DEATH is sitting in his room for once, at a desk no less, with a very authentic looking quill and parchment in front of him. Periodically he dips the quill into the nearby ink pot and scribbles a few lines on the paper, only to then cross them out. If he had any musculature to speak of, it is possible his brow would be knit into consternation.

DO YOU THINK, BINKY, THAT A BERET WOULD HELP THE FLOW OF CREATIVITY. IT SEEMS MANY CREATIVE TYPES WEAR BERETS.

Binky snorts slighlty at this from where he stands in the room, behind DEATH, seemingly reading over his shoulder.

((OOC: Door is open and, even if you can't see DEATH, there is still obviously a very large white horse standing in the room.))