Authors Comment



Terry Pratchet, one of my favourite authors, once wrote of Discworld that it offered him a wide scope for storyline and characters. Unlike other writers, if he wants to write a detective novel, a romance, a science fiction fantasy, or ghost story, all that he has do to is set it on the Disc. There he can introduce new characters, plots, or anything else, without alienating his loyal fan base. After all he has an entire world to play with. So, if the Discworld works for comedy, tragedy, armies, thieves (As long as their membership to the guild is fully paid up.), lovers and trolls, wouldn’t it work just as well for the fetish writer? After all, the Patricians Palace does boast the most modern, well maintained and deepest, darkest dungeon this side of the hub?



Now if you will excuse me I am just off to pack. Ankh Morpork awaits.



A Fitting Mount



Death walked across his yard towards the stables. He walked with a purposeful stride that could best be described as ominous, accompanied by the click clack of bone on cobbles. In his hand he carried a scythe, while in his other he clutched a number of large hour glasses. As was fitting, he wore a black cloak and hood, joined at the shoulder with a golden clasp depicting the letter omega. Blue eyes shone from underneath the hood, like twin lamps of sapphire.



This scene would, to the casual observer, appear to be out of character with the surroundings. Deaths domain consisted of, to the naked eye, a picturesque cottage, with a beautifully maintained rose garden. The garden also boasted a tree, complete with childs swing, a pond and an expansive lawn. A range of mountains acted as a back drop to this charming schene.



Closer inspection would reveal that, the roses were all black. Although a swing hung from the tree, no rope secured it to the branch. If one was to spend a pleasant day walking towards the mountains, one would find that, upon arrival, the rocks lacked depth, or substance, like an oil painting where it is obvious that, when viewed from half a room away, you are looking at a mountain, but when you examine the picture more closely you can not tell what the various blobs and blotches mean. Walking into the house one discovers that, rather than quaint, comfortable little rooms, strewn with lacy furniture, dark wooden tables and stone fire places, they are in fact, unnervingly infinite.



Alfred, Deaths servant, stood holding Deaths horse. Alfred had worked for the Master for centuries. At first sight, the same casual observer who enjoys walking in the mountains, would be excused for thinking that Alfred was a particularly grumpy and set in his ways. He would think that here was an example of someone who looked so old and unwell that they had only a short time to live. They would be right on all counts. Alfred only had two days, twenty seven minutes and fifty four seconds of life left in his hour glass. He does not, therefore, visit the mortal plane as often as he used to.

“THANK YOU ALFRED, Deaths voice boomed with the finality of tomb door closing, as he took the rains of his horse, placed the hour glasses into the horses saddle bags, the scythe into a special holder on the rear of the saddle and levered himself onto his steed.



Temple depictions of Deaths horse would have you believe that Death rode a mount as skeletal as its owner, breathing fire from its nostrils and fixing you with its menacing blue glowing coals for eyes. To be fair, Death had tried to riding one, but it was not very comfortable and a skeletal horse would tend to fall to pieces whenever there was a particularly large bump in the road, or slight shift in causality. So Death had opted for a real mount, who he called Binkey.



Binkey was large, at least 18 hands high and pale, very, very pale. True, Binkey did have glowing blue eyes and although fire did not sprout from his nostrils, there was a certain fireyness about his breath. Everything about Binkey said horse. While other mounts could claim to be fairly equine, Binkey was, from the curve of the muscles on his neck, to the shine of his pale hooves, a very real horse. In the same way that Death was the ultimate reality, Deaths horse was a frighteningly real horse.



“ARE YOU SURE I CAN’T OFFER YOU A LIFT? Death enquired of the small figure that had accompanied Death to the stable.



“SQUEAK, said the figure, who was a rather large skeletal rat, who, like Death, wore a dark, hooded, cloak and carried a small scythe that, despite its size was, like the larger version that Death carried, sharp enough to cut the air.



“VERY WELL. I WILL SEE YOU LATER.”



With that, death pulled his right leg backwards along the flank, touched the underside of Binkeys belly with his left leg and thrust his hips slightly forward.



Binkey shot off across the courtyard as he went from stationary to canter in the blink of a blue, luminous coal, before taking off into the multi chromatic reality sky.



The Death of Rats strode into the stable, equally as purposeful as his taller colleague. Moments later he rode out into the courtyard on his own, less imposing transport. True the tack and saddle had obviously been designed by the same crazed saddle maker, but the small shaggy dog that served as this Deaths transportation, lacked a certain presence of his taller counter part.



Never the less, the Death of rats asked for canter, or the doggy equivalent and had to settle to a rather ungainly, lopsided, lop.