Santa Muerte stood in the cemetery, her robe billowing in the windless night. She held her scythe and her scales. Pact of Equal Exchange. She was waiting for a soul.
Raven landed on a tombstone. He preened his black feathers. He was the creator-trickster of the Northwest Coast, far from his totem pole but always looking for a game.
"You look serious," Raven cawed.
The Bargain
"I am the End," Santa Muerte replied. "I collect."
Raven hopped closer. He held up a shiny object in his beak. It was a piece of polished mica.
"I have a star," Raven lied. Song of Misdirection. "It fell from the sky. Very rare. Worth at least three souls."
Santa Muerte paused. She liked valuable things. She leaned in to inspect the stone. "Is it true?"
The Heist
"Look closely," Raven urged.
As the skeletal saint squinted at the mica, Raven moved. Sun & Fire Theft.
He didn't steal the sun this time. He stole her scythe.
With a flap of his wings, he snatched the handle from her bony grip and launched himself into the air.
"This is heavy!" Raven complained, struggling to stay aloft with the massive farming tool.
Santa Muerte straightened up. She looked at the mica (which was just a rock). She looked at her empty hand. She sighed. " Birds," she muttered, and vanished to find a replacement weapon.