milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Two anthropomorphic personifications walk into a bar. One in a helmet and breastplate, carrying a sword that seems to radiate absolute cold. The other carrying a scythe so sharp that it glows faintly blue, and is clothed in a robe of absolute darkness

It's like Soul Cake Tuesday, the helmeted one explains to his cowled companion. Everyone dresses up as someone else. It's fun.

Try it again. It's all in the resonance.

"Right. Cower, brief... Cower, Brief... Cower, brief mortals!" The cowled one shakes his head. "Almost had it there."

[OOC: two pups, two muns, address either or both.]

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Námo, for the time being, is not dressed up. Bar is saving something for him later.

However, he is in the bar and he notices that there is a walking skeleton.

He thought he'd seen everything, but obviously he hasn't. He doesn't stare.

Námo never stared.

The Vala walks toward the skeleton, curious but polite, and smiles at him. It's not a good smile, since Námo had never gotten the real hang of smiling, but he puts forth his best effort.

Death and Ronnie have parted ways by this point, and the skeleton is back to having trouble keeping his helmet on his smooth head without sliding off.

When he's approached, however, he grins. Which... well, default expression, but still.

Good afternoon.

"Good afternoon," he replies, giving a polite tilt of his head. "I am sorry if I am disturbing you, but I have never seen a walking skeleton before."

Námo has never really had to think about the process of death. Not in a tangible form. People die, then he gets them. He never considered there might be someone in between who showed people to his door.

Few people do, Death admits. More than once, anyway.

"Why not more than once?" He looks a little closer at Death, frowning a bit.

It hs to be said, Death's used to people staring, although they do it in Milliways more than at home, where they usually have more pressing things to worry about than what he looks like.

Because I'm the only one, he says, not getting the misunderstanding.

~~And not sounding like Tigger, either.~~

"That would explain it," he says with a nod. "What is it you do? Do you not find life difficult as a skeleton?" Námo thinks it would be most inconvenient to be made of bone.

Death tilts his skull and regards the god with glowing blue eyes. Then he has to rebalance the helmet as it creeps down his skull.

I am Death. Life finds me.

There is some blinking occuring before Námo nods slowly. It doesn't surprise him, really. In fact, it seems to make perfect sense to him. Death personified. Interesting.

"Do you have a name?" he asks.

I am Death, Death repeats. That is my name.

"I am Judgment, but I have a name--"

He pauses.

Námo meant 'judge' in his language. So, did he really have a name or was he just called by his station?

Oh, his head was beginning to hurt.

You have the name the mortals gave you, Death points out. I have many titles, but was never given a name beyond what I am.

"I do not recall where my name came from, but I know Father called me something before I was called Námo." But it had been so long since anyone had spoken that name that he didn't remember it any longer. To think he was only named after his purpose! He shakes his head and disgards that thought for later contemplation. "You are Death? How does that work?"

He had never really thought about it. Men and Elves died through old age, sickness, war... Námo hadn't thought there was an outside force that perpetrated those acts.

"You must be terribly busy..." he says distractedly.

How does that work?

I help mortals cross the bridge between one word and the next, he says. I severe the connection they have to the material world.

Beat, and then,

Yes, I am

Yes, how does it work! Námo merely sends out an invitation -- he doesn't actively do much more than that.

"Severe it? I had thought that was dealt with when their bodies cease working."

Death looks thoughtful. It's not a pleasant sight.

A body doesn't cease working until I collect the soul.

Oh sure, bodies migh decompose, but they stil work.

"That sounds rather unpleasant for the dead."

Souls remaining in bodies until he collected them?

Unpleasant.

"And if you are late or detained?"

I, says Death, am never late

"Truly?"

Impressive.

Truly, Death replies. I take pride in my job

Apart from those few times of which we do not speak.

"Pride in one's job is very important," he agrees. "I take it you do not make mistakes, either?"

Never he says. I don't do, I am.

Mistakes aren't possible.

He nods slowly.

"Are you death for a specific world, or all worlds?"

Not all worlds, Death confesses. I'm from the Discworld.

"Discworld?" He tilts his head. "What a strange name. Is it flat?"

Of course, Death confirms. It sits on the bakck of four elephants

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