49
WOLFE
Wolfe rows his ferry. Rows and rows. The spirits call him Xerxes.
“My name is Wolfe!” he wants to say. “Wolfegang Hande!” But he cannot speak. He is a wraith, a ferryman, compelled to weigh his oars and paddle his boat. Row and row and row and row, back and forth from the City of Eternal Sleep.
He sets his stock of Night Beasts loose at dusk, and calls them back at dawn. Every day the same, the same, the same.
Death, death, death, death, till he’s quite forgotten his life before the Under Realm.
Soon, he cannot remember his name, and there are no prayers to remind him of what it was, or what it might be. For a little bit, he remembers that he has forgotten it. But then, that’s gone too – that little flicker of a self.
And he is the Death God.
