Crumbling Journal
I was still a supplicant when I came face to face with him: Masked in gold, his skin fine and worn as
parchment. Jergal, the death-keeper, the End of Everything. I asked what he needed of me. He asked a simple question: “What is the worth of a single mortal's life?” I knew not how to respond, and said as such. He seemed nonplussed; neither disappointed nor pleased. I fell to my knees in respect for his awesome power. This garnered no reaction. There I
stayed, trembling with an emotion I could not name. And when I stood again, the Final Scribe was gone.