Lament

It was a fate worse than death. To be assigned to work for the rest of your miserable Afterlife. The Reaper known as Lament bristled at the very thought. It was something she vowed not to take lying down. Lament would forge an army to overcome the elite of the Afterlife. Every soul she reaped belonged to her, and she would claim what she believed to be her rightful place.

Personality

Dying is a bitch

At only 25, Lilith Gaines was fairly young when she passed away from a fatal car accident. Still, she had worked hard while she was alive. From her first job delivering papers, to retail, and finally a lab assistant. Lilith worked so that one day, when she was old and gray, she could retire happily and rest. When Lilith learned that she was meant to work in the Afterlife as well, she was not pleased in the slightest. In fact, she was downright livid.

Her goal now is to become ruler of the Afterlife. Though she has only been in the Afterlife for a few years, she has already gained a reputation among its elite. Most notably for her lack of respect for the rules put into place hundreds of thousands of years ago. The rules include not talking or interacting with those still alive, but Lilith, better known as Lament now, often does just that. Only those who are close to death can see her, but that doesn't stop her from speaking with them. She recruits souls to join her in an effort to take over the Afterlife. She believes she can best do this by befriending the souls she must one day take.

Physical Features

Lament's Death

"Wasting away again at Margaritaville," Lilith sang along with song playing loudly on the car radio. She considered it a silly song, but for some reason she always listened to it all the way through, and knew all the words. Leaning forward slightly in her seat, she peered through the heavily falling snow. It had been coming down like this for hours now, and traffic had slowed to almost a crawl, much to her dismay. She was fairly sure it was going to take another hour to travel the twenty minutes it would usually take her to get home.

Seeing traffic beginning to move again in the lane over, she nudged her car into the lane, and pressed down on the gas pedal. Her car protested slightly with the slippery road, but it was soon surging forward, passing by the vehicles she had previously been stuck behind. Lilith was beginning to feel a little better about her ride home, when a van suddenly turned into the lane ahead of her. Her foot slammed on the break, but the snow wouldn't allow her car to stop. Desperate not to slam into the van, she quickly turned the wheel.

A mistake. Her car gave a hideous screeching noise as it turned, crashing through the barrier and plunging to the gorge below. Lilith screamed, but soon fell silent when her car slammed into the ground. The airbag deployed, but it was of little use. Lilith remembered her world going black, and then nothing. Out of place, the radio continued to play, "But I know, it's my own damn fault."

Harvesting a Soul

The hospital was a place Lament frequently found herself at. Really, it was no surprise. If someone were to die, this would be the most likely place. Standing in the corner of the room of a young man, she studied his features. His face was drawn and pale. He had no hair to speak of, having lost it from treatments. A slight frown marred her features, but only for a second. She knew all too well that everyone had to die.

She cleared her throat, and the man's tired eyes turned her away. "We meet again," he said, his voice hoarse and breathing labored. Lament nodded her head. She had visited him a few times before, but then it had only been to talk. This time it was for something more, and the man seemed to recognize that. His eyes closed.

Stepping out of her corner, Lament's fingers closed tight around her jeweled scythe. It felt almost alive in her hands, thrumming with an unseen energy. She was used to the feeling, as it always occurred before taking a soul. The scythe was lifted up high over her head in both hands, and then suddenly brought downward with the sharp tip pointing towards the man's chest.

There was no tearing of the flesh or spill of blood when the blade ran through. Instead, it seemed to turn incorporeal. Yet when it was brought free once more, there was something attached to it. The soul of the young man. The soul was not tired, drawn, or ill. It looked more alive than the man did in his dying days. It hovered on the tip of the scythe for a few more seconds before floating away. Lament gave it a wave as the doctors rushed in at the sounds of alarms, and soon she vanished as well.

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