ϯհε ϖσɾʆδ σƒ ϯδσɓαδ

ϯεηεɓɾίς

"The mind's eternal search for eternal knowledge at any expense."

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The line had become longer as the doorman struggled to get through them all. The doorman was a short fellow, with bushy eyebrows and a mustache the color of coal. He grunted at each person, eyeing them while also looking through their life file. A confirmation that they indeed were dead and worshiped the Gods.

"Next!" He said, and the person walked through the gates. The gates weren't that tall, but the silver on them glistened in the dying sun. No one would dare enter the Realm of the Tieracle without permission unless they wanted to be tortured for all eternity. The doorman would not give chase or stop any person, secretly wanting all those in line to suffer, like he was. And for those who tried to talk to him were only given a harsh and cold glance.

A harsh winter and a limited food supply had increased the mortality rate in the Myd by over sixty percent. Rich and poor were affected by the harsh weather and the effect it had on the crops and animals. All because Coeus said the people of the Myd need to become tougher, that only the fittest should survive. And now the doorman was grumpier than usual.

"Next!" He said again, and the person walked through the gates. The doorman huffed, and picked up the next folder. In the folder was a single piece of paper, neat handwriting on the paper. To be determined by Phoebe. Not you. He crumbled up the paper, gave it to the person, and said, "Next!"

The line had only become longer as he slowly went through all the dead. The doorman's only interest was grabbing the folder and reading it. The next person had stepped up, and the doorman threw the folder at them, and pointed to the portal above them. The portal back to the Myd, where he only pointed if the person was still alive.

"Next!" Confusion crossed the person's face as they walked away. It was now on them to become alive. Somewhere above, they were still alive, desperately clinging onto life. A mistake like that only happened once every thousand.

"Next!"

"Next!"

"Next!"

"Next!"

The doorman had only become more angry as the line kept getting longer. He seemed to be the only one angry or impatient. All of the people were standing or conversing with each other, none worried or troubled by the fact that they were on their way to the Tieracle.

One of the people in the line appeared to be similar to the doorman. In height, in face, and in mood. The person ahead of him was holding a gold locket in her small hand, her lips moving but no sound coming out. The person behind of him was kicking his shin repeatedly, and no tears were falling down his face. The line had become even longer than ever, and the people were starting to realize they were dead.

One by one as time drew on, the ones in line discovered the painless pain, and the numbness of emotion as they walked closer to the silver gate. Waiting in a line for days just to be tortured or welcomed could drive any person mad. The choice was all up to the Gods.