God’s favourite. Probably. Definitely mine.

A wizarding school drop out and one of the greatest minds to ever grace magic. She was an apprentice to Mortheb and Stiann in The Archives while it was still known as The Library, and after Theb’s death, Stiann left to become a tree, leaving their many books and trinkets in her questionable care. She has a penchant for explosions, and enough curiosity to kill several cats.

Believed to be alive somewhere but so far none of us have been able to find her. The smell of burnt books in The Archive and the new floor being built in her tower seem to suggest she’s doing fine as ever.

She met Dennis while out hunting for a rare book on the effects of drinking water from the Moon Pools. She burned down half his library, and when he not only survived, but infact saved a great many of his books, she invited him to The Archive. A lover of books and a pyromaniac may be an unusual friendship, but they don’t appear to have noticed.

Probably not a god. But maybe?

Dennis is a tired man, and has been for some time. When he agreed to help Heggerty organise The Archives he was happy to lend his expertise, especially after his library burned down in a completely unrelated incident. Despite the singed pages he was rather excited to work with such rare and unusual texts, this was of course before he learned that books can and will bite, certain books are shy and would prefer not to be read, and others will simply run off. He eventually formed a system through the chaos with cleverly placed corrals and some fiendishly devious traps. One room has been entirely submerged in water but fires in The Archive are down by 30%, so it’s a win as far as Dennis is concerned.

Oh, also - he did die, but he was quite busy at the time and decided he would rather not, so he still works at The Archives. Death and The Fates seem to think he’s a god now but no one’s bothered to check.

It’s quite hard to be Death you know.

There is a special sorrow we feel, when we bare witness to the innocent oblivion of one who’s time is not yet up. This grief gnaws and twist within us until time can dull the ache. Our Death, poor Death, feels little else.

It is then, unsurprising, that she should feel such comfort in those what know their end approaches, those that have stared into the depths of her unflinching, and greet her like an old friend. It is Death who must comfort the dying in this world, in her gentle grief for a people who do not know she feels it too.

Not even the witches truly understand this mysterious creature, but they know the weight of a burden bared alone, and so they try to help. Perhaps there are other Deaths who do not feel such aches but our Death is gentle. Our Death is kind.