By Oohillac
Thanks for the inspiration, Seddrik.
--
--
The Gatekeeper sat at his desk, checking his watch every few minutes. The book before him lay open, names and dates neatly recorded in precise rows. His next appointment would arrive any minute.
Blood suddenly spurted out of thin air, a streak of red in the endless blue. It spattered messily against an invisible barrier in front of the Gatekeeper's desk.
A black-haired, bearded man lay on the ground, his face torn by a vicious wound. Coughing, he stood up and looked around.
Apart from the simple pine desk, a matching chair, and the Gatekeeper himself, there was nothing but clear azure sky, above and below.
Approaching the desk, the man looked questioningly at the Gatekeeper (a feat made difficult with a bloody, split forehead). The Gatekeeper calmly stated, "Welcome to the Gates. How do you plead: Sinner or Saviour?"
The man shouted, "That was utter bullshit! My teammate freaking hit me in the back, and the guy I was fighting slashed me!" His voice was an annoying, whiny drawl.
"Calm down. Are you saying your death was unwarranted? I can send you back if you truly wish to live a mortal life again."
The man nodded. Standing, the Gatekeeper intoned several booming words. A brilliant purple radiance surrounded the man, and he vanished in a violet flash.
The pool of blood floating in front of his desk quietly dissipated into nothingness.
A few minutes passed as the Gatekeeper sat patiently in silence. His next client was not due for a few hours.
A tremendous, wet crunch split the air. This time clutching the ribs protruding from his shattered torso, the bearded man fell to his knees as he appeared, and vomited blood down his front. Looking up, he rasped, "Goddamn cavalry bumped me. Dude was on my team too! So sick of this crap."
Unmoving, the Gatekeeper asked, "Sinner or Saviour?"
The man attempted to push a rib back to its rightful location. "I didn't even get a kill. Let me back in the battle," he groaned, wincing in pain.
"You know, most mortals experience the agony of death only once. Still, I see no reason to deny your request; the afterlife can wait."
Purple flashed, and the man disappeared. Shaking his head, the Gatekeeper checked his watch again. He sighed.
Not a minute later, the Gatekeeper blinked as a torn, bleeding man appeared prone in front of his desk. Hacking up crimson gore from pierced lungs, the man with black hair climbed to his feet. Dripping flaps of skin hung from his mangled arms. "You ever get the feeling that your swings are going right through people? I swear some days my overheads never hit."
"Perhaps," the Gatekeeper said gently, "you should try wearing some real armour." He nodded at the man's bloodied padded leather and unprotected head.
The man muttered something about "skill" before asking loudly, "Well, what are you wating for? Send me back already!"
The Gatekeeper leaned forward over his book. "Alright. Your body, not mine."
He clapped his hands, and the man and his blood dissipated into vapour.
Opening a drawer in the desk, the Gatekeeper pulled out a small mirror. He lightly touched the mirror to his palm and whispered an arcane phrase. Instead of showing his reflection, the mirror now showed the bearded man on a grassy battlefield.
The Gatekeeper shook his head as he watched the dark-haired man abandon his comrades and charged headlong into the enemy ranks. His first swing bit flesh, his second nothing but air. Closing in around him, the warriors hewed the man down.
As he put the mirror back in its drawer, again before the Gatekeeper appeared the man. Lifeblood rhythmically spurted from the stump where his left arm used to be. Panting, he spat, "My swing hit that guy, I swear. And my stupid teammates weren't even there to back me up. What a crappy team."
Resting his hands calmly on his desk, the Gatekeeper eyed the man intently. "I cannot help but notice you charged in all alone, expecting to kill everyone. Why would you do this? Is your desire for attention so bloated that you need to act like the hero every battle? Is your ego so swollen that you believe your deaths are never your fault?"
"That wasn't my fault," he whined. "The hitboxes are all wonky since the patch and-"
"Enough!" boomed the Gatekeeper. "Your Sin is Pride, for you are blind to your mistakes! Blaming allies for your downfall when it is obviously your fault is no way to do battle. If you step into a teammate's swing, it is YOUR FAULT. If you rush in headlong and die, it is YOUR FAULT. If you are shot by ranged, miss a swing, get run over by cavalry, it is YOUR FAULT. You do not wear armour, you do not pay attention to your surroundings, and you cannot hear your constant complaints."
"I'm not whining, I-"
"Therefore, I sentence you to Hell! And there you will find your battle, and there you will finally hear yourself!"
Rising from his seat, the Gatekeeper towered over the quivering man. As he raised his mighty arms, a golden-wrought gate appeared, clouds obscuring what lay beyond. "This is what you have lost!" roared the Gatekeeper. "And this is your new home, until the end of Time!"
Around the man, the blue nothingness became tainted with red and black as a yawning chasm opened beneath his feet. The Gatekeeper brought both hands down and together in a resounding clap. Yelling, the man plummeted into the rift.
The gap closed and the blue sky returned.
Sitting down wearily, the Gatekeeper checked his watch again.
---
The man awoke in a dark forest. It was evening, but something was amiss. The trees were a dark crimson, the leaves dead black, the sky burning with a red sun. Rather than beautiful, the scene bespoke terror and suffering.
His curved sword rested on the colourless dirt beside him. Grapsing it tightly in both hands, the man stood. He was unharmed, and dressed in his typical black cloth battlewear. His dark hair was neatly combed, his beard freshly trimmed.
"THAT GUY RAN ME OVER AT SPAWN FOR HALF MY HEALTH!"
The man jumped as a voice, his voice, echoed loudly through the forest from somewhere above.
"A TEAMMATE SLASHED ME AND I DIED!"
He looked up into the black-and-red canopy, seeking the source of the sound.
Ahead in the dim, bloody forest, came the sounds of running feet. Many feet.
A whole army came into view, scattered through the forest. Endless waves sprinted among the trees, weapons raised.
The man stumbled backwards, crying, moaning, "I can't fight this. There are too many!"
Above him rang several shouts he recognized as his. "THAT WEAPON IS SO CHEAP!" "MY CRAPPY TEAM WON'T SUPPORT ME!" "THAT GUY NEEDS TO WATCH HIS SWINGS!" As more and more echoes joined in, the voices became one endless drone of complaints and pessimistic opinions.
The army charged in. Steadying himself, the man swung at the closest enemy. His sword bit through flesh, but his foe kept moving, jamming his spear into the bearded man's eye socket. He screamed as his other eye exploded, blood and brains squirting out from the hole. Grinning, his foe twisted his polearm viciously.
The dark-haired man collapsed, dead.
---
Opening his eyes, the bearded man saw black leaves in a red sky.
"No," he gasped, sitting up in the dark forest. "No. Please no."
In the distance, footsteps approached. "THAT DUDE SHOT ME IN THE BACK WHILE I WAS FIGHTING!" blared the unseen voice. The shouting began building momentum again.
The man clambered to his feet. "No. Dear God, please, no."
Cutting through the echoes came the voice of the Gatekeeper: "Enjoy damnation. And try not to complain too much. After all, it's not your fault!" The echoes of the man's voice resumed their intensity in the sanguine sky.
An arrow struck the tree next to his head.
-