Once upon a time, we had to touch our lips to their rings to obtain an echo of life and death coexisting and once upon a time, we had to genuflect as their robes trailed past, morbidly cheery in their colors; an illusion to both inspire comfort and deceive, for death is just that. We had to smile at their crude humor as the corset around our throats continued to tighten and for their sanctioned greed, we had to willingly offer our compliance, our insignificantly endless lives and our rights to feeling secure. 
 
Until we didn't. 
 
When Endura, City of the Enduring Heart, was devoured by the hungry cerulean of the ocean, we realized that the Scythedom had been hammering upon its fragile glass and was close to splintering (the Scythedom could be tried and found guilty for various faults but never for loose lips). A revolution for legends was being birthed. And so the rest of the world decided unanimously to fade into obscurity and to make the shadows their observatory. The Thunderhead mourned until it couldn’t afford to and began prepare for a war it wanted no part in. The After was what it was concerned with. 
 
It is in human nature to strive. But what do we strive for most ardently? To evolve into the predator that hold unchallenged authority. We simply can’t bear it if we are labeled the prey, our inferiority and our ego are not a match made in heaven. So we seek to eradicate, everything and anything that might stand on our pedestal with us. We lay waste to our threats until we are stronger, crueler and more bellicose than ever before. The rats were sharpening their claws while the cat preened and chased its tail. 
 
We christened ourselves the Second Generation of Scythes, not belonging to the old guard but not allying ourselves with the new order. We were unprecedented. Joyful yet sober when gleaning, the perfect balance. We clutched our weapons; knives, guns, grenades, our wills, and adorned ourselves in tattered robes, our symbol and what the First Generation had for our legacy each time they gleaned in places that we thought were safe. 90% of our race joined the cause. 
 
As we changed each revival center, we left ashes in our wake and the Thunderhead did not intervene for we were now recognized as the Scythedom. Immortality became, once again, a myth from the Post-Mortal Age, which became our era and the order to yin and yang was restored. The Tonists were thrilled.  
 
Our gleanings became unadulterated and unencumbered and we heard the sobs of the First Generation Scythes caress the night as they bent over rings that were devoid of the immunity they had once taken for granted. It was metal and it was unforgiving of their sins. So was our metal as it grazed their skins and left sculptures bathed in crimson. We gleaned until they were no more and those that were left were driven into hiding. Scythe Faraday still remains unaccounted for.  
 
And then we turned upon each other. The Thunderhead’s anticipated population control had come knocking.