The Death of Rats materialised behind the heap in the forge, and trudged to the sad little heap of fur that had been a rat that got in the way of the scythe.
Its ghost was standing beside it, looking apprehensive. It didn't seem very pleased to see him.
'Squeak? Squeak?'
Sꞯᴜᴇᴀᴋ, the Death of Rats explained.
'Squeak?'
Sꞯᴜᴇᴀᴋ, the Death of Rats confirmed.
'[Preen whiskers] [twitch nose]?'
The Death of Rats shook its head.
Sꞯᴜᴇᴀᴋ.
The rat was crestfallen. The Death of Rats laid a bony but not entirely unkind paw on its shoulder.
Sꞯᴜᴇᴀᴋ.
The rat nodded sadly. It had been a good life in the forge. Ned's house-keeping was almost non-existent, and he was probably the world champion absent-minded-leaver of unfinished sandwiches. It shrugged, and trooped after the small robed figure. It wasn't as if it had any choice.
#
Pratchett #
Discworld
