In answer to your question about a month back in the comments, I think we're up to about 20,000 words in this tale, but we're getting to the conclusion now, so it looks like you've just got a novella this time. The next one will have to be shorter :)
Still standing Who is Mercy trying to avoid asked Cernunnos wordlessly. She keeps drifting around, and she’s trying to make it look casual, but I’ve never seen her move so much in all the time I’ve known her. She’s much keener on lying on couches and being fed peeled grapes and listening to supplicants. But she hasn’t sat down in an hour – see, she’s still standing now! Death looked around the Long Hall. The discussion was still going strongly, with Incarnates forming small groups and drifting amongst them. He had a good idea of who held the strongest opinions, and to his eyes it looked like the decision was tipping towards not changing the Accords. The little blob-god was making some very enthusiastic cases for updating the Accords to bind Death more tightly, but it was only being humoured by the others. Mercy was once again on the move, drifting casually from a group of Greek Gods who were mostly concerned about hunting, fishing and drinking – Dionysus appeared to have brought his own bar with him and was serving people with alacrity and enthusiasm – towards a group of Haitian Loa. I don’t know, said Death in the same wordless way. Are you sure there’s just one person she’s avoiding? My real interest is in why Mercy would avoid anyone, replied Cernunnos. Surely being who she is she’s unable to shun? Death nodded, aware that Cernunnos would see the gesture and know that it was intended for him. Then his eyes moved to the main door, which was opening. “A latecomer?” said Death out loud, his voice slicing through conversations and arguments like a piano wire through cheese. “I am never late,” replied Moros, standing in the doorway. “I come when needed, as needed.” Moros, the aspect of Destiny better known as Doom, had chosen to appear as with long curly brown hair that cascaded over his shoulders, heavy dark eyebrows over brooding eyes, a roman nose and full, reddened lips. His skin was pale and he was wearing a gold brocade coat with white lace collars and cuffs and red accents. One hand held a waist-height gold-topped cane, and a heavy blue-and-gold cape dropped from his left shoulder. For a moment Death only stared, and then he nodded. A second not-throne appeared at his left, the dais expanding and shuffling Incarnates aside. Moros strolled through the Hall, and the Incarnates made space for him. He seated himself next to Death, and looked around. “Nice,” he said quietly. “Bit rustic, but it’s nice to get away from modern life from time to time.” “Modern life?” said Death, just as quietly. “You’re the spitting image of Louis XIV, the Sun King, and you want to talk about modern?” Moros spotted the nerf gun. “Ha!” He laughed. “Fine, then we’re both as deceptive as each other?” “What do you expect from the only two beings that will be left at the end?” “Not for long,” said Moros. “When we’re the only ones left you too must meet your doom.” “And then you will be unborn back into the chaos from when you came.”
2 comments:
In answer to your question about a month back in the comments, I think we're up to about 20,000 words in this tale, but we're getting to the conclusion now, so it looks like you've just got a novella this time. The next one will have to be shorter :)
Still standing
Who is Mercy trying to avoid asked Cernunnos wordlessly. She keeps drifting around, and she’s trying to make it look casual, but I’ve never seen her move so much in all the time I’ve known her. She’s much keener on lying on couches and being fed peeled grapes and listening to supplicants. But she hasn’t sat down in an hour – see, she’s still standing now!
Death looked around the Long Hall. The discussion was still going strongly, with Incarnates forming small groups and drifting amongst them. He had a good idea of who held the strongest opinions, and to his eyes it looked like the decision was tipping towards not changing the Accords. The little blob-god was making some very enthusiastic cases for updating the Accords to bind Death more tightly, but it was only being humoured by the others. Mercy was once again on the move, drifting casually from a group of Greek Gods who were mostly concerned about hunting, fishing and drinking – Dionysus appeared to have brought his own bar with him and was serving people with alacrity and enthusiasm – towards a group of Haitian Loa.
I don’t know, said Death in the same wordless way. Are you sure there’s just one person she’s avoiding?
My real interest is in why Mercy would avoid anyone, replied Cernunnos. Surely being who she is she’s unable to shun?
Death nodded, aware that Cernunnos would see the gesture and know that it was intended for him. Then his eyes moved to the main door, which was opening.
“A latecomer?” said Death out loud, his voice slicing through conversations and arguments like a piano wire through cheese.
“I am never late,” replied Moros, standing in the doorway. “I come when needed, as needed.”
Moros, the aspect of Destiny better known as Doom, had chosen to appear as with long curly brown hair that cascaded over his shoulders, heavy dark eyebrows over brooding eyes, a roman nose and full, reddened lips. His skin was pale and he was wearing a gold brocade coat with white lace collars and cuffs and red accents. One hand held a waist-height gold-topped cane, and a heavy blue-and-gold cape dropped from his left shoulder. For a moment Death only stared, and then he nodded. A second not-throne appeared at his left, the dais expanding and shuffling Incarnates aside. Moros strolled through the Hall, and the Incarnates made space for him. He seated himself next to Death, and looked around.
“Nice,” he said quietly. “Bit rustic, but it’s nice to get away from modern life from time to time.”
“Modern life?” said Death, just as quietly. “You’re the spitting image of Louis XIV, the Sun King, and you want to talk about modern?”
Moros spotted the nerf gun. “Ha!” He laughed. “Fine, then we’re both as deceptive as each other?”
“What do you expect from the only two beings that will be left at the end?”
“Not for long,” said Moros. “When we’re the only ones left you too must meet your doom.”
“And then you will be unborn back into the chaos from when you came.”
Greg - I'm not convinced that you're able to do shorter, but okay :)
Doom? This... somehow just got even more interesting. Quite the entrance, by the way.
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