Mr. Pitch Black

𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐒 𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐏𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐋 𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐄𝐑

malas pitch is a reaper of unknown age, as time is difficult to keep track of, strewn to the four cardinal directions in a thousand pieces- though he places ‘this lifetime’ as one tied firmly to the dock districts of destarin, where he’s peddled his services and parted the unlucky from their coin, secrets and lives for the past seventy-nine years- whispers, however, and his species alone, seem to imply a former tie to withermore and it’s dark, gothic courts. mr. pitch’s loyalty in the present day is notably connected only to coin, lust, and bloodshed in equal measure with only a singular exception, and his fondness for the criminal has made him a well-established and well-respected shadowy presence in the back pocket of a number of the… lower moral collectives around destarin. he is not without his kindness, though, as the old church he’s taken for his own and runs as a brothel is oftentimes the only safe haven some of his staff has ever known- and the closest thing malas himself has ever considered ‘family.’.

TW: sex work, death.

Malas is pretty sure he used to be somebody worth a damn. While his history is foggy, he knows he once walked grand gothic halls, rubbing elbows with the influential and powerful, trading favors and coin for influence of his own- that for a time, there was an honor in being a skeleton draped in robes, proud and sharp-beaked picking over the remains of those who were not as capable of playing the political game as those who held his employ. Yes, once upon a time, Malas Pitch was someone who’s word held weight, who’s will was followed and strength feared; who was so revered that he was no longer bound in the flesh of the man he’d died as- none would have dared tear him asunder.

And then he woke up in a basement, surrounded by necromancers unaware of what they’d managed to unearth in their meddling, unsure of what to do when old bones started moving without the whispers of incantation- but Malas supposes that even today, years later, he’s thankful for the meal. It took some time, relearning how to be whole, how to appear human to protect himself from the threat of destruction once more, and on top of all of that, the new existence of a city ungoverned by any court in the aftermath of the last delicious conflict he could remember- there was opportunity to be found, and much like the vulture who’s head he bore- he would set to circling the weak.

Destarin was a beautiful land of opportunity. There was always someone who needed… something. Oftentimes something as simple as a meal and a warm dry bed for the night was enough for most to insist they would find some way to pay him back, someday- and Malas would hold them to it. For most, it was coin when they were back on their feet, an exchange of some portion of their life force or magic- “only temporary of course…” in return for the meal he’d provided them, years ago. For others, it was knowledge, rumors, spells and incantations- there was power to be held by being owed favors, there was more to be gained by compounding them, and perhaps the greatest gain laid within the opportunity to sell that knowledge off to the highest bidder. Thieves guilds loved the taste of easy coin- and a grieving widower with loose lips loved to tell the workers in Malas’ care where he kept his wife’s jewels- word exchanged as capably as riches in the eyes of criminals, and it spread like wildfire, that the strange reaper in the old church knew things that were worth knowing- worth trading for.

For years he would build himself from nothing in the remains of the church on the docks where he first awakened, and among the people of Destarin, he would come to be known as Mr. Pitch, for the blackened markings across his limbs, and dealings in the things cast in the darkest parts of their fair city. Opinions of Malas tend to vary wildly- some regard him as a charming man with the willingness to put his neck on the line for those willing to make trades in the businesses he deals in- to others, he is little more than a blot on Destarin’s reputation, an unattached, ungoverned agent of chaos who’s loyalty settles only with the last person who paid his fees, but there is one thing that’s completely impossible to ignore, in the nearly eighty years he’s called the city home, his strange sense of altruism has kept any number of the less fortunate in Destin’s most ‘criminal’ district from a crueler fate with a spare bed, stealthy favor, or employ at the brothel he now runs- honest work and protection for those interested in taking on clientele or simply attending to the day-to-day operations of the place Malas and his people now inhabit.

In fact, it’s the brothel and those who work within it alone that seems to have his loyalty without the need for a tit-for-tat, something in Malas’ history insisting he and those who also found their work in the realm of sex and desire had a kinship beyond that of the drives of a reaper of the damned. It had been a young escort who filled him in on the years he’d missed in his odd stasis after all, and it would be several more seeking shelter from the rain not long after he awakened that would become his most trusted companions in the docks some nearly eighty years ago. It was easy enough to offer his magic and already building connections to ensure their safety, and to accept their help in making the abandoned church he’d called home into something more fitting of the title. It remains a respite for sex workers and their patrons alike, and while ‘client confidentiality’ surely doesn’t exist when the benefactor ensuring the place stays running sells secrets like his staff sell fantasies, plenty around the city are willing to overlook as much in the pursuit of pleasure.

His own loyalties outside of his ‘family’ may waver, but those with a loyalty to him ensure he operates largely unfettered, many attempts at retribution from those he’s helped swindle or con difficult to apply, when the already tangled web leading back to him is obfuscated by a stonewalling enforcer ensuring any angry visitor seeking the owner is sent on yet another frustrating wild goose chase through the city- only to return to the church after operative hours have long since ended for the day. History insists that things like Malas are monsters, and he has never once shied away from the label- but there are those who know better, that even among entities born for war and carrying the damned to the afterlife, softer kinds can exist- that ‘monster’ is in the eye of the beholder, and the lens Malas views the world through has always been somewhat warped.

There is a comfort in what he has now. A home, people who rely on him, and a business that ensures he’s never too far from the chaos and bloodshed his nature demands- but something lingers, the desire to once again be something more than what he is, to once more be something closer to royalty than an urban myth… an opportunity to do just that perhaps looming just on the horizon-though one has to wonder if there’s value in following nature, after so long knowing the kind of peace something he’s nurtured can bring.

WHAT ARE YOU...?

species: reaper of the damned. weaknesses: light/life domain magic is deadly, bound to his duty as a servant of death, controlled and bound via theft of his scythe, slain with another reaper's weapon, death wards. strengths: flight,drain/feed on souls/spirits/magic, immortal, able to reconnect severed/damaged parts, bonded to a scythe, compulsion. physical description: pitch appears to be something once-human, with four sharp incisors on the top and bottom of his mouth, green eyes that glow under the weight of using his abilities, and a set of massive, blackened wings, batlike on the underside, and capped with thick blackened feathers across the top- they are heavy bone, with a spiked ‘thumb’ capping the top and claws at the points- though these can be tucked away within his body seemingly at will. his hands, neck, and feet are permanently blackened, a fading gradient ending at the elbow, knee, and upper chest/lower chin, these points of his body are transparent when under heavy stress/exertion of magic, turning the same harsh neon green as his ‘magic’ seems to be in all capacities. in the rare event he is forced to take on a cycle, it’s made far clearer how “avian” he truly is, the skull of a vulture perched on his neck and taloned hands and feet instead of human features- though this is a fact that very few have ever become aware of, given the rarity of malas’ actual undertaking of a renewal cycle. additional info: pitch is an ‘odd bird’ among odd birds, typically dour and stoic, malas is a notably bright, charismatic, and friendly sort, in direct contrast, perhaps,to his name and reputation. Reapers of the Damned are warmongers and dark advisors to those history will color as monsters, rarely operating in the subtler arts such as information exchange and espionage. malas’ hazy past remains a point of confusion for himself and others, as any mention of a “malas” seems completely struck from any sort of history book he’s attempted to explore- and much of his present ‘defiance’ of his species’ norms both in personality and fondness for the living as well as his choice of work is certainly tied to his missing memories..

Of course, staying hidden in the shadows was easier said than done, and he didn’t know that there would be a group of these… bodyguards watching over the women and clientele that came in and out.  In hindsight, he could see where the concern lied.  Alex had been hiding about near some barrels, and found himself staring at a woman who was walking towards the building.  She happened to see him, with his reddened eyes and fangs, and obviously sounded the alarm - how could he blame her?

He’d already explained this all, but a lackey went to go and get his boss and now Alex was sitting face to standing face with an intimidating man, strapped to a chair with the veins in and under his eyes popped out, his teeth sharper and thicker.  “I was trying to go fishing, that’s it!” he insisted, before the other even had a chance to speak.  “I don’t want to feed on people, I have no self control, hence why I was staring - which, as I’ve said, I am sorry.”

Malas Pitch had not earned his reputation lightly- he was capably threatening when he had to be, and sitting here in something that was resolutely under the banner of his metaphorical kingdom, the reaper was well aware he cut an intimidating figure. "Your want to feed on someone and your intent are, and will likely remain, decidedly at war- I would appreciate if you took that struggle from my doorstep to somewhere more sympathetic to your plight, because you'll find none here, not with me." The spawn apologizes, but it falls on deaf ears. "Hold your apologies for someone who might actually care to hear them." He hisses, wings pressing into the wound leather and chains holding them in place as they attempt to unfurl in agitation.

Malas was one of those people. They had arrived in the city under far different circumstances - Ivy moving after her father had passed away to be with her mother’s side of the family, a culture shock given where she had come from. She had often liked to take long walks in the city, at night preferably, and was never all that concerned about anything happening to her. One harsh scratch, to draw blood, and her venom would paralyze the recipient. That happened to occur with Malas, a striking conversation with a striking man in a tavern by the docks. A simple wager she had lost - and while she was fine with losing back then, what she wasn’t fine with was seeing how more of her coin was taken out from under her nose before she even realized. Chastising herself for being naive came later, but she quickly followed him out from the bar and with one clawed slice… he didn’t go down.

Expecting some kind of resistance - her one saving grace - and seeing none, there was a still moment where he now had a deep cut in the back of his neck and they both were face to face. They ended up having a good laugh about it and after seeing his living conditions, didn’t even argue over the stolen coin. She appreciated his tenacity, though, and through that a friendship had blossomed over the years. Ivy would darken his doorstep and vice versa in boredom, in excitement, in frustration, and she found he was a good confidant - there was an honesty about him she felt she didn’t get from many others.

Ivy was reading a book she had checked out of a library earlier, nude under his covers while he was off in another room, perhaps getting redressed. Neither of them got much sleep, so while it was the dead of night for others, she was still wide awake. “How’s the brothel?” she called. “I feel like I should ask how your life is going every so often, I haven’t for awhile.”

He'd learned to the contrary rather quickly when she managed to actually get a hand on him as he made his retreat through an alley alongside the bar, pockets heavier with her coin than she would have liked, and wicked claw making a particularly good argument as to why he preferred his jackets with a high collar these days. He could still recall the moment of silent tension, black-stained skin open to muscle, two sets of eyes boring into each other- waiting for some kind of fight, perhaps, something to crack that sent them into a frenzy of violence-

They'd laughed, instead. Every bit of tension gone in no more than a moment, and a promise to make good on what he'd charmed her out of, someday. He's pretty sure he's already made good on that promise by now, as for the last eighty years, he's often greeted her at the door of The Chapel, in anger, in joy, in many things between, and his repayment for her company was certainly the honesty he rarely afforded others- for better or worse. No, 'friend' did not exactly sum up what they'd ended up in that time, it was a comfort in the constant, things that didn't up and die on those who shirked mortality were worth cherishing, but in absence of a better word that didn't sound stupid, 'friend' had served them well.

The sex? Well. That was simply a perk they'd both agreed had been worth the 80 years of tolerating each other.

"Ah, if it wasn't stressing me out it wouldn't be The Chapel." Comes his answer, the reaper appearing from the adjoining bathroom in an open black shirt and loose pants- One shadowed hand already wrapped around the neck of a bottle of wine. He takes a long pull, examining his reflection in the mirror for a moment as he makes his way to the bed. "But of course, it's nothing exciting, unless you find yourself turned on by talk of my finances and rowdy clientele?" He offers her the bottle as he himself spills into the sheets, his pipe retrieved from the bedside table and a green flame at his fingertips quickly igniting the contents, he takes a smooth drag, turning to examine the book in her grasp.

He hadn't stopped coming to Blood, Sweat and Beers. Maybe he should have, he was still trying to work out how to get Vee to forgive him, but much like the fact Vee was family to him - despite the words he'd said to the contrary that had caused her anger with him - the place was a second home, or perhaps even a first since Taurus was rarely ever in his own home.

"I'll only keep you for three beers," Taurus insisted to the reaper, far less terrifying in his human form than most were. "Maybe five if no one cute comes by and I got to try and take you home," Taurus continued, cheeky sort of smile to his amusement.

The two didn't know each other well but beyond Vee and Emiliana Taurus didn't know anyone well. He was a good time in passing, when he was in town. Right now with Emiliana's illness he'd been in Destarin longer than ever before and was inclining himself to literally any distraction from the responsibilities of his daughter and the girl's mother. Surely an evening with the reaper could, at the very least, be interesting.

"Unless you're inclined to something stronger for the night?"

"Only five beers to try and charm me into bed? is your tolerance going down, or am I finally growing on you? Either way, I'm counting it as a point in my favor." The reaper flashes a sideways grin of his own. "Ah, I've nowhere to be, in truth, I finished all my business at the brothel before I left out for the night, three drinks or five, you'll keep me from nothing for as long as you're planning on holding my attention. But remember, that someone cute goes both ways, hm? And my standards are likely far lower." He knocks his flagon against the table just once before downing a substantial swallow, a wink over the rim of his glass as Taurus continues.

Malas wasn't exactly a loner, despite his best efforts to the contrary, he'd made friends through charm and proximity as easily as favors and the simple merit of being a good time in the past eighty years in Destarin, and he certainly counted Taurus among them, despite their relatively recent friendship formed right in this very tavern. "I'll be the first to admit, given my particular undead constitution I tend to err on the stronger side to begin with, hard to get dead drunk, despite what the saying might imply- but- if you're planning to only keep me company a few rounds..." He shifts, flags down a passing bartender.

"Round of something with a punch- my tab, not his." He insists, turning slightly in his barstool to face Taurus- taking a moment to rest his chin in one ring-clad hand. "I find a little more than beer and mead works wonders to get the mind off the world outside the tavern. I get the sense you might need it." He leaves it at that, an open ended offer to get something off his chest, should he need it.

"Listen," the human oh-so-casually began as she sidled up to the reaper, lips pursed and arms crossed. "You are somehow the best and the worst at the same time but I fail to understand how ... when your customers come to me already intoxicated, that it benefits me. They're not trying to mop up their booze with food, they're well-fucked and drunk. What am I supposed to do with that?"

"I thought we were in a mutually beneficial relationship. You owe me a rumor, at the very least. A valuable one. Not some naysay shit about the Lord Kraken, or our new governor."

"You make a strong argument, barkeep, but you are neglecting the fact that our street goes both ways, and often I or my guards find ourselves turning your clients from entry as they couldn't walk through a grand double door without smacking directly into the pillar alongside it." It's playful, and as Vee insists he not pay her back in anything about cults or the fool, he sighs. "You, I fear, are lucky that i like you- a feat I'm not entirely sure I understand how you achieved." He leans his weight into his cane, and as he pats himself down to seek out his pipe, he thinks. "Alright, alright, a rumor of some value, then."