//------------------------------//
// Prelude 
// Story: The First Reaper 
// by SquiggelSquirrel 
//------------------------------//

Somewhere between reality and everything else, is a place that cannot be described. There are things that live there, but they aren't like the things that live here. Not like anything that lives here.
When something crosses from that place to ours, we call it magic. When it's something alive, we call it a spirit, or a dæmon.
Few ponies ever cross from here to there. Fewer return. Fewer still were alive when they left, and even fewer than that are alive when they return.
It is the œþer. The æther. The Other.

Yet, in a place where you can build a fortress of words and intentions, or swim in a lake of memories, where rock and water come and go like the ideas and feelings of this world, there is a house. A mansion*. One made of actual bricks and mortar. There are gardens outside, with trees and grass.

*Well, about three-quarters of one actually, but we are assured that what remains of it is structurally sound.

It's probably magic.

Time is rather artificial there, but on one occasion we shall call an “evening”, in one room of many, cosily sat by the fire and sipping tea, were two mares.

One, an earth pony named "Pearly Plates". She is hired by The Meadowbloom Trust to cook, clean, and generally look after the house and its sole other inhabitant. Said inhabitant is a young alicorn, known as “Morts”. Morts is a reaper, a scythe-wielding death-mage who, along with others from The Trust, works to maintain the balance of the world, particularly the aspects of that balance relating to life, death, unlife, undeath, death magic (be it “reaper magic” or necromancy), time, destiny, and pretty much all other “stuff like that”.

On this occasion, when this story starts, Morts softly clears her throat to speak:

“There are many versions,” she says, “of this story. Most historians agree that they all originate in truth, but the details have blurred with time. What I shall tell you is mostly the version told to me by my former teacher, Master Grimm.”

With this proclamation, she sips her tea.

“This is the story of how the reapers, and for that matter the necromancers, came to be.

“Our story,” here she pauses for effect, “starts at the beginning.”

Pearly snorts, then burst out in giggles. Her laughter is hearty and warm. “Uh, Boss? Um, no offense, but don't most stories start at the beginning? That's kinda traditional, y'know?”

Morts smiles, perhaps a little smugly, and waits for Pearly's laughter to die down.

“No, Miss Plates,” she replies softly, “The Beginning…”