Information
Death of Discworld has a minion!
Death of Rats the Skeletal Rat
Death of Rats the Skeletal Rat
Death of Discworld
Legacy Name: Death of Discworld
The
Galactic HarvesterOwner:
ThistleAge: 9 years, 4 months, 2 days
Born: January 2nd, 2015
Adopted: 9 years, 4 months, 2 days ago
Adopted: January 2nd, 2015
Statistics
- Level: 20
- Strength: 26
- Defense: 10
- Speed: 10
- Health: 10
- HP: 10/10
- Intelligence: 112
- Books Read: 96
- Food Eaten: 0
- Job: Volunteer Tree Planter
Death was puzzled. His white horse, Binky, stood calmly to one side, inspecting a pile of laundry in a way that suggested he was thinking of fodder, with part of his hindquarters cut off by the wall in a fashion that did not worry him in the slightest. But Death was having an unusual experience – he felt out of place.
He was in a bedroom, which was a very normal state of affairs for Death. So far, so good. There was a balding, white-bearded man on the bed who was clearly his proposed client. Also in order. Near the bed was a wide-brimmed black hat that looked something like a wizard's hat, but lacked the necessary point, and there were rather fewer dribbly candles about the place than he might have expected for a wizard. Wizards, could, in any case, be a bit complicated, but he knew where he was with them, and – and this was the point entering his polished skull – he did not know where he was now.
The man on the bed was regarding him with awe (which is very unusual for wizards).
“Death,” he breathed softly, “My Death.”
IN A MANNER OF SPEAKING. YOURS AND EVERYONE ELSE'S, IN THE END. Death tried the ominous grin, but if he had had a heart, it wouldn't have been in it.
“Not everyone's,” countered the man. “Only for Discworld.”
DISCWORLD. I SEE. YES. CONCEDED. I SERVE ONLY ONE WORLD. THIS, THEN, IS NOT IT?
“Oh no,” said the man, “This is Earth.”
AH. HOW UNEXPECTED.
“Yes. You've never been here before, but you came for me!” The man's eyes gleamed.
Death regarded the man solemnly, the blue lights of his eye sockets flickering intensely.
THERE IS ONLY ONE WHO HAS THE POWER TO DRAW ME BEYOND MY WORLD, AND YOU ARE NOT AZRAEL. HE IS – RATHER LARGER.
“He certainly is!” The man in the bed nodded enthusiastically. He craned his neck to look around Death at Binky, who was discreetly nibbling at a chair.
EXCUSE ME. Death strode to his horse and detached a nosebag from the saddle, which he carefully slung around Binky's head. THERE IS ONE OTHER WHO HAS THE POWER TO DRAW ME OUT OF MY WORLD.
Slowly, and creakily, Death knelt. He bowed his head until only his hood could be seen. MY CREATOR.
“That's right!” The man clapped his hands and grinned. “I wrote you! Sir Terry, at your service!”
SIR TERRY, mused Death. I CANNOT SAY IT RINGS A BELL. He paused, and his eyes flashed. BUT A BELL TOLLS FOR THEE!
Sir Terry laughed. “True,” he said, “I suppose we had better get on with it then?”
SIR TERRY?
“Yes?”
IF YOU DIE, DO I ALSO DIE? DOES MY WORLD CEASE TO BE? DOES MY...I HAVE A GRANDDAUGHTER, YOU KNOW.
“Susan,” said Sir Terry fondly, “I enjoyed writing her. I don't know if you die when I do, but I have a theory.”
Death got slowly to his skeletal feet and stood at respectful attention.
“Discworld is very popular. They have conventions! People meet just to catalogue details, and argue about them, of course. Discworld is alive in the minds of a great many people. I don't think it dies. I think it goes on without me.”
A MAN IS NOT DEAD WHILE HIS NAME IS STILL SPOKEN. I REMEMBER THAT BEING SAID. YOU MUST HAVE WRITTEN IT.
“Yes.”
I TOOK IT AS A PERSONAL SLIGHT.
“I'm sorry.”
WELL. IT'S SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT. ARE YOU ROYALTY?”
“No. Why?”
I AM TRYING TO DECIDE WHETHER TO USE THE SWORD OR THE SCYTHE.
“The scythe, please. If you would use it for Sam Vimes and Granny Weatherwax, it's good enough for me.”
Death nodded. With a “tzziiing” the outline of a scythe blade materialized from the handle he held. Conscious of the great responsibility on him, he took a stance, placed his hands carefully, swung, and cut. There was a falling away.
Sir Terry sat up a little straighter, then fell back against the pillows. Then he climbed carefully out of bed, leaving his body behind.
Death gestured, and a pair of double doors appeared, outlined in blue light.
Sir Terry closed his eyes, and his lips moved as he “wrote” one last time. He opened them and looked at Death, who straightened, looked back at Sir Terry, and nodded.
AT LAST, SIR TERRY, WE MUST WALK TOGETHER.
Terry took Death's arm and followed him through the doors and on to the black desert under the endless night.
The End.
In loving and respectful memory of Sir Terry Pratchett,
28 April 1948 - 12 March 2015
He was in a bedroom, which was a very normal state of affairs for Death. So far, so good. There was a balding, white-bearded man on the bed who was clearly his proposed client. Also in order. Near the bed was a wide-brimmed black hat that looked something like a wizard's hat, but lacked the necessary point, and there were rather fewer dribbly candles about the place than he might have expected for a wizard. Wizards, could, in any case, be a bit complicated, but he knew where he was with them, and – and this was the point entering his polished skull – he did not know where he was now.
The man on the bed was regarding him with awe (which is very unusual for wizards).
“Death,” he breathed softly, “My Death.”
IN A MANNER OF SPEAKING. YOURS AND EVERYONE ELSE'S, IN THE END. Death tried the ominous grin, but if he had had a heart, it wouldn't have been in it.
“Not everyone's,” countered the man. “Only for Discworld.”
DISCWORLD. I SEE. YES. CONCEDED. I SERVE ONLY ONE WORLD. THIS, THEN, IS NOT IT?
“Oh no,” said the man, “This is Earth.”
AH. HOW UNEXPECTED.
“Yes. You've never been here before, but you came for me!” The man's eyes gleamed.
Death regarded the man solemnly, the blue lights of his eye sockets flickering intensely.
THERE IS ONLY ONE WHO HAS THE POWER TO DRAW ME BEYOND MY WORLD, AND YOU ARE NOT AZRAEL. HE IS – RATHER LARGER.
“He certainly is!” The man in the bed nodded enthusiastically. He craned his neck to look around Death at Binky, who was discreetly nibbling at a chair.
EXCUSE ME. Death strode to his horse and detached a nosebag from the saddle, which he carefully slung around Binky's head. THERE IS ONE OTHER WHO HAS THE POWER TO DRAW ME OUT OF MY WORLD.
Slowly, and creakily, Death knelt. He bowed his head until only his hood could be seen. MY CREATOR.
“That's right!” The man clapped his hands and grinned. “I wrote you! Sir Terry, at your service!”
SIR TERRY, mused Death. I CANNOT SAY IT RINGS A BELL. He paused, and his eyes flashed. BUT A BELL TOLLS FOR THEE!
Sir Terry laughed. “True,” he said, “I suppose we had better get on with it then?”
SIR TERRY?
“Yes?”
IF YOU DIE, DO I ALSO DIE? DOES MY WORLD CEASE TO BE? DOES MY...I HAVE A GRANDDAUGHTER, YOU KNOW.
“Susan,” said Sir Terry fondly, “I enjoyed writing her. I don't know if you die when I do, but I have a theory.”
Death got slowly to his skeletal feet and stood at respectful attention.
“Discworld is very popular. They have conventions! People meet just to catalogue details, and argue about them, of course. Discworld is alive in the minds of a great many people. I don't think it dies. I think it goes on without me.”
A MAN IS NOT DEAD WHILE HIS NAME IS STILL SPOKEN. I REMEMBER THAT BEING SAID. YOU MUST HAVE WRITTEN IT.
“Yes.”
I TOOK IT AS A PERSONAL SLIGHT.
“I'm sorry.”
WELL. IT'S SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT. ARE YOU ROYALTY?”
“No. Why?”
I AM TRYING TO DECIDE WHETHER TO USE THE SWORD OR THE SCYTHE.
“The scythe, please. If you would use it for Sam Vimes and Granny Weatherwax, it's good enough for me.”
Death nodded. With a “tzziiing” the outline of a scythe blade materialized from the handle he held. Conscious of the great responsibility on him, he took a stance, placed his hands carefully, swung, and cut. There was a falling away.
Sir Terry sat up a little straighter, then fell back against the pillows. Then he climbed carefully out of bed, leaving his body behind.
Death gestured, and a pair of double doors appeared, outlined in blue light.
Sir Terry closed his eyes, and his lips moved as he “wrote” one last time. He opened them and looked at Death, who straightened, looked back at Sir Terry, and nodded.
AT LAST, SIR TERRY, WE MUST WALK TOGETHER.
Terry took Death's arm and followed him through the doors and on to the black desert under the endless night.
The End.
In loving and respectful memory of Sir Terry Pratchett,
28 April 1948 - 12 March 2015
Pet Treasure
Scythe of the Widow
Black Wrapped Kitten Doll
Brown Wrapped Kitten Doll
Mint Wrapped Kitten Doll
Pink Wrapped Kitten Doll
Raspberry Wrapped Kitten Doll
Red Wrapped Kitten Doll
White Wrapped Kitten Doll
Baggins
Snowflaik In A Bag Plushie
Crystal Hourglass
Smugly
Dumplin
Panzerkatze
Celestial Scythe Blade
Shnookums
Wet Whiskers
Elegant Hourglass
Everfrost Hourglass
Simple Nightmare Harvester Figure
Bejeweled
Staring Sphynx
Loved Poseable Grumpy Doll
Terratuga
Diamas
Luminous Peridot Scythe
Massive Scythe of Slaying
Father Time Scythe
Scythe
Black and White Candy Scythe
Ghostly Costume Scythe
Pumpkin Candy Scythe
Black and Red Candy Scythe
Harvester Scythe of Doom
Death Scythe
Slythe and Dice
Empty Hourglass
Heavy Hourglass
Spilled Sands of Time
Commemorative Saherimos Hourglass
Blood-Filled Hourglass
Sands of Time
Baby New Year Hourglass
Delish Blaze Hourglass
Lilac Mahar Hourglass
Shattered Hourglass
The End of Time
Black Sand
Grandparent Sticker
Sheaf of Ripe Wheat
Death Snow Globe
Bag Full Of Cats
Crowned Mip
Folicat
Snooty Kitty
Purrito
Kit and Caboodle
Covery
Captain
Bad Luck Trio
Enola
Meowli
Spring Kitty
Bellows
Willet
Barrels
Kneebone
Calucko
Goodgirl Kitten Companions
Besties
Soft Kitty Beanbag
Pampered Siamese
Flabby Tabby
Spyte
Black Cat
Catten
Sewts
Misfortunat
Springbreezy
Patches
Paaka
13th Cat
Kittito
Sparta