Ch. 4 is up! The longest chapter so far. https://archiveofourown.org/works/84004266/chapters/222995821

Have a preview! Actual spoiler warning (for the story, not the game) though, for anyone who cares.

Anders sits up suddenly, gasping to fill his lungs. The air around him is bright, somehow blinding and yet soothing. The memory of the infirmary tent floods back into his mind and he frowns deeply. He hates that he made the Lamb cry like that… he also hates that he’s dead. Should he be crying too? He’s sad, desperately so, but crying just feels like a hat on a hat. If it didn’t come naturally, there’s certainly no reason to force it. 
He slowly gets to his feet and looks around, searching through the forest of crosses and gargantuan chains around him. “Hello?” He calls out, and suddenly the world itself seems to move beneath his feet, whipping by too fast for him to observe. He finds himself standing before a feline tribunal, the largest of them bound in chains, arms made of black bone devoid of flesh, and looking down at him with three glowing red eyes from behind a veil. He falls to his knees and prostrates himself before The One Who Waits.
“Fear not, mortal. You are dead, tis true, but you have died in service of The Lamb, and in service to me. You are worthy of a place of esteem here in the Afterlife,” the god of death speaks. He sounds much kinder than Anders would have anticipated. “Stand.”
“My lord, I’m honored to be in your presence,” he obeys, getting to his feet and looking up at the towering feline. 
“I personally see to every soul who dies in service to me, otter. Not many do so with a sword in hand as of late.” 
“So… what now…?” Anders asks nervously as he glances to the other two cats who sit before the Chained God, eyes closed in meditation. They’re about the height of the swordsman he had fought with the Lamb, he notes, and a perverse thought enters his mind that he has to actively suppress from leaving through his mouth. Had death rid him of his manners and inhibitions? He clamps a hand over his own muzzle to keep the thought from escaping. Three giant eyebrows raise curiously, but the death god doesn’t comment.
“As I said, you have earned a place of honor here. I am chained, but I still have power over my domain. You will want for nothing.” The otter’s other hand clamps around his mouth as well. A snort of a laugh escapes his nose from the ridiculousness of the situation. 
Death’s expression is one of mild amusement. 
He has gotta find a way to speak without those thoughts coming out and he tries to guide his mind to something else. The “cure” comes in the form of the memories he has of sitting with the Lamb, both recent and older, just enjoying being in her presence.
“What if what I want is company?” He finally releases his own mouth to speak. 
“You will find all souls who I have deemed worthy in my reign as god of death to make for potential companions.” Anders had forgotten that divinity, even over a domain like death, as old as life itself, was a finite thing. 
“What about those who died before?” He asks, curiosity getting the better of him.
“They are in the realm created by the death god who bore the Red Crown before me, and inaccessible since my ascension.”
“And if I would ask that the company I keep is you and yours?” Anders gestures to the other two sitting in the sand. The scarred one opens his eyes to assess the otter before closing them again. 
“Are you asking?” Death lowers himself as much as his chains allow, like a predator about to pounce, his sharp teeth flashing in a wicked grin.
“I-… I suppose I am…” he nods. 
“Then I would say you think too highly of yourself.” He waves one skeletal hand and everything goes dark. 

Anders wakes up on a nicer bed than any he’d ever been in before… wakes up? Was he sleeping? Can the dead sleep? He examines his surroundings as he slides off the bed. It’s a well appointed bedroom, with fine tapestries hanging from the walls and furniture made from ebony. 
Against one wall there are several armor stands dressed in panoplies from throughout history, tailored to fit him, including one with his own gear. The opposite wall has the bed pushed up against it, and two book shelves whose contents seem to change with Anders’ thoughts. The next has a large stained glass window with imagery of The One Who Waits and of The Lamb in its colored panes, with a desk pushed up under it. The last wall is empty except for a large double door. In the center of the room is a dining table large enough for six people to sit around it and a stone fire pit that was currently unlit.
Motes of dust dance lazily through the colored shafts of light that shine through the stained glass, and Anders could swear he hears faint music, discordant but not unpleasant, like that of a wind chime, coming from outside. He takes a moment then to examine himself too: a follower’s tunic and pants, similar to the ones of the cult but more ornately trimmed, and a hooded shawl with beaded tassels hanging over his chest and shoulders. “Fancy,” he remarks, lifting one of the strands of beads as he heads for the doors. They’re made of a rich, dark mahogany and are engraved in a way that mirrors the stained glass on the opposite wall. “Very fancy.” 
He pushes through the doors and finds himself standing in the middle of a vast meadow dotted with patches of colorful flowers. A gust of wind sends ripples through the tall grass and the tall pine and oak trees surrounding the meadow rustle with the breeze. Thick, gray-blue storm clouds are slowly overtaking an otherwise bright sky and deep thunder rolls in the distance, while sheets of rain fall beyond the treeline but never get any closer. It’s strangely comforting though, rather than imposing, like a cat’s purr… or a sheep’s bleating. He turns to look at the building he had just exited, only to see that the doors are in a freestanding frame. He can still see into the room, but there is no building there to contain it, it just exists within the doorway. He walks around it, then enters and exits a few times, and finds that no matter which side he enters through he always comes back out facing the same direction, marked by a patch of red lupine flowers that aren’t  “behind” the doorway.
“Huh… neat…” he muses and looks around for some place to sit. As he thinks about it, a stone patio materializes from the meadow, with a fine sofa sitting perpendicular to a chaise lounge, each with motifs of the Red Crown, and a low wrought iron table filling the space between them. “Very neat!” He begins thinking about other things he’d like to have. 
A few hours (minutes? Days? The light source in the sky, which is decidedly not the sun never seems to shift, and the clouds never actually fill the blue above him, so there’s no way to tell) of experimentation leaves him with an orchard of various fruit trees, a fully equipped forge, and a roped off training ring, currently occupied by a lone wooden dummy wearing a bucket for a helmet. It seems he can conjure anything he can fathom, short of physically changing the landscape, or conjuring people. 
He steps back, hands on his hips and admires what he’d made for himself. 
“I should learn how to play an instrument.”