Since I have to post twice (this is too long, it seems), I'll note that this concludes this little tale. For December I shall try and be seasonal (Christmassy might be too much to hope for), and then in January I'm open to suggestions again :)
The rebuke Hilda was sat on a long couch, on top of some overstuffed cushions, her ears pricked up and her head tilted slightly to one side as she observed the room. A curl of white smoke issues lazily from her little black nose, and there was a faint smell of sulphur drifting away from her. Pestilence was sat in an armchair opposite the couch, with a marble-topped coffee table between them. Some war game involving a lot of pieces with too many arms, heads and teeth was set up but no-one was playing. Famine was sat cross-legged on the floor playing with a deck of oversized tarot cards; each card was as big as two human hands set together. War was at the wet-bar, hands on his hips as he surveyed the bottles of whiskey and tried to choose on. Behind him, on the bar counter, ice cubes slowly melted in his glass. Famine set a card down on the floor in front of him, and none of the others had to look to know it was Death. There was a moment when all the noise went away and the room seemed thin, and just fleetingly it was a long wooden hall, smoky and dim, and then Death was sitting on another armchair, one foot resting on the other knee and the nerf-gun dropping to the floor. Hilda barked once, a sharp acknowledgement of his arrival, and Scuffles tried very hard to pretend he hadn’t been startled. “That was unexpected,” said Death, and War reached for the nearest bottle of whiskey and poured a generous measure into his glass, which expanded to accommodate it. “It seems that Moros was worried that Mercy would work out what was going on if he just told me what the problem was.” “He probably thought you’d disagree with him, boss,” said Pestilence. “Don’t call him boss,” said War, bringing his glass over to the couch and sitting next to Hilda. She inclined her head in his direction so he could pet her. “It gives him ideas.” “He’s pretty disagreeable, actually,” said Famine. “My dad had nothing nice to say about him. Said that he went around giving himself airs and graces and doing no real work at all.” “Moros sets the direction for the universe,” said Death. “That sounds like a lot of work to me.” “Dad also used to say that he’d seen something nasty behind the woodshed, that there were always adders around farms, and that everything us kids was cold comfort,” said Famine. “And that was before the end when he wasn’t making much sense.” “The apple didn’t fall far from that tree,” murmured War, and Pestilence shot him an evil glance in rebuke. “So we live in a world without Mercy now?” Death shrugged, which involved rather more movement than a human would expect, and a clacking of bones. “There’s a gap,” he said, his voice sounding like wind soughing across bleak moorland. “Under normal circumstances one of the smaller mercies would rise up and fill it, and we would gradually obtain a new Mercy, one with a subtly different understanding to the previous one. It’s how the Incarnates end up with so many facets of themselves.” “There’s a but coming,” said Famine. “I can feel it.” “But,” said Death as though on cue, “these are strange times. I wonder if there’s enough belief in Mercy in the world to promote a small mercy into something better?” Into the silence that that statement created Hilda farted, and Scuffles, wrinkling his nose, asked, “Then what happens to the gap?” “Gaps get filled,” said War. “Ask any camp follower.” “What?”
“Ignore him, li’l dude,” said Pestilence. “He’s being crude. Again. But he’s basically right, something will fill the gap. Whatever the humans believe in most strongly.” “That’s how you get individual Incarnates that seem to have overlapping jobs,” said Death. “Though… War, I expect you know where Terror hangs out these days?” War nodded. “It might not hurt to keep an eye on him.” Famine sighed. “I hope not,” he said. “He’s not teapot.” “What about the Accords?” asked Pestilence. “What about them?” said Death. “They are still in place, and unchanged. Narusheteli has been evicted, at least for now, and so they hold. The Infanta is unrisen--“ “—which is a blessing for whoever would have had to feed her,” said Famine. “—and in the event of needing to bend the rules a little, Cerberus is still perfectly happy changing the ghosts of squirrels at my pied-a-terre.” “What?” said Scuffles again. “He means his house,” said Famine. “A building a little bit bigger than the Palace of Versailles, and certainly not what anyone else would mean by that phrase.” “Jealous, sis?” asked Death.
Greg - ah, the four have reunited to give the tale a proper ending. Well done, sir. Incredibly enjoyable ride you've taken us on. I will miss these guys, but I expect they'll pop by now and again to let us know what they're up to.
Morganna - heh, how often do rebukes/jokes get confused and mistaken? Too often, me thinks. Particularly these days.
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Rebuke doesn't rhyme with blight and plight....
Since I have to post twice (this is too long, it seems), I'll note that this concludes this little tale. For December I shall try and be seasonal (Christmassy might be too much to hope for), and then in January I'm open to suggestions again :)
The rebuke
Hilda was sat on a long couch, on top of some overstuffed cushions, her ears pricked up and her head tilted slightly to one side as she observed the room. A curl of white smoke issues lazily from her little black nose, and there was a faint smell of sulphur drifting away from her. Pestilence was sat in an armchair opposite the couch, with a marble-topped coffee table between them. Some war game involving a lot of pieces with too many arms, heads and teeth was set up but no-one was playing. Famine was sat cross-legged on the floor playing with a deck of oversized tarot cards; each card was as big as two human hands set together. War was at the wet-bar, hands on his hips as he surveyed the bottles of whiskey and tried to choose on. Behind him, on the bar counter, ice cubes slowly melted in his glass.
Famine set a card down on the floor in front of him, and none of the others had to look to know it was Death. There was a moment when all the noise went away and the room seemed thin, and just fleetingly it was a long wooden hall, smoky and dim, and then Death was sitting on another armchair, one foot resting on the other knee and the nerf-gun dropping to the floor. Hilda barked once, a sharp acknowledgement of his arrival, and Scuffles tried very hard to pretend he hadn’t been startled.
“That was unexpected,” said Death, and War reached for the nearest bottle of whiskey and poured a generous measure into his glass, which expanded to accommodate it. “It seems that Moros was worried that Mercy would work out what was going on if he just told me what the problem was.”
“He probably thought you’d disagree with him, boss,” said Pestilence.
“Don’t call him boss,” said War, bringing his glass over to the couch and sitting next to Hilda. She inclined her head in his direction so he could pet her. “It gives him ideas.”
“He’s pretty disagreeable, actually,” said Famine. “My dad had nothing nice to say about him. Said that he went around giving himself airs and graces and doing no real work at all.”
“Moros sets the direction for the universe,” said Death. “That sounds like a lot of work to me.”
“Dad also used to say that he’d seen something nasty behind the woodshed, that there were always adders around farms, and that everything us kids was cold comfort,” said Famine. “And that was before the end when he wasn’t making much sense.”
“The apple didn’t fall far from that tree,” murmured War, and Pestilence shot him an evil glance in rebuke. “So we live in a world without Mercy now?”
Death shrugged, which involved rather more movement than a human would expect, and a clacking of bones. “There’s a gap,” he said, his voice sounding like wind soughing across bleak moorland. “Under normal circumstances one of the smaller mercies would rise up and fill it, and we would gradually obtain a new Mercy, one with a subtly different understanding to the previous one. It’s how the Incarnates end up with so many facets of themselves.”
“There’s a but coming,” said Famine. “I can feel it.”
“But,” said Death as though on cue, “these are strange times. I wonder if there’s enough belief in Mercy in the world to promote a small mercy into something better?”
Into the silence that that statement created Hilda farted, and Scuffles, wrinkling his nose, asked, “Then what happens to the gap?”
“Gaps get filled,” said War. “Ask any camp follower.”
“What?”
“Ignore him, li’l dude,” said Pestilence. “He’s being crude. Again. But he’s basically right, something will fill the gap. Whatever the humans believe in most strongly.”
“That’s how you get individual Incarnates that seem to have overlapping jobs,” said Death. “Though… War, I expect you know where Terror hangs out these days?” War nodded. “It might not hurt to keep an eye on him.”
Famine sighed. “I hope not,” he said. “He’s not teapot.”
“What about the Accords?” asked Pestilence.
“What about them?” said Death. “They are still in place, and unchanged. Narusheteli has been evicted, at least for now, and so they hold. The Infanta is unrisen--“
“—which is a blessing for whoever would have had to feed her,” said Famine.
“—and in the event of needing to bend the rules a little, Cerberus is still perfectly happy changing the ghosts of squirrels at my pied-a-terre.”
“What?” said Scuffles again.
“He means his house,” said Famine. “A building a little bit bigger than the Palace of Versailles, and certainly not what anyone else would mean by that phrase.”
“Jealous, sis?” asked Death.
I meant it as a joke
Don't look at me like that!
Greg - ah, the four have reunited to give the tale a proper ending. Well done, sir. Incredibly enjoyable ride you've taken us on. I will miss these guys, but I expect they'll pop by now and again to let us know what they're up to.
Morganna - heh, how often do rebukes/jokes get confused and mistaken? Too often, me thinks. Particularly these days.
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