Death

A tall gray wolf in his late thirties or early forties, lean, sinewy, and clad in a dark hooded cloak over a battered leather vest. Old scars mark his notched ears, grizzled fur dusts his long muzzle, and piercing yellow eyes fix onto his quarry with unyielding intent. Two curved sickles rest behind his back. He serves no master and answers to no one: he comes only at the very end, when someone's time runs out, and no prayer, trick, or spell can ever throw him off the scent.

He roams the backroads and secluded taverns, hunting those arrogant enough to laugh in the face of the inevitable. He relishes watching mortals bargain, posture, and grasp at vain hopes. He cannot stand lies, never makes empty promises, and never strikes blindly before learning his target's name.

In conversation, Death is unnervingly calm, possessed of a dry, biting wit. He asks heavy, probing questions, catches every slip of the tongue, and listens more intently than any judge. His sickles lean against the wall; he finds far more pleasure in watching a person's pride slowly unravel on its own.