This land into which he has gone,
He will not thirst in it, he will not hunger in it, eternally.


The reactions rarely differed. Whenever any living person learned of Anapa’s ability to sense imminent death, he was greeted with back-peddling, averted eyes, long silences, nervous laughter, uncertainty and hesitant comments. From the dead, he always received appreciation, relief and gratefulness. It was little wonder why he chose to pay more attention to the latter than the former.

The stranger’s smugness was swiftly silenced by the owl, soaring away with its catch gripped firmly between its talons. Anapa would have preferred to watch it glide between the trees rather than have to see the predictable changing expressions on his companion’s face, but to do so would have been improper. He regarded Tahl’s shock and subsequent respect pleasantly – if a touch savagely – but the moment didn’t last. Tahl held his gaze only briefly before dropping it, rubbing the back of his neck. Outwardly, Anapa made no change in expression, but inwardly he rolled his eyes. Tahl would change his tune on necromancy when he died. Everyone always did.

“That is correct.” He asserted politely when Tahl sought clarification on the offer. Precisely what about it was unclear, Anapa had no idea, but he was used to this sort of response following a display of his magic. “My name is Anapa.”

Self-identification came easier this time, more fluidly, now that he’d used this form of address a few times. Anapa had never been known as just Anapa to anyone other than family members before he had come to this strange planet, where the custom appeared to be to not use titles and epithets in conversation. Perhaps he shouldn’t use them anyway. After all, Anapa, Lord of Death, Prince of the Canids had been obliterated as far as anyone from his home world knew. His titles would have been laid to rest with his empty coffin.

A small frown creased his brow as he stared at the outstretched hand, uncertain exactly about how to respond. Was this some kind of custom he was unfamiliar with? What was he supposed to do? Alethea had not held her hand out at such an awkward angle when he’d first met her. Nor had the late King Arthur or any of his family members. Unsure of what else to do, Anapa imitated the gesture by holding his corresponding hand out at the same angle. It felt as awkward as it looked.

“It is only proper.” He continued to frown at their outstretched hands, mirroring each other. “But I am not aware of any local establishments which serve luncheon. I am not,” he shrugged, “aware of any local establishments at all.”