He stared out across the morning sunlight as it bathed the ruined city in pale, cold yellows and golden greys. They were the colors he had taken to wearing, the light and shadow on the sun-bleached bones of what used to be.

Suddenly, his head swam. The vision englufed him. He was getting used to them springing upon him when he least expected it as his god, his master found new projects for him to undertake.

When his vision settled, the city before him was not his city. Instead of the toppled stone and steel hung with scraps and tatters of leather and cloth to mark territories and frighten off dragons and rocs, the city before him was a small one built of logs and hide, hidden among tall, scarred, twisted trees.

"Meeshal blesses these who go when she calls," intoned a somber, pale man in black with shoulder-length, stringy brown hair and huge black eyes.

The vision cleared, and Cordell understood immediately. His feet would find the way. He would find this city of logs and scarred trees by the grace of his god, the Forgotten One, and he would destroy the speaker for this new goddess, and in breaking him, break her power in this world.

This was the third time he had been sent to silence a rival, but the previous times, there was no real god behind the servants. They simply wanted the prestige of priesthood behind them.

Cordell had shown them the true power of a real priest, and as such, he had slaughtered them mercilessly.

But this one, he knew, would be different. The very nature of the vision from his master, the very distance he was being called upon to travel... It lead him to believe there was a real goddess behind this speaker, and as such, she was a real threat.

Not that this worried Cordell. His god would restore his broken body, breathe this facsimile of life into his empty shell time and time and time again. Death had rejected his addition to its hoard of souls. Cordell knew it would do it again if things became dicey.

So, he walked. He took with him his staff, lighted on, blessed practically, by the butterflies of his god. The butterflies were brilliant orange, their wings shredded tatters but still vibrant and lively. And so, he walked, setting out to find this charlatan, this intruder, this... heretic.

Righteous rage never once entered Cordell's mind. Indignation, frustration, fury, all were absent. He was as dead as his god to the human emotions of this world. Death had called this other, and this other had not answered the call.

Work needed to be done.

Cordell watched the tall, stately trees as they began to twist and shift and mangle, until he was surrounded by the scarred trees of the village of logs and hide. He watched them impassively as he walked, silent as a butterfly's heartbeat, toward his destination.

Suddenly, it swelled into view.

Cordell approached, not surprised, not awe-struck. Those were the feelings of his old life, and he had long-since left them behind. Still, he watched the wooden pallisade as it took on details in his approach, and he was, for a time, fascinated by the calculations necessary for it to stand, and furthermore support the guard walking around the log wall's interior.

He approached the gate, the sunlight green upon his face and his high-collared dusty yellow and grey coat, which slid along behind him.

He rapped on the gate with his staff, the butterflies fluttering their wings, the staff itself shifting beneath his grip. The sentry peeked over the wall. "Who goes?" he demanded.

"I am Unlineable, once of the Goblin Tower Tribe of the Ruined City. I have business with your shaman of Meeshal."

"Never have I heard of these places of which you speak," the guard said skeptically.

Cordell glared up at him, and the guard swallowed hard. "It is many days' journey by foot. It is unlikely you would have many visitors from the Ruined City. Those of the city rarely venture forth."

The sentry considered him carefully. Cordell continued to glare up at him. The man continued to fidget nervously.

"My master will not be denied," Cordell said, not bothering to raise his voice or seep any amount of ominous nature into his tone.

"And what master is this?"

Cordell rapped his staff against the gate, and admitted to himself that he had given this man fair warning. The butterflies shot up in a swarm away from the staff and into the air. They whisked passed the guard and settled on the branches of the trees, painting the twisted wood a brilliant orange. As they did, the gate fell to dust.

The guard shouted, and Cordell walked through, uninhibited.

"Meeshal!" he shouted as he came to the center of town, completely unhurried. His voice carried and echoed against the squat mud-and-hide huts. "Meeshal!" he shouted again.

The guard had summoned others and they were coming to apprehend him. Cordell swung his staff behind him, releasing it without looking. It unfurled into thousands of butterflies that encircled and divebombed the guards.

"This does not concern you," he told them indifferently.

Their shouts also echoed through the trees and huts, but the butterflies would not harm them. The guards were not due to his god anytime soon.

"But it does concern me," said a voice, soft and dark, from one of the huts, from one of his visions.

Cordell couldn't believe how much taller, how much bigger the other shaman was. He felt a brief prickling of fear in his heart, but he narrowed his eyes. He was here for his master's bidding. Physical might meant nothing. He kept his voice level. "My master has sent me to destroy you."

"I know. But you shall not succeed."

"The new gods have triumphed for the last time."

"So they send a boy to deal my death?" The shaman laughed. "They don't seem to take this very seriously as a threat."

Cordell watched him. He didn't feel one way or the other about this whole endeavor. "Age matters not," he said simply, "for death touches all."

"What do they call you, boy?" the other asked, still laughing.

"My people know me as Unlineable."

"Well, Unlineable, prepare to meet your master at the hands of Kincain."

Cordell couldn't help but smirk and get the last word. "I've already met my master," he said. "And I won't need your help to do it again if needs be."

In an instant, Cordell lunged at the other shaman, reaching out, testing him.

Kincain rolled his eyes and dodged easily. Then, he glanced to the butterflies holding the guards at bay. "Come to kill me with petty parlor tricks, have you?"

"Who said anything about killing you?" Cordell couldn't help the smile that was creeping into his voice. He could feel his god with him, backing him, helping him when he would need it. Kincain threw a punch, and Cordell took it, jerking back with the momentum of the fist. He staggered, caught his balance. "You have avoided my master for too long. My master's favor will not befall you. Death is too good. I have been charged with your complete destruction."

Kincain chuckled darkly. "You'll have to try harder, little boy," he said.

Cordell let his face drain again of emotion. He stared impassively at Kincain for a long moment, then dove in again.

Kincain put his arms up to guard his face, and Cordell grabbed his wrist as he came down. The other shaman jerked his hand away almost immediately - almost. The flesh around his wrist sagged with added decades, grey and wrinkled. Kincain stared down in horror at it.

The corner of Cordell's lip twitched up a little. "What is that? Forty years?"

Kincain glared at him from beneath his dark brow.

"And is that vanity?" Cordell teased, totally straight-faced, his voice not carrying the inflection necessary to make it sound vicious. "Meeshal, you really must learn. The living cannot serve Death."

Kincain blinked in an instant of understanding and fear.

"You didn't even suspect," Cordell dead-panned. "Tch. No matter. You won't win, Kincain. You can't slay the dead, and you can't raise the living."

Kincain must have been thinking of ways to do this, and he must have guessed that Cordell was more living than dead, for he drew a knife and stopped looking panicked.

Cordell didn't bother to look surprised. Expressions were things that were reserved for people and things of worth. His god, his tribesmen, the like.

Besides, this wouldn't be the first time he'd be stabbed. And he wouldn't die of it. Nor would it stop him, unless Kincain were to suddenly lop off a limb.

And from the look of the knife, such a course of action was unlikely. He might have troubles if Kincain scored his eyes. He'd never been blind before. Then again, his master's pets were here. It would be interesting to see what developed at the very least.

But it was not to be.

Kincain handled the knife poorly in his right hand, and it was too heavy for his withered left wrist. So it was an easy thing, then, for Cordell to dodge around his erratic jabs with the knife and to unwind a coil of rope from the scar on his neck. His body knew what to do, even if his head didn't. He could feel his god guiding his movements, and he narrowed his eyes, just worrying about staying away from the increasingly frustrated shaman trying to stab him. He was scratched, here and there, but Kincain never hit hard or true enough to do more damage.

When the rope had reached a certain length, his fingers noose-knotted it and he rushed Kincain, slipping the rope around his neck and pulling it tight. Kincain fell like a sack of stone, and Cordell pulled harder, pushing his foot against the rival shaman's back to gain even more tension.

The air was suddenly orange and black as the butterflies descended around him. They lighted on Kincain and the rope and Cordell, drinking his blood and closing his wounds, devouring Kincain and the rope.

In a flash of flapping wings, they arose into the sky, swirling and spiralling above the trees and out of sight.

Cordell's hand now hung, empty, and the butterflies that had been holding off the guard had gone, leaving only his staff. They would return to it when they were ready. Until then, there was no need of them, and there was no need to keep them.

He took the staff in his hand, the ropeburn scar around his neck burning painfully as it never had when it was fresh. He put his hand to his neck curiously, and the guards all took a collective step backwards.

Cordell looked at them, and they all took a shuddering breath.

"Go when you are called," Cordell told them impassively and shook the dust out of a portion of his coat before stepping out of the village of logs and hide and into the forest.

Behind him, he could hear the guards talking. "Rope-maker," they whispered in panicked awe.

"Demon crafter."

"Shinigami."

The forest swallowed any more of their words.