Death is one of four(five sometimes, when Conquest is Pestilence and Pestilence Conquest — but they are distinct separate entities that do not overlap, they are not creases on the same paper — they are not tailored from the same cloth). Their beings were forged in two different stars: distilled from their light, folded into shadows. All of them burn. All of them burn alone.
Death burns in pale, sickly tones.
When the Garden was freshly painted, the ink on the canvass not quite set — Death walked his first few steps while flowers leaned away from his touch. He cannot unmake, he is a step lower on the cosmic ladder: he can take what was forged in stardust and ingest it; spit it as ash to ash, dust to dust. (All the Horsemen eat what God created, it is their purpose — sometimes, sometimes they even give the angels knife-carved smiles).
Death does not hate as people understand hate: his is a loathing that is primal, spun in the inside of a black hole where he came into being. There is nothing impartial about the lives he grinds beneath his heel, he takes them all but some of his executions carry with a more vindictive pleasure. And yet his eyes are fixed on the cosmos, aspiring usurpation: if Death could make the world anew, flowers would lean towards him like a second sun.
Death is not an art, though he agrees once with Michael that dying might be. They walk from star to star, because the Horsemen are young — bursts of wild energy, wings, hooves, eyes and eyes and eyes. Monstrous, even by angelic standard. Made that way so they can fulfill their purpose. (Death asks Michael if he thinks God is proud of carving their features, being what they are — a cosmic point split in four equal parts of destruction).
Death and his siblings play hopscotch across galaxies, each footstep leaving an imprint of their essence behind. Nature learned by trial and error; War crushes the planet’s metal core between the roof of her mouth and tongue. Conquest screams the atmosphere down. Famine inhales the remains; throws a tantrum, spits them out.
The youngest, out-pacing them all once he understands that his is the talent to End. His siblings rain destruction and he swings the scythe: learns the way to hold his fingers close enough to pinch solar systems and hurl them into the abyss. Not unmade.
Death confesses to Michael this: he wants to unmake, claw the edges frayed by the others with his blackened fingers, eyes obsidian holes spilling tar. He will unmake the world then, lapping it up, strings and tar, ash and dust. A good dream to have while he slumbers beneath Michael’s grey stare, his heavy hand pressing down the lid of Death’s glass coffin.
This took entirely too long and I apologise for the delays.
As you can see, when a Mercuriat is ticked off, the main indication of exactly how boned you are is a manifestation of dripping mercury, running from clawtips, horns, and any horizontal surface along the torso. The more angry he is, the more mercury pours off him. The droplets fade out of existence before they hit the floor generally, unless he’s really making a point and deliberately maintains them in which case they disappear when he does.
Teeth and eyes also turn silvery, and instead of his regular red his fire burns blue.
(Science of the day: Mercury burns red, but mercury gas shines bright blue when electricity passes through it - eg in a discharge tube)
Similar to Alcor, he is void black - angry level dictating how far along this goes from tar-black to hole-in-space - and particles of this manifested form break away and float upwards. Rather than bricks floating away, Mercuriat has rounded bubbles that seem liquid, like a very angry lava lamp.