The Death of Discworld is a traditionalist, which is appropriate for an anthropomorphic personification whose shop floor is a flat world carried on the back of an enormous turtle. He wears a black robe, carries a scythe, rides a white horse and talks in a heavy yet peculiarly hollow voice. He has no vocal cords to speak with, and therefore the words enter the head with no involvement from the ears. His voice could be described as being like two concrete blocks being rubbed together or the slamming of coffin lids. Death owes his existence in this incarnation to humanity's ancient tendency to put faces to names. He is immortal, although technically the term applies only to those who live forever, and indeed Death does not have a life, as such. He has something subtly other. The difference is like that between a marvelous view, and a very good painting of a marvelous view. But... observation, now known to affect the thing observed, also affects the observer... After hundreds of thousands of years of mindless reaping, the Death of Discworld began to take an interest in his job. Who were they, these brief mortals whose one aim seemed to be to make their tiny lives as complicated as possible? Why, when the existence of their entire species was shorter than the tiniest heartbeat of the universe, did they waste time as though they had a permanent supply of the stuff? Was it at all possible that they had some sort of secret? The observer changed... Now, in his pursuit of something he has no name for yet. Instinct: to release the spirits of dead beings.

• Summon Binky
• Unimpeded Phasing
• Reveal Knowledge of the Future