Welcome to Gaia! ::

After long and tiring trek following the compass needle of destiny, on his clock of fate he found a room. The problem, of course with a compass point is that it points based on a radius with no regard for walls or doors. He was endowed with limited powers, which could help him cut all that nonsense but using them was exhausting and he was tired enough from the trip here, wherever exactly here was. Of course time had little meaning to him and space... well that too was waning for him.

Finding the door, which luckily was placed in a hole in the wall, he turned the knob. Slowly, he opened it. Typically he was pointed to murder scenes and other gruesome things-- or at least one dying person-- due to the nature of his assignment. It was... a child, or at least something very child like. Merde! he was not prepared to bail bond a child.

As he peered through the door and watched the child crawl after a bug or something... the needle followed the child. Merde trios! He stepped in the door, carefully closing it behind him. He cleared his throat, trying to get the attention of the child to properly introduce himself. If he had to do this, he had to do it right.

"Ha! Death is my trade, child." He laughed as he surveyed the scene. Surely this child was not living in any conventional sense of the word at any point in the recent past. Something in those eye sockets-- the light, presumably-- reminded him of the family he never really got to have. Something about this child had immediately endeared him.

"Err... not quite. I have the misfortune of being endowed with the obligation to tend to the matters of death." Wait, would that be more clear to a child? Or less clear. He wondered.

"Spiders are beneath me." he said, with a flowy gesture. He went straight into another, a bow befitting an opera star. "I am Monsieur Du Mort, pleased to make your acquaintance." He remained bowing until the child responded.

"I know that I am meant to be here. I can infer I am meant to be doing something with you." Du Mort stopped for a second. "Often!" he said, more forcefully than he had wanted, which made his return to his normal inside voice seem more quiet "I have to reap a soul so it may leave this world". He cleared his throat. "I can tell you are different, and I think I am supposed to adopt you."

François went through all the names he could name. None seemed fitting for this child. He thought of the names of all the souls he had reaped, the name of his wife from his time alive, the name of his little girl born after his death. Names swimming around in his head, among them some almost fitting but not just. Kosciejevich. Kosciejevich was a good name. Du Mort thought of the great Russian authors, of their beautiful language which was strong and romantic at the same time. He then haphazardly formed a name based on the male patronymic. The name could be poorly translated as 'Child of Bones'. It seemed fitting, because-- and this was perhaps not the greatest leap in logic-- the child before him was a child made of bones.

"Kosciejevich. I will name you Kosciejevich."