Death isn't always violent or loud, more often it is quiet and lurks in the night like a starving cat, always watchful of the dying and the long dead. Often times, Death steals the old and young away with a blur of darkness, a shadow without shape or form.
He glides without sound through the seemingly peaceful forest, only the faint moonlight lighting his destined path. His abnormally thin frame tilts as he peers past the thick trunk of a birch tree, pale gaze settling on a frozen lake. Really, it's more of a pond than a lake, but he wasn't here to point that out. No, he was here for the frail soul in need of a reaping.
Death stepped forward, black trench coat dragging in the light snowfall. The boy had died sometime during the day, but an earthquake elsewhere had delayed the soul reaping process, and he whispered an apology to the dead body trapped beneath the ice.
Turning his gaze towards the fragile string of silver - one which only he could see, the very life span of a human - and swung his scythe back. The wickedly sharp blade glinted in the dim lighting, a looming threat of injury, a trademark tool for the old spirit.
He swung the blade forward, holding his breath to hear that fateful snap of the miniscule string - his scythe bounced off the string. For a moment, he stared, dumbfounded, as the silver gave way to gold and then blue. Lord Death chuckled, sliding back into the shadows, where the newly born winter spirit wouldn't see him. He watched the boy run along the clearing and over the pond, spreading delightful frost designs over everything he touched.
The wind caught him, finally, and blew him upwards and towards a distant town.
Death grinned, letting out a cold, devilish laugh as he waggled a long finger at the shimmering moon far above him.
"Well well my old friend, I wonder what you have in mind for the boy, although we both know - Fate has never been wrong about her prophecies before."
He looked to the shape flying with the wind, followed by a flurry of snowflakes.
"Good luck Jack Frost."