Hello, friends! This is hilariously short story, I know. Sorry about that. Also, I haven't read the Arc of the Scythe in ages, so please forgive me when it comes to any (hopefully non-existent) errors. I have only read Scythe, and not either of the other books.

Disclaimer: I did not write Scythe.

Without further ado...

If I had a name, I would tell you what is was. For now, you must think if me as simply Being. I have no name or face, no consciousness. I am There, and nothing else. My existence is dismal, but I strive to keep it that way, regardless of what I am offered.

As this is my first entry in the log that will become my existence outside of killing, I will tell you this: I never wanted to be a scythe. I never wanted to be a man without a face, branded by my job, known by my cloak. I wanted an existence where I could live a life. I never wanted this, and at the one point I did, it was only because of Denise.

Denise was apprenticed with me and is now known as the Grande Dame of Death. Ah, to be young and innocent. That, even though it was only a few days ago, is as far away as the Age of Mortality. Now, I have rendered my mother dead-ish and she her brother.

We are soulless now, and all we can do is glean with kindness; how we can do that when we have no soul – or if we do, both of ours is a small, black shrivelled thing, residing deep inside us and only turning white and pure as we look upon each other – I do not know.

I do not know. How many times have I uttered those words in the past year I have no idea; I do not know how many poisons can kill a man as much as I do not know, why me?

- From the gleaning journal of H.S. Faraday