Death loved the living. She spent much of her early days with their spirits, listening to them recall their lives and find company in the stars. She saw how close they were, how committed, how vibrant and how full of this thing called love she couldn’t help but feel it back. But the spirits outnumbered her, and she never really connected with them too well as they were more focused on each other.

Eventually, she spent her time in the Overworld, mingling with mortals under many different names of stars who haven’t found their heritage. She migrates from town to town every 3 decades or so, posing as a mortician. Despite having a job and being friendly, hardly anyone talked to her unless they were grieving. She helped the best she could, but her job was to comfort the dead , not the living. So even when posing to be a player and a mortal, they still didn’t like her. At least, not the adults. Children were her favorite, as they asked the silliest questions and had fascinating thoughts, and they were so curious!! But their parents always dragged them away, scolding them for going to strangers, “especially such strange ones.” She thought it was funny the first few towns, but grew tired of it quickly.

She eventually finds one of the Blood God’s, a piglin hybrid trapped in a fighting ring, haunted by the spirits of his ancestors. A strange child, completely out of place in the Overworld, and they bond over their shared isolation. She shares her first connection with him, and for a while she’s happy with it. He may be chosen by the Blood God, and though she can’t change that she did find out about a mortal concept called adoption and shared custody while looking into how to acquire a child. When she shared this knowledge with The Blade (he doesn't know his name yet, and that's what the crowds call him), he was cautious but not adverse to it, which she celebrated for the yes it was!

But she was not always with him, as he was rooted to the forest and her role took her around the realms and past them. Her birds sent her word of him on occasion, but he did not tell them much, too taken with the voices in his head to share his own.

She loved her birds. They brought her so many things, information about those on the brink, locations of plagues and battlefields to hover near, little shiny trinkets that remind them of her stars. On occasion, they tell her stories, the ones who were her stars beforehand. Stories of their lives, stories of the nice people that feed them, stories of killers who leave the bodies for the birds, stories of those not afraid of them. It is not often many of her birds mention the same mortal, much less for a positive reason, but this is the 100th bird to mention the blond mortal man with silly stories and strong skills. And if enough of her birds will her to visit, visit she will.

She takes a break from the heavens and returns to the Overworld, settling down in a town the birds tell her he’s headed towards. When her small business isn’t busy, which it typically isn’t, she closes shop and allows herself to travel as one of her birds in a nearby flock to where they know he is. She arrives with her crows and circles above, watching as he looks up at the sight of their shadows and waves up at them with a grin, other hand holding his striped hat to his head. She leads the murder lower and lower, and watches as he continues walking on, already greeting them.

He slows his pace so they can hop along beside him, some sitting on his hat and shoulders much to his amusement. He talks to them, pulling out a book from his side satchel and flipping through pages, showing off sketches of buildings, of enchanted lands, of the way he sees the world. He flips through, telling them stories of how he came up with it, the materials he’d use if he could get them, how he would find a spot in the world to create his own. Some smaller scraps of paper with notes fall out of the book, and the birds flutter to the ground as he bends down to pick them up. Death looks at the paper nearest to her, sees a sketch of a bat and it’s skeleton. Picking it up with her beak, she hops back over to where he’s kneeling on the ground, swatting lightly at her birds as they peck at his cloak. He collects the other loose pages, before reaching out to take hers. She moves her beak away, hopping away quickly as he tries to chase after it. He huffs and crawls after her a bit, but she stays out of reach until he sits back with his legs under him and laughs, allowing her to keep it as he reorganizes his book, putting notes back where they belong as her crows poke around the ground for bugs. As he’s distracted she hops up and flies to his shoulder, paper still in her beak. He didn’t even flinch when she lands, but turns to look at her.

“Want me to say please?” He said with mirth in his voice. She nodded her head, and he just chuckled like this was normal behavior for birds. “May I have my,” he looks at the paper she holds, “-bat boredom sketch back, please .” He was slightly sassy towards the end, so she cocks her head like she’s thinking before dropping it into his hand. “Thanks, mate.” He puts it in the book, explaining that he used to scare them out of buildings, that he spent a lot of time near them. They walk on, him chatting away about different experiences he had with bats, his experiences with other people, the good and bad and strange. She stays on his shoulders, and glares down and pecks at any others who try to join her, much to his amusement.

They set up camp for the night and he tells the few crows remaining stories of the world he hopes to build. Tells them of a world made of his own stories, how he hopes to see the different realms and explore them as he is exploring the Overworld, how eventually, when he feels like he’s done enough, he’d like to own a bakery. And as the fire grows dim and he falls asleep on his bedroll, he points up to her sky, her stars, and bids them goodnight, one by one, until his whispers fade into soft breaths. And she watches him for a time before returning to town, his young face aglow in the light of the dying fire and distant stars, and she wonders if this is the “affection” her spirits talk so much about.

The next few days are spent in the same manner. Doing her business for the day, interacting with town children before they’re called away, then flying out to the traveling man to keep him company and listen to his tales. She learns much about him, how he was affected by the glitch, how he’s a traveling handyman, picking up odd jobs as he goes from town to town, how he’s looking for something he can’t really name. The more she learns the more she sees the world from his view, and she falls in love with life all over again.

Soon, the day of his arrival is here, and she puts extra effort into her mortal form. She makes sure to brush her hair and pin it back with a fancy clip that reminds her of her stars, picks an outfit not too flashy but not drab either, spends some time debating heels or work shoes, and generally fretting more than she had in eons. She is just as jittery when she steps outside, and she has to force her energy inwards so it doesn’t affect her surroundings. She calms herself down and starts cleaning up the graveyard under her care, sweeping dirt off of graves and talking to the headstones, knowing the spirit is still loosely connected, always listening for loved ones and those who care to greet them.

As she finishes her rounds and waves to the children who pass by, she decides to reach out into town a bit more, in the hopes he will see her. She sits at a bench on the outskirts of the cemetery, dazedly petting a crow as she’s lost in thought. Would he recognize her? Certainly not, she was a crow for code’s sake, but some part of her wishes he would. Maybe their code is the same? She dismisses the idea, she’s a literal goddess, their coding is innately different at its most base level. What if he doesn’t make the first move? Well, she could if needed, it’s not like she doubts it will go well. He’s a good man, and she’s good company she’s sure, so they can at least try.

So wrapped up in her thoughts, she didn’t notice a stranger approaching her until he sat down and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. She turns and is faced with a crooked smirk and sharp sunken eyes that slowly look her up and down in an obvious manner once he realizes she’s watching.

“You’re a scary little thing, aren’t ya? Love the whole,” he looks her up and down again, “mourning look. You a widow?” She frowns and before she can answer he continues, “Well regardless, I bet you’d love to be around something other than a corpse, hm? I can help you there, if you catch my drift.” He wiggles his eyebrows at her and she cannot be held responsible for the face she makes. “Cmon, live a little!” He chuckles at her expression and his own joke, tightens his grip on her shoulder and shakes her a bit like she’d find it funny too. She moves his hand off her shoulder but he puts it right back and holds tighter, pulling himself closer so his side is plastered to hers.

She leans her head back and pretends to consider him before plastering on a sickeningly sweet smile. “If I wanted to live, I’d do something enjoyable.” She puts her hand over his and forcefully removes it from her shoulder and scoots away. “You hardly seem like you know anything about the concept.”

His face twists for a moment before he schools it back into a forced smile. “Well baby, I’m actually very aware of how to please a woman.” There’s a hand on her thigh and before she drops the charade and kills him with a touch, a harsh voice cuts in.

“She said no, mate.” The young man stands in front of them both and scowls at the man in her space, one hand on his hip and the other relaxed at his side where she knows he accesses his inventory from.

The hand on her thigh doesn’t move and the man doesn’t turn. “Can’t you see we’re having a moment here?” He looks over to the man and his smile doesn’t budge as he spits out “You’re not from around here, are ya son?”

The young man’s scowl hardens. “Hardly a moment when she’s trying to leave it. And what, is it acceptable to harass people in this town?” He spins around to face the street, asking loudly, “Oi, excuse me? Yeah, I’m new in town. This man said it’s socially acceptable to harass women here?”

The man sputters and finally faces the young man fully, proclaiming “I said no such thing, you are putting words in my mouth!”

“Maybe so, but you definitely were implying it, and I thought you understood implications because you sure were using them when harassing this woman.”

The man finally takes his hand off her thigh and crosses his arms, smirk back in place. “I was not harassing her, I was wooing her. You wouldn’t know how to do that would you boy ?” When neither of them respond beyond matching glares, the man bristles and loudly proclaims, “Well, good luck getting this prude to do anything with you, boy. If this prudish slut won’t have me, I doubt she’d have someone as weak as you.”

As he storms off, the young man yells after him “'Prudish slut' is contradictory, but I suppose you’re not smart enough to know that!”

And she calls as well, a nail in the coffin, “You’re the slut in this situation, a married man hitting on any woman he thinks he can bed. Truly, a pathetic sight.”

The man is bright red and blabbers on in anger for a moment before he stomps away like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Death and the traveler watch him storm off, and she watches some windows close and drapes shift with a smile before directing it at her traveler. He’s still glaring after the man, fists clenched at his sides and he looks as if he’s debating something before he takes a deep breath, shoots a look at the sky, and turns back to her.

“Thank you for stepping in, that was very kind of you.” She says before he can do something silly like apologize.

“It’s basic decency, no need to thank me for it.” He looks back to the retreating man and frowns again. “Sorry he did that, some people don’t know any fucking manners.”

She hums in agreement, getting up from her bench with one of her crows hovering protectively on her shoulder. Her posture is strong as she walks over to his side, shifting to look at the man as well. They both stare after him and watch as a bird dive-bombs him and he falls over in a panic. They both chuckle and she turns back to her traveler.

“So, you’re new around here, yeah? What’s your name?” she asks politely

“I’m Phil Za, but you can call me Phil.”

She smiles at the new knowledge, tests his name out on her tongue. “Phil. Well, Phil, I’d like to properly thank you for helping, and you seem like good company. Would you be interested in dinner with me?”

He falters for a moment, smile turning from strong to slightly shocked. “Uh, are you sure?”

“Mhm, very. The reason I was out here was I was waiting for someone. Wasn’t sure who, wasn’t sure why.” She muses, eyes drifting back to the bench for a moment. But they are drawn back to his slightly awed face and her smile and voice are soft when she says, “But I think I found them.”

His face is slightly flushed and she takes him in quietly while he averts his eyes and lets out a nervous laugh, taking a moment to compose himself.

“I mean, I certainly won’t decline getting to know you better, Miss…?”

“Kristin. Call me Kristin.”

“Kristen,” he wraps his mouth around her false name and she feels it become true when he whispers almost to himself, “it suits you.” She doesn’t know what he means and doubts he does either, but she believes him. As they walk down the street so she can show him the town, she makes a decision. Death chooses her name while they make small talk, their strides syncing despite their height difference, her birds watching from the rooftops. Death chose her name to be Kristin, because it sounded like love when he said it.