𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐒 𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐏𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐋 𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐄𝐑
malas pitch is a reaper of unknown age, as time is difficult to keep track of, strewn to the four cardinal directions in a thousand pieces- though he places ‘this lifetime’ as one tied firmly to the dock districts of destarin, where he’s peddled his services and parted the unlucky from their coin, secrets and lives for the past seventy-nine years- whispers, however, and his species alone, seem to imply a former tie to withermore and it’s dark, gothic courts. mr. pitch’s loyalty in the present day is notably connected only to coin, lust, and bloodshed in equal measure with only a singular exception, and his fondness for the criminal has made him a well-established and well-respected shadowy presence in the back pocket of a number of the… lower moral collectives around destarin. he is not without his kindness, though, as the old church he’s taken for his own and runs as a brothel is oftentimes the only safe haven some of his staff has ever known- and the closest thing malas himself has ever considered ‘family.’.
TW: sex work, death.
Malas is pretty sure he used to be somebody worth a damn. While his history is foggy, he knows he once walked grand gothic halls, rubbing elbows with the influential and powerful, trading favors and coin for influence of his own- that for a time, there was an honor in being a skeleton draped in robes, proud and sharp-beaked picking over the remains of those who were not as capable of playing the political game as those who held his employ. Yes, once upon a time, Malas Pitch was someone who’s word held weight, who’s will was followed and strength feared; who was so revered that he was no longer bound in the flesh of the man he’d died as- none would have dared tear him asunder.
And then he woke up in a basement, surrounded by necromancers unaware of what they’d managed to unearth in their meddling, unsure of what to do when old bones started moving without the whispers of incantation- but Malas supposes that even today, years later, he’s thankful for the meal. It took some time, relearning how to be whole, how to appear human to protect himself from the threat of destruction once more, and on top of all of that, the new existence of a city ungoverned by any court in the aftermath of the last delicious conflict he could remember- there was opportunity to be found, and much like the vulture who’s head he bore- he would set to circling the weak.
Destarin was a beautiful land of opportunity. There was always someone who needed… something. Oftentimes something as simple as a meal and a warm dry bed for the night was enough for most to insist they would find some way to pay him back, someday- and Malas would hold them to it. For most, it was coin when they were back on their feet, an exchange of some portion of their life force or magic- “only temporary of course…” in return for the meal he’d provided them, years ago. For others, it was knowledge, rumors, spells and incantations- there was power to be held by being owed favors, there was more to be gained by compounding them, and perhaps the greatest gain laid within the opportunity to sell that knowledge off to the highest bidder. Thieves guilds loved the taste of easy coin- and a grieving widower with loose lips loved to tell the workers in Malas’ care where he kept his wife’s jewels- word exchanged as capably as riches in the eyes of criminals, and it spread like wildfire, that the strange reaper in the old church knew things that were worth knowing- worth trading for.
For years he would build himself from nothing in the remains of the church on the docks where he first awakened, and among the people of Destarin, he would come to be known as Mr. Pitch, for the blackened markings across his limbs, and dealings in the things cast in the darkest parts of their fair city. Opinions of Malas tend to vary wildly- some regard him as a charming man with the willingness to put his neck on the line for those willing to make trades in the businesses he deals in- to others, he is little more than a blot on Destarin’s reputation, an unattached, ungoverned agent of chaos who’s loyalty settles only with the last person who paid his fees, but there is one thing that’s completely impossible to ignore, in the nearly eighty years he’s called the city home, his strange sense of altruism has kept any number of the less fortunate in Destin’s most ‘criminal’ district from a crueler fate with a spare bed, stealthy favor, or employ at the brothel he now runs- honest work and protection for those interested in taking on clientele or simply attending to the day-to-day operations of the place Malas and his people now inhabit.
In fact, it’s the brothel and those who work within it alone that seems to have his loyalty without the need for a tit-for-tat, something in Malas’ history insisting he and those who also found their work in the realm of sex and desire had a kinship beyond that of the drives of a reaper of the damned. It had been a young escort who filled him in on the years he’d missed in his odd stasis after all, and it would be several more seeking shelter from the rain not long after he awakened that would become his most trusted companions in the docks some nearly eighty years ago. It was easy enough to offer his magic and already building connections to ensure their safety, and to accept their help in making the abandoned church he’d called home into something more fitting of the title. It remains a respite for sex workers and their patrons alike, and while ‘client confidentiality’ surely doesn’t exist when the benefactor ensuring the place stays running sells secrets like his staff sell fantasies, plenty around the city are willing to overlook as much in the pursuit of pleasure.
His own loyalties outside of his ‘family’ may waver, but those with a loyalty to him ensure he operates largely unfettered, many attempts at retribution from those he’s helped swindle or con difficult to apply, when the already tangled web leading back to him is obfuscated by a stonewalling enforcer ensuring any angry visitor seeking the owner is sent on yet another frustrating wild goose chase through the city- only to return to the church after operative hours have long since ended for the day. History insists that things like Malas are monsters, and he has never once shied away from the label- but there are those who know better, that even among entities born for war and carrying the damned to the afterlife, softer kinds can exist- that ‘monster’ is in the eye of the beholder, and the lens Malas views the world through has always been somewhat warped.
There is a comfort in what he has now. A home, people who rely on him, and a business that ensures he’s never too far from the chaos and bloodshed his nature demands- but something lingers, the desire to once again be something more than what he is, to once more be something closer to royalty than an urban myth… an opportunity to do just that perhaps looming just on the horizon-though one has to wonder if there’s value in following nature, after so long knowing the kind of peace something he’s nurtured can bring.
WHAT ARE YOU...?
species: reaper of the damned. weaknesses: light/life domain magic is deadly, bound to his duty as a servant of death, controlled and bound via theft of his scythe, slain with another reaper's weapon, death wards. strengths: flight,drain/feed on souls/spirits/magic, immortal, able to reconnect severed/damaged parts, bonded to a scythe, compulsion. physical description: pitch appears to be something once-human, with four sharp incisors on the top and bottom of his mouth, green eyes that glow under the weight of using his abilities, and a set of massive, blackened wings, batlike on the underside, and capped with thick blackened feathers across the top- they are heavy bone, with a spiked ‘thumb’ capping the top and claws at the points- though these can be tucked away within his body seemingly at will. his hands, neck, and feet are permanently blackened, a fading gradient ending at the elbow, knee, and upper chest/lower chin, these points of his body are transparent when under heavy stress/exertion of magic, turning the same harsh neon green as his ‘magic’ seems to be in all capacities. in the rare event he is forced to take on a cycle, it’s made far clearer how “avian” he truly is, the skull of a vulture perched on his neck and taloned hands and feet instead of human features- though this is a fact that very few have ever become aware of, given the rarity of malas’ actual undertaking of a renewal cycle. additional info: pitch is an ‘odd bird’ among odd birds, typically dour and stoic, malas is a notably bright, charismatic, and friendly sort, in direct contrast, perhaps,to his name and reputation. Reapers of the Damned are warmongers and dark advisors to those history will color as monsters, rarely operating in the subtler arts such as information exchange and espionage. malas’ hazy past remains a point of confusion for himself and others, as any mention of a “malas” seems completely struck from any sort of history book he’s attempted to explore- and much of his present ‘defiance’ of his species’ norms both in personality and fondness for the living as well as his choice of work is certainly tied to his missing memories..
malas pitch is played by ringleader and their fc is spencer charnas
