Feb. 22nd, 2021

ultima_mortis: (Default)
[personal profile] ultima_mortis

There is a myriad of suitable mounts in the world. Some are mounts for trophies, fastened to walls and awaiting their decorations. Some are more practical displays of weaponry, even if there’s no intention to execute the occasional rude houseguest. For those like Death, the most ideal mount is often the least expected. Sure, one can try a skeletal horse or a horse on fire, but one runs into the risks of being singed or simply rattling too much when riding around to be appropriately intimidating.

 
The Death of the Discworld rides a pale horse. It’s a grand stallion with a well-groomed mane. Death named him Binky. Binky’s residence in the Grey Country (that being Death’s personal pocket dimension from which he monitors all life) was a carefully constructed, if slightly Escher-esque stable connected to the mansion Death called home.
 
When one is so used to using the many conduits of the world, it’s easier than one might think to suddenly find themselves in a wholly unfamiliar location. Death looks up from an hourglass in his hand and peers around at the queer state of the Nexus. Pocket dimension, to be sure. It’s exact measurements…less obvious. If Death had the flesh to do so, he’d be biting his lip in a certain amount of confusion. He leaned down a bit to rub Binky’s neck, earning a snort from the horse.
 
OH DEAR. The voice of Death is beyond mere vibrations of air. It sinks into the very soul, like the sound of a coffin lid having the last nail put into place. BINKY, WE ARE NOT ANYWHERE NEAR THE DISC, ARE WE?

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