Planning your next holiday? Or is the weather reminding you of Death Valley? :)
Death Valley Death stepped out of absolute whiteness as though stepping out of a cloud. He set his nerf gun down on the ground – short green grass uniformly covering black soil with small brown-and-white rocks set artfully about – and rubbed his eyes. The headache that had been forming from the dazzling whiteness receded, as did the grass beneath his feet. He picked up the nerf gun and smiled: here in this Valley there was usually no death, and no Death, and the inhabitants were scared of him. The ground sloped down in front of him, and to the sides high orange cliffs rose upwards. The grass grew outside the shadow of the cliffs, so it formed a tongue of green extending down the valley. Behind him was pure whiteness; not a wall, not a solid presence at all, just dazzling nothingness painted white as though it were being done up ready to be sold. He swung the gun casually, his finger through the trigger-guard as though he were a new mercenary who hadn’t yet learned about caution, and strolled down into the valley. Where the grass ended and the shadow began there was first dark soil still which faded out towards the cliffs into the same kind of orange rock that had been lifted aloft by tectonic pressure. As Death walked light flickered inside the rock and sigils appeared, glowing on its surface and writing out words of praise to the being that dwelled here. Death was careful to stay on the grass, well aware that the easiest way to attract attention was to step on a sigil, especially one that named an entity. He carried on walking, noting that the air was getting warmer and smells of peat, burned wood and the first ice of autumn were rising around him. He breathed in deeply, enjoying them, and letting them carry his memories back briefly five thousand years. As he did so, a long-hall, a log-cabin like structure that stretched for half a mile and was roofed with animal skins and dusted with snow, pulled free of him memory and coalesced in the valley in front of him. He allowed himself a smile and approached, feeling the stir of powerful, ancient minds. The first appeared in front of him as he reached the door of the long-hall: it had the head of a deer with mighty, branching antlers that stretched out metres to each side, the chest of a crocodile or armadillo and a tangled mess of arms and legs that seemed half-formed and half-thought about. “It is not time,” said the deer head, the words bleating out with difficulty from a jaw that struggled to move the right way to make the sounds. It shuffled forward slightly as though it weren’t already blocking Death’s approach. “It is always my time,” said Death. The deer head shivered and then looked angry with itself. “But this is a social visit, not business.” The deer head twisted, its antlers batting against the floor and the walls of the long-hall as it eyed Death with eyes set in either side of its head. “No scythe, no sword,” it spat out. A long, pink tongue licked its snout. “Though you are tricky, Death.” “I am the Ender of all things,” said Death. “I’m not tricky. I’m just persistent.”
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Planning your next holiday? Or is the weather reminding you of Death Valley? :)
Death Valley
Death stepped out of absolute whiteness as though stepping out of a cloud. He set his nerf gun down on the ground – short green grass uniformly covering black soil with small brown-and-white rocks set artfully about – and rubbed his eyes. The headache that had been forming from the dazzling whiteness receded, as did the grass beneath his feet. He picked up the nerf gun and smiled: here in this Valley there was usually no death, and no Death, and the inhabitants were scared of him.
The ground sloped down in front of him, and to the sides high orange cliffs rose upwards. The grass grew outside the shadow of the cliffs, so it formed a tongue of green extending down the valley. Behind him was pure whiteness; not a wall, not a solid presence at all, just dazzling nothingness painted white as though it were being done up ready to be sold. He swung the gun casually, his finger through the trigger-guard as though he were a new mercenary who hadn’t yet learned about caution, and strolled down into the valley.
Where the grass ended and the shadow began there was first dark soil still which faded out towards the cliffs into the same kind of orange rock that had been lifted aloft by tectonic pressure. As Death walked light flickered inside the rock and sigils appeared, glowing on its surface and writing out words of praise to the being that dwelled here. Death was careful to stay on the grass, well aware that the easiest way to attract attention was to step on a sigil, especially one that named an entity. He carried on walking, noting that the air was getting warmer and smells of peat, burned wood and the first ice of autumn were rising around him. He breathed in deeply, enjoying them, and letting them carry his memories back briefly five thousand years. As he did so, a long-hall, a log-cabin like structure that stretched for half a mile and was roofed with animal skins and dusted with snow, pulled free of him memory and coalesced in the valley in front of him. He allowed himself a smile and approached, feeling the stir of powerful, ancient minds.
The first appeared in front of him as he reached the door of the long-hall: it had the head of a deer with mighty, branching antlers that stretched out metres to each side, the chest of a crocodile or armadillo and a tangled mess of arms and legs that seemed half-formed and half-thought about.
“It is not time,” said the deer head, the words bleating out with difficulty from a jaw that struggled to move the right way to make the sounds. It shuffled forward slightly as though it weren’t already blocking Death’s approach.
“It is always my time,” said Death. The deer head shivered and then looked angry with itself. “But this is a social visit, not business.”
The deer head twisted, its antlers batting against the floor and the walls of the long-hall as it eyed Death with eyes set in either side of its head. “No scythe, no sword,” it spat out. A long, pink tongue licked its snout. “Though you are tricky, Death.”
“I am the Ender of all things,” said Death. “I’m not tricky. I’m just persistent.”
Greg - oh, right, this was the prompt I was just talking about...
Hmm. And who is Death visiting on business? I am very much intrigued.
(Fantastic descriptions abound in this one, by the way)
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