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Description
What is in a name?

That which we call a rose would smell as sweet. Or in this case, that which we call nothing would stay the same even if "nothing" had a name at which to be called, anyway. Dwelling in the catacombs far below a towering conglomerate on the surface of the Earth was one such "nothing". The creature was quite unlike any other imaginable to the world; it reeked of angular aesthetics that could not possibly be fathomed by mere mortals. A nest of lusciously defined curls sat atop its glorious marble scalp, ornated with a brass headdress finely textured with intricate florals. Are there any words that could make out its beauty, tell of all the wonder it held on a single embellished face? It is terribly ironic that such a magnificent being would not even posess a name. Whenever the occasion arised to address the beauty, one would have to pause mid-sentence. Silence was the creature's name. It would not respond to anything else. That is, however, irrelevant to this tale.

Every rose has its thorns. This is true; and the creature was no exception. Behind its alluring guise lied a temper greater than any mountain that loomed over the humans above. The creature was, to put it simply, incessantly difficult to please. So it is safe to say that it did not particularly enjoy a cold December morning, where it was awoken from its slumber with a start. A thick, ebony colored cloud of smoke had plundered the thing's humble abode for what seemed to be the millionth time this year. It was not the first time the creature had been antagonized by the toxic fumes; it lived next to Muertos, collector of souls. Muertos gained recent success in gaining the lives of humans breathing overhead. The creature could never do something to stop Muertos from doing this, since it was his occupation. The skeleton was the kind of brute that enjoyed its job; compiling skulls onto the many rows and shelves gracing his home was his most passionate hobby, much to the creature's displeasure. For it is said that every time another life was claimed, the way it came showed up with it. If one person decayed from pneumonia, pneumonia would infect the abyss. If one died from guillotine, all beings within the catacombs would suddenly lose their craniums, with the exception of Muertos and the creature.

Humans had a way with shaving years off their lives by departing in the most peculiar of ways. While some intentionally meet their demise, others perform acts which speed up their inevitable death. Muertos chuckled to himself at this on a daily basis. He was fond of counting up the many methods that have been used since the dawn of time, along with the modern ones sprouting still. Before, it was a simple 'die of old age' routine. With expanding technology, hazards, and biochemical toxins, appeared new means of perishing. The creature sympathized with the humans, but knew that they were not ignorant toward all this. It could not pity the mortals so much as a result of this.

However, since all the deaths were disturbing the creature's beauty sleep, it felt quintessential to somehow warn the humans at what exactly they've been doing to themselves. It could not destroy Muertos; if it did, then the world would stop spinning. The sun would melt into the heavens, every star would implode and scatter the universe with stardust, and existence itself would cease to exist.

It needed help, first. The creature whose name was silence could not embark on this quest alone. Muertos was immortal, just as it was. They shared equalities in power, pride, and determination. It summoned Time herself for aid on his ambition. Time was eternally thought to be a 'father' by humans. At this, all immortals laughed. Silly humans. Time was, and always will be, a female. The thought of Time being a member of her opposite gender frustrated her for the most part, but learned to deal with it since there was no point in educating the souls aloft.

They arrived at Muertos's domicile, keen on their goal and ready to take action. All three gazed at each other with piercing eyes, attempting to divinate what would soon occur. Muertos hacked and coughed, recovering from a failed bought of laughter. Pretruding from his lack of lips was a fragile, smoldering stick that he deeply inhaled every ten seconds. The skeleton's hollow body was withering, his bones ached with fury. Yet he cackled, knowing very well that nothing could possibly cause him to meet his doom. Not the smoking tab. Not the creature called silence. Not even Time herself.

The creature propped itself against the east wall, and what it did next was notoriously unexpected...
It pointed at Muertos. Time floated toward the ceiling. All three stared each other down. The tenacious moments would transform into relentless hours. Then they turned into unyielding days, weeks, months, years...

That was all they did. The creature whose name was silence candidly pointed toward the collector of souls, while time flew by above the crowns of their heads. Muertos was befuddled at this. He couldn't get either of them to clarify what their simple acts were supposed to accomplish. He went on with his usual business, keeping spirits in jars and filing skulls onto their respected cabinets.

The creature whose name was silence wanted to warn mortals that it was only a matter of Time.

Description
What is in a name?

That which we call a rose would smell as sweet. Or in this case, that which we call nothing would stay the same even if "nothing" had a name at which to be called, anyway. Dwelling in the catacombs far below a towering conglomerate on the surface of the Earth was one such "nothing". The creature was quite unlike any other imaginable to the world; it reeked of angular aesthetics that could not possibly be fathomed by mere mortals. A nest of lusciously defined curls sat atop its glorious marble scalp, ornated with a brass headdress finely textured with intricate florals. Are there any words that could make out its beauty, tell of all the wonder it held on a single embellished face? It is terribly ironic that such a magnificent being would not even posess a name. Whenever the occasion arised to address the beauty, one would have to pause mid-sentence. Silence was the creature's name. It would not respond to anything else. That is, however, irrelevant to this tale.

Every rose has its thorns. This is true; and the creature was no exception. Behind its alluring guise lied a temper greater than any mountain that loomed over the humans above. The creature was, to put it simply, incessantly difficult to please. So it is safe to say that it did not particularly enjoy a cold December morning, where it was awoken from its slumber with a start. A thick, ebony colored cloud of smoke had plundered the thing's humble abode for what seemed to be the millionth time this year. It was not the first time the creature had been antagonized by the toxic fumes; it lived next to Muertos, collector of souls. Muertos gained recent success in gaining the lives of humans breathing overhead. The creature could never do something to stop Muertos from doing this, since it was his occupation. The skeleton was the kind of brute that enjoyed its job; compiling skulls onto the many rows and shelves gracing his home was his most passionate hobby, much to the creature's displeasure. For it is said that every time another life was claimed, the way it came showed up with it. If one person decayed from pneumonia, pneumonia would infect the abyss. If one died from guillotine, all beings within the catacombs would suddenly lose their craniums, with the exception of Muertos and the creature.

Humans had a way with shaving years off their lives by departing in the most peculiar of ways. While some intentionally meet their demise, others perform acts which speed up their inevitable death. Muertos chuckled to himself at this on a daily basis. He was fond of counting up the many methods that have been used since the dawn of time, along with the modern ones sprouting still. Before, it was a simple 'die of old age' routine. With expanding technology, hazards, and biochemical toxins, appeared new means of perishing. The creature sympathized with the humans, but knew that they were not ignorant toward all this. It could not pity the mortals so much as a result of this.

However, since all the deaths were disturbing the creature's beauty sleep, it felt quintessential to somehow warn the humans at what exactly they've been doing to themselves. It could not destroy Muertos; if it did, then the world would stop spinning. The sun would melt into the heavens, every star would implode and scatter the universe with stardust, and existence itself would cease to exist.

It needed help, first. The creature whose name was silence could not embark on this quest alone. Muertos was immortal, just as it was. They shared equalities in power, pride, and determination. It summoned Time herself for aid on his ambition. Time was eternally thought to be a 'father' by humans. At this, all immortals laughed. Silly humans. Time was, and always will be, a female. The thought of Time being a member of her opposite gender frustrated her for the most part, but learned to deal with it since there was no point in educating the souls aloft.

They arrived at Muertos's domicile, keen on their goal and ready to take action. All three gazed at each other with piercing eyes, attempting to divinate what would soon occur. Muertos hacked and coughed, recovering from a failed bought of laughter. Pretruding from his lack of lips was a fragile, smoldering stick that he deeply inhaled every ten seconds. The skeleton's hollow body was withering, his bones ached with fury. Yet he cackled, knowing very well that nothing could possibly cause him to meet his doom. Not the smoking tab. Not the creature called silence. Not even Time herself.

The creature propped itself against the east wall, and what it did next was notoriously unexpected...
It pointed at Muertos. Time floated toward the ceiling. All three stared each other down. The tenacious moments would transform into relentless hours. Then they turned into unyielding days, weeks, months, years...

That was all they did. The creature whose name was silence candidly pointed toward the collector of souls, while time flew by above the crowns of their heads. Muertos was befuddled at this. He couldn't get either of them to clarify what their simple acts were supposed to accomplish. He went on with his usual business, keeping spirits in jars and filing skulls onto their respected cabinets.

The creature whose name was silence wanted to warn mortals that it was only a matter of Time.