmm...All your roundabout words...they circle around you. They cast you in an impermeable, nebulous fog. A hazed cloud that makes you difficult to see." Death muttered before continuing her sewing, although not with a dread laced tension in the air of their conversation. "But...is that how you see me? As a mangled stuffed animal. Tattered, pathetic, and incapable of achieving it's potential. Because that...would be too bold, Madame Lefeuvre." Death cast a soulless, cursory glance in Marqaux's direction that was as wordless a warning as humanly possible to tread lightly. The same raven fluttering it's wings but remaining perched outside as D.B. went back to her sewing. "One thing is for certain...this stuffed animal was loved once. Whether it was by you, or whoever who acquired this from. You...who have done nothing around here except crack your knuckles in Momentum, against one of whom I've thrashed, and you...came up wanting. You...who has not even stepped one foot where I've spilled my blood and waged war all of these years. You...who presume to lecture...me."

Margaux spent most of her life close to a cemetery. The calls of crows were as familiar to her ears as the pitter-patter of rain beside her bedroom window. They helped her sleep and guided her home. The dark circles they drew beneath a steel sky were among her more familiar memories from a past so far away now. She could tell when they were scared, when they were elated, when they were mating...and when they were ravenous. A caw sent her back into the past when it reached her ear.

She didn’t have to look to know it was there. As Death Bunny stared at her, Margaux stared back. Did she dare to step over this line? The young madame found herself suddenly weighed by the risks that had hung over her since the instant she’d thought of this very encounter. Could she die here? She’d never taken the time to picture it, but perhaps that was precisely the point. The end for one such as her would not come obviously. It would be with some flair and appropriate theatrics. That would certainly do her justice.

Or maybe it was just the Grim Hoppers’ words that were making these visions of the past flash before her eyes. But if anything, the mention of their mutual Juggernaut of an adversary only served to pique her interest with the saliva overflowing through her lips.

“That is precisley what I am suggesting, Death Bunny. I am quite pleased to finally see such world-renowned intellect in action.” Margaux closed her eyes with a heartful chuckle. If the tension of the moment was building on her, the madame was none too eager to show even a bit of it to her better half. A wistful breath slipped free from her lips before she peeked open at the world once more from a new pair of eyes. Her gaze had gained some clarity and an even greater focus, but was lacking the same energy from only moments ago.

“I can still hear the voices of my subordinates only some years ago when they came on their hands and knees. ‘Madame! We cannot go there! Le Moissonneur lives there. Le Moissonneur!’” A slight peek of a smile grew on her lips as she sunk into those halcyon days. When force was simply what decided everything. “There was not one man alive then that could even attest to your existence, yet not one hand would raise against you. Your presence alone stayed the weapons of two dozen parrains across my entire country. It was a logistical nightmare. Expanding my operations and thinking of what might be in every shadow, hidden under every paycheck, tucked away in every closet. For a time...I was filled with dread...and overwhelming envy. The Legend of the Grim Reaper was everything I had wanted to be.”

The French woman fiddled with her fingers and gently dug her nails into her knee. Her teeth grit hard behind closed lips, biting back a snarl at nobody in particular. Her eyes fell to the floor and saw a spider climbing its way back up the wall to its nest on the ceiling. It must have fallen rather far.

“Can you imagine it, Madame Death? After flying to the other end of the world, the monumental disappointment to find that the monsters under your bed are little more than clowns in a circus?” There was a solemn tone that echoed in her last word.

“You presume that you and I have come to this place for the same reasons, believing our ambitions can be viewed through a similar lens. Now that would be rather bold, Madame Death.” Slowly, that malicious grin crept back across her face. Her focus flicked back to the reaper in her coat. “Firstly, do believe me when I say, waging a war and winning one are two separate things entirely. In this ceaseless pursuit of a belt made of fool’s gold, what ground, precisely, have you gained in all these years? Not much, by my wager. Once from Lady Northman, twice from that no-name Korean, thrice from that destable American loud-mouth. Fourth time is the charm? Perhaps you wish to offer every nationality the chance before you finally muster the courage to scrap off the boot markings. Truthfully, Madame Death, you must understand my question now, no? All this indefatigable purpose driven by a wanton lust for meaningless titles and you have the gall to insist that I am the fool. Me." The Frenchwoman almost sounded angered at that moment. She suddenly clapped her hands together and scooted an inch closer as she leaned forward to steal another look at the Dead Woman's eyes.

"And what of you? How many tables have that stubborn back been broken upon, might we ponder? How many ruthless blonde tyrants have beaten you over the head with a barstool? How many great apes have sat on your face? How many clowns have you fucked?" She chuckled darkly to herself. "How many times have you left with a mouthful of blood and a thirst half-quenched? And still, no closer to your goal.”

Her lips thinned as she slowly reclined away, crossing one leg over the other with her back to the wall. She kept DB in the corner of her eye but turned instead to face the beige straight ahead while she worked on Robespierre. It wouldn’t be nice to distract her too much, after all. She let it all go with a sigh and turned her attention forward again.

"Why did I summon you here? I suppose it was to reaffirm what I already believed. That reality savors disappointment as a glass of Bordeaux." She cupped a cheek in her hand and reclined her head to the window skylight, looking back at her own melancholy countenance within a raven’s dialed malevolent gaze.

"You should have never left Europe."

Days of yore are not typically reminisced fondly of to the tune of blaring police sirens, frothing bloodlust being bellowed out from the jam-packed stands of underground fight pits, and daily briefings on what the word on the street was from whatever right-hand person you trusted enough for the position. When your competitors were dreaded crimelords whose names people better than to speak except of in the most secure of circles. Each one with rivaling territories and testing their respective boundaries against the others while making moves in either brazen theatricality or covert subterfuge. Equating it all to a game of chess may have been cliche'd and somewhat inapplicable given the visceral bloodshed involved and how losing meant you would not be around very much longer to play again...but it was so very much like a game to Death. One where she played her moves masterfully, moving her pieces along with careful precision and where the tools at her disposal were intel, negotiations, deceit, power-plays, but most importantly of all...fear.

...an antiquated tool. But it was nevertheless the oldest human emotion. Hardwired into us for the sake of our very own survival.

But even though she thrived atop that mound of lifeless bodies with equally dead ambitions, a sullen despondency came right alongside that throne of hers once her territory had expanded as far as feasibly possible across her native land. Into the UK. And indeed up alongside the frilly madame's territory. The intoxicating thrill of conquering was nowhere to be seen, and that complacency invited laxed sensibilities. A weakness easily sniffed out and a golden opportunity for a ravenous onslaught amongst her kind like blood in the water. Death migrating to Japan and starting over from scratch being the absurd solution to her issue, with the recent details of her backstory being so eloquently regaled by the French orator beside her. Death turning her attention back to the nearly healed teddy bear to continue her mindful repairs as Margaux made it succinctly clear that she had indeed done her research. Even somehow knowing of the barroom scuffle she and Northman had when the only witnesses to it that Death could recount off the top of her head were the quivering bartender and some other patrons duck and covering. All of D.B's glaring missteps and shameful downfalls laid bare like a festering wound. And nothing gained from her trials and tribulations aside from competitors now being able to cutely brag about escaping "Death"...

...it'd all make her laugh. If it didn't instead make her want to do something much more different, and life-ending.

"...The bitterest truth...is preferable to the sweetest lie. It seems you are not one to varnish your opinion...and I can respect that." Death retorted in response to how Margaux spoke so frankly in her thorough recanting, a slight smirk even creeping across the side of her face and visible from Margaux's side of the bench. "I pride myself on being capable of accepting my defeats with as much grace as my victories...but by no means was I predicting to be given so many opportunities to practice that specific virtue when I ventured into this realm. Perhaps it was my own hubris that made me believe that this mountain was as seamless to climb as others. Or...maybe I've followed my ambitions farther than I was meant to...and now they seek to destroy me...if that is my fate as my bloodied hands grip onto the cliff's edge, then so be it." A solemn tone being the undercurrent for these words as Death continued onward. "But you...La Bête du Mende...I do believe you've done something today that you may either come to regret, or relish...you've piqued my interest." Death stated before beginning to make the finishing touches on the stuffed animal about to be given new life.

"...you think me to be a lion de-fanged. A paltry shadow where once stood an all-encompassing nightfall, and you come to me with all of the crestfallen disillusionment of a child witnessing the fall of their icon. Of Alice having peeked behind the Wizard's curtain. And while you forcing me to extensively reminisce about all of my greatest defeats in excruciating detail has just been an absolute delight and productive usage of my time, I feel as if the point of all of this is about to be forthcoming..." Death cracked her neck to one side with an audible snap, the raven in the window fluttering it's wings and bobbing it's head but remaining fixated on the French native. And yet the more noticeable distraction in the room perhaps being that D.B.'s ears twitched and fluffed up and down as if they were in fact real. "No-one goes to the length you've done today simply to remind me of my shortcomings, including researching certain facts less that than a handful of people in the world should be aware of. Well, that is unless their suicidal. Which...I can provide. But I have to say that it would be quite the anticlimactic conclusion to a story as...unique, as your own."

Death completed her sewing operation with one final bite of the string, but taking a moment to admire the craftsmanship of the renewed teddy bear. A half-lidded though solemn fixation on the bear's eyes in particular.