Death, he thought. We've met before. But you'll still not have me. And with that he willed the thing away.

Death, to someone like Pip, is like a feather on the air; beautiful, dangerous, and easily avoided. Pip was built outside of Death, out of that which cannot die. Certainly he had come closer than he'd like once or twice, but Death could be dealt with on a puff of breath.

But Death, it turned out, was more solid than he remembered. Perhaps it was the haze of belief that hung in the air long after the prayers have stopped; perhaps it was the tears of the woman, so sharp in their pain. Either way, Pip shook his head and saw a man, carved in flesh and set with metal - and he crouched low in the shadows, flicking his tail.

Pip was tired of these warriors, standing smack-dab in the middle of his Path, sticking their metaphorical tongues out and blowing rude, wet raspberries. He was tired of his timid questions, tired of the chase - and tired of his sanctity, his church of thought, under constant threat from the next wanderer. Random was twirling him like a top, only she'd learned something from her sister Purpose - An event's outcome can be logical if that which leads to it is not - the pattern emerges like an equation - random variables coming together to form a solid conclusion. He could hear the cold, disturbed lilt of her voice as he considered his strike.

The man's blue eyes pulsed, and once again Pip saw the child Death, ready to stand, ready to hang on to spite the careless wind. The image faded like a phantom, and Pip was left with the very tangible presence of this steel-plated man.

He felt Chaos surge within him, throbbing through his veins, and thought he heard Order sigh softly, as if tired or bored, or perhaps just completely uninterested in this fray.

Let her eyes be elsewhere, thought Pip as her sister's strength gathered. He felt a tightness take his heart - it was a heavy feeling, apprehensive, as if his better self knew this was wrong and worried about consequence.

You see a form rise from the shadows, cut from the same dark cloth of night. It is small - much too small to be a threat, with sharp ears laid flat against its head and two bright gold eyes burning from its face. You see no details about its form - with its arms held into it body, it a spectre, a shadow, hanging conspicuously in the air, legs tucked in tight and tail dropping down into the pool of darkness below. The eyes. The eyes are bright and have a disturbing intelligence sparking in their depths. You see arms unfold, and your hand drifts towards your sword; it is an unconscious movement, but one you are familiar with.

"I would ask you who you are," the shadow said, seemingly without a mouth. "But I don't much care today. No, today I am in the mood to teach." His eyes narrowed.

He said, Pieces.

You feel a surge pass through your body, like some mild electrical current. It seems to settle into your joints - your ankles, your knees, your hips, your shoulders, your elbows, your fingers and toes. You hold a hand up to your face and watch with unease as your fingers drop off your body and tumble to the ground. Yet you feel no pain, as your knees disconnect and you drop to the stumps of your thighs, as they give way and you fall to your side, every joint letting go and your parts scattering on the hardwood floor. Your head rolls a little ways away from your torso, and you regard the pile of your pieces twitch and flex, each out of your control.