Hoofbeats and a Zebra

[ultima_mortis]

Death isn't one for creativity. He just isn't. He fails, more often and not, in incredibly specific and spectacular ways, and this is enough for him to live in relative happiness. He is without his mount today, but that doesn't mean he isn't about to do something with his time. There is a small cart next to where he's sitting filled with bags of soil and several packets of wheat seeds. His hands, however, are occupied by a take-out container filled with curry and rice. He takes small spoonfuls and eats them, in his own Death-y way. It all sort of vanishes in a void as he takes bite after bite, carefully moving his jaw to break down the food into pieces that aren't going to choke much of anyone.

The Grim Reaper basks in the sun and lets the warmth soak in through his robe and into his bones. It's a good, good day.

I HAVE TO WONDER HOW ONE DECIDES TO MAKE FOODS LIKE CURRY. THERE HAS TO BE A KIND OF NECCESSITY TO IT, IN ADDITION TO A DESIRE FOR FLAVOR. The musings distract him enough that he does not notice the small-ish cat approaching until it suddenly meows to indicate it's presence to Death. OH. HELLO THERE. The shift in Death's tone is a subtle one, but even he isn't immune to the effect of talking more sweetly in the presence of his favorite animal. DO YOU SEE ME FOR WHAT I AM?