Death - Cloak

Now they were walking along a wide corridor hung with tapestries. Death reached into his robe
and pulled out an hourglass, peering closely at it in the dim light.
It was a particularly fine one, its glass cut into intricate facets and imprisoned in an ornate
framework of wood and brass. The words “King Olerve the Bastard” were engraved deeply into it.
The sand inside sparkled oddly. There wasn’t a lot left.

Death hummed to himself and stowed the glass away in whatever mysterious recess it had
occupied.

***

Mort - p34