The poke of Death [closed, incomplete]
WHO: Death (silverankh) and the Corinthian (omnomeyeballs)
WHAT: Train 'til you drop!
WHERE: Death's room at the Crimson Dragon.
WHEN: Day 219, nighttime
It was a very odd thing, having to practice something that was, generally, an inherent gift. Talent. Skill. Whatever it was. Killing things, to Death, was a given - she touched it, it died, it ended, right then and there, and she took its soul to wherever it was that it went. But the rules were different here. She wasn't Death in anything but name - at least, not yet. Not until she trained - which was a ridiculous notion anyway since, really, how could he go around prodding people until they died?
Ah, but immortals - nightmares, no less - were an entirely different story. She had to practice, really. She could very well deal with being near-human here, but she'd have to go back eventually, and she very much preferred going back exactly as she was going out - maybe with a little more tan.
So Death waited at the desk of her room, foot tapping on the floor as she concentrated on the potted plant on the desktop, her fingers poking at the same spot of leaf that she'd been touching for the past week or so now.
"Well, it looks a little brown," she mused.
WHAT: Train 'til you drop!
WHERE: Death's room at the Crimson Dragon.
WHEN: Day 219, nighttime
It was a very odd thing, having to practice something that was, generally, an inherent gift. Talent. Skill. Whatever it was. Killing things, to Death, was a given - she touched it, it died, it ended, right then and there, and she took its soul to wherever it was that it went. But the rules were different here. She wasn't Death in anything but name - at least, not yet. Not until she trained - which was a ridiculous notion anyway since, really, how could he go around prodding people until they died?
Ah, but immortals - nightmares, no less - were an entirely different story. She had to practice, really. She could very well deal with being near-human here, but she'd have to go back eventually, and she very much preferred going back exactly as she was going out - maybe with a little more tan.
So Death waited at the desk of her room, foot tapping on the floor as she concentrated on the potted plant on the desktop, her fingers poking at the same spot of leaf that she'd been touching for the past week or so now.
"Well, it looks a little brown," she mused.