How do we get from celebrating passing your probation to inconsequential? Did your co-workers only buy you one cake to congratulate you instead of the traditional one-per-person? (I may be mixing up cake and doughnuts, of course).
Inconsequential Death was actually sitting on the map-table, swinging his legs back and forth and rocking very slightly from side-to-side. The orange nerf-gun, his weapon-of-choice for the moment while the scythe blade was being sharpened, was laid on top of a map of Ohio, and one black boot had slipped off his foot and was lying on its side on the floor. "Bro," said Famine, holding up a hand for a high-five. Death smiled and shook his head. Famine lowered his hand as the other two arrived. Behind them, staying out of earshot but where he could see them, Scuffles sat back down and the hellhound promptly reasserted her place on his lap. "Rude, sis," said Famine. There was a moment where it felt like the whole world was holding its breath, and then the colours seemed to drain out of everything. Shadows darkened to abyssal blackness and a stark white illumination came from somewhere overhead, but nowhere that could be pinpointed. There was a sobbing, faint as though far away, and the temperature fell far enough that if any of them had needed to breathe they would have created small, dense clouds of proto-snow in front of their faces. "Fam," said Famine, with a lot of reproach. When he spoke there was a sensation of gnawing hunger in stomachs, and a dread of harvest failure that felt like a huge shadow behind.
"Stop it," said Death. "Antics are inconsequential, and what I want to talk to you about is important. For now." Famine shrugged, and as he did so the general air of sulky teenager about him evaporated and the reality of an ancient skeletal hunger, a locust bound into human form but retaining primal urges that were fuelled by the fires that birthed the universe, resumed itself in the universe. Behind him Pestilence shimmered and seemed like a cloud of black midges, disease carrying insects that could devour human, animal or plant, rotting them from within and decaying them without. Electricity danced inside the cloud, a reminder than modern pestilence could be mental as well; poisonous words on the internet carrying their infernal payload from fingers to brain, polluting and corrupting until the weight was too heavy and frail human flesh had to break. War glowed like the edges of thunderclouds containing lightning until it was strong enough to break free, and the sobbing was replaced near him by blaring klaxons and chemical-assault sirens. His eyes were white and shining, angelic if you remembered that angels cared nothing for humanity and blindly did the bidding of whatever god instructed them, no matter how insensate, capricious or malevolent. "Still rude, sis," said Famine. "What's got your goat then?" Death might have smiled, but it evaporated like tears in the flame of a blowtorch, and then there was only a sense that you were being watched, and even that was on sufferance. "The Accords," said Death, his voice sonorous and pleasant. "A set of agreements that were signed when we divided up the world amongst us. A good idea at the time, but now it seems that some of the humans have found a way to use them against us." "We were assigned as the policemen," said Pestilence. "Though we didn't have that word then." "Or the idea," said War. "And how strange it seems now that we who are daily invoked by squabbling pismires should be the ones to safeguard their place in this creation." "Nevertheless," said Death. "The Fourth Accord allows for the Infanta di Castile, when incarnate, to instruct me to act for three hours every century." "The Elephant of Castile," said Famine. "I remember her, that wasn't a nickname but it was an understatement. My God but that woman could eat. My dad wanted to recruiter her as Greed but the Accords don't allow for it. She starved half of Burgos before someone figured out how to discarnate her." Death glared at Famine, who quailed. "Someone is trying to reincarnate her," he said. "I can feel their intention, and it is hecatomb. This should be stopped."
3 comments:
How do we get from celebrating passing your probation to inconsequential? Did your co-workers only buy you one cake to congratulate you instead of the traditional one-per-person? (I may be mixing up cake and doughnuts, of course).
Inconsequential
Death was actually sitting on the map-table, swinging his legs back and forth and rocking very slightly from side-to-side. The orange nerf-gun, his weapon-of-choice for the moment while the scythe blade was being sharpened, was laid on top of a map of Ohio, and one black boot had slipped off his foot and was lying on its side on the floor.
"Bro," said Famine, holding up a hand for a high-five. Death smiled and shook his head. Famine lowered his hand as the other two arrived. Behind them, staying out of earshot but where he could see them, Scuffles sat back down and the hellhound promptly reasserted her place on his lap.
"Rude, sis," said Famine.
There was a moment where it felt like the whole world was holding its breath, and then the colours seemed to drain out of everything. Shadows darkened to abyssal blackness and a stark white illumination came from somewhere overhead, but nowhere that could be pinpointed. There was a sobbing, faint as though far away, and the temperature fell far enough that if any of them had needed to breathe they would have created small, dense clouds of proto-snow in front of their faces.
"Fam," said Famine, with a lot of reproach. When he spoke there was a sensation of gnawing hunger in stomachs, and a dread of harvest failure that felt like a huge shadow behind.
"Stop it," said Death. "Antics are inconsequential, and what I want to talk to you about is important. For now."
Famine shrugged, and as he did so the general air of sulky teenager about him evaporated and the reality of an ancient skeletal hunger, a locust bound into human form but retaining primal urges that were fuelled by the fires that birthed the universe, resumed itself in the universe. Behind him Pestilence shimmered and seemed like a cloud of black midges, disease carrying insects that could devour human, animal or plant, rotting them from within and decaying them without. Electricity danced inside the cloud, a reminder than modern pestilence could be mental as well; poisonous words on the internet carrying their infernal payload from fingers to brain, polluting and corrupting until the weight was too heavy and frail human flesh had to break. War glowed like the edges of thunderclouds containing lightning until it was strong enough to break free, and the sobbing was replaced near him by blaring klaxons and chemical-assault sirens. His eyes were white and shining, angelic if you remembered that angels cared nothing for humanity and blindly did the bidding of whatever god instructed them, no matter how insensate, capricious or malevolent.
"Still rude, sis," said Famine. "What's got your goat then?"
Death might have smiled, but it evaporated like tears in the flame of a blowtorch, and then there was only a sense that you were being watched, and even that was on sufferance.
"The Accords," said Death, his voice sonorous and pleasant. "A set of agreements that were signed when we divided up the world amongst us. A good idea at the time, but now it seems that some of the humans have found a way to use them against us."
"We were assigned as the policemen," said Pestilence. "Though we didn't have that word then."
"Or the idea," said War. "And how strange it seems now that we who are daily invoked by squabbling pismires should be the ones to safeguard their place in this creation."
"Nevertheless," said Death. "The Fourth Accord allows for the Infanta di Castile, when incarnate, to instruct me to act for three hours every century."
"The Elephant of Castile," said Famine. "I remember her, that wasn't a nickname but it was an understatement. My God but that woman could eat. My dad wanted to recruiter her as Greed but the Accords don't allow for it. She starved half of Burgos before someone figured out how to discarnate her."
Death glared at Famine, who quailed. "Someone is trying to reincarnate her," he said. "I can feel their intention, and it is hecatomb. This should be stopped."
Greg - I'm... not sure where this one came from. Don't think it was work related though.
Hmm, I do believe you're setting us up for quite the tale here. I am very much looking forward to watching this play out.
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