Quote:
...And then they heard the clip-clop of hooves, which boomed rather more loudly around the chilly square than common acoustics should really allow. In fact clip-clop was an astonishingly inaccurate word for the kind of noise which rattled around Mort's head; clip-clop suggested a rather jolly little pony, quite possibly wearing a straw hat with holes cut out for its ears. An edge to this sound made it very clear that straw hats weren't an option.
The horse entered the square by the Hub road, steam curling off its huge damp white flanks and sparks striking up from the cobbles beneath it. It trotted proudly, like a war charger. It was definitely not wearing a hat.
The tall figure on its back was wrapped up against the cold. When the horse reached the center of the square the rider dismounted, slowly, and fumbled with something behind the saddle. Eventually he -- or she -- produced a nosebag, fastened it over the horse's ears, and gave it a friendly pat on the neck.
The air took on a thick, greasy feel, and the deep shadows around Mork became edged with blue and purple rainbows. The rider strode towards him, black cloak billowing and feet making little clicking sounds on the cobbles. They were the only noises--silence clamped down on the square like freat drifts of cotton wool.
The impressive effect was rather spoilt by a patch of ice.
OH BUGGER.
The horse entered the square by the Hub road, steam curling off its huge damp white flanks and sparks striking up from the cobbles beneath it. It trotted proudly, like a war charger. It was definitely not wearing a hat.
The tall figure on its back was wrapped up against the cold. When the horse reached the center of the square the rider dismounted, slowly, and fumbled with something behind the saddle. Eventually he -- or she -- produced a nosebag, fastened it over the horse's ears, and gave it a friendly pat on the neck.
The air took on a thick, greasy feel, and the deep shadows around Mork became edged with blue and purple rainbows. The rider strode towards him, black cloak billowing and feet making little clicking sounds on the cobbles. They were the only noises--silence clamped down on the square like freat drifts of cotton wool.
The impressive effect was rather spoilt by a patch of ice.
OH BUGGER.
From Terry Pratchett's Mort, the story where Death takes up an apprentice.
