Walks With Death
Death sat quietly in an elmwood chair, the tendrilled wisps of his cloak fallen across his frame and spooled around him like black ink. Beneath his beakish mask, almond eyes locked on a tall figure standing in front of him. Rare as audiences with his lordship were, even rarer was the opportunity to break monotony’s molasses grip, so he had acquiesced with glee. He went so far as to offer her a compliment.
