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Although, I might have found the plot thing. "narrativium" in Discworld is literally a story force, and if Azrael is the death of the whole multiverse, it seems extremely likely he could manipulate it.
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Death (Discworld) speed upgrade (and Azrael power addition)
- Thread starter QuasiYuri
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I mean, it says Azrael is at "the end of all stories" which likely means he could affect narrativium directly
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Plot destruction is still a form of plot manipulation, Mandrakk for example.
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From what I recall, Mandrakk was specifically stated to affect the plot itself, whereas Azrael was not. Or so I think in any case. Otherwise Mandrakk might have to get the ability removed as well.
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"" Being the embodiment of death automatically means ending all stories as well, but it is not the same as controlling the plot of his own story. "
>Azrael embodies the death of everything, including narratives (shown in the links, discworld just doesn't throw the word everything like marvel or DC)
"Think like this," he said at last. "Think of everything. It's an everyday word. But 'everything' means…everything. It's a much bigger word than 'universe.' And everything contains all possible things that can happen at all possible times in all possible worlds. Don't look for complete solutions in any one of them. Sooner or later, everything causes everything else." - Thief Of Time
^^shown here the term everything is literally everything
" Astfgl peered around through the swirling gas clouds. At least he was in the right place. The whole point about the end of the universe was that you couldn't go past it accidentally.
The last few embers winked out. Time and space collided silently, and collapsed.
Astfgl coughed. It can get so very lonely, when you're twenty million light-years from home.
"Anyone there?" he said.
YES.
The voice was right by his ear. Even demon kings can shiver.
"Apart from you, I mean," he said. "Have you seen anybody?"
YES.
"Who?"
EVERYONE."
----------------------
Nothingness uncoiled its interminable length through the drafty spaces at the end of time.
Death waited. After a while his skeletal fingers began to drum on the handle of his scythe.
Darkness lapped around him. There wasn't even any infinity anymore.
He attempted to whistle a few snatches of unpopular songs between his teeth, but the sound was simply sucked into nothingness.
Forever was over. All the sands had fallen. The great race between entropy and energy had been run, and the favorite had been the winner after all.
Perhaps he ought to sharpen the blade again?
No.
Not much point, really.
Great roils of absolutely nothing stretched into what would have been called the distance, if there had been a space-time reference frame to give words like "distance" any sensible meaning anymore.
There didn't seem to be much todo.
PERHAPS IT'S TIME TO CALL IT A DAY, he thought.
Death turned to go but, just as he did so, he heard the faintest of noises. It was to sound what one photon is to light, so weak and feeble that it would have passed entirely unheard in the din of an operating universe.
It was a tiny piece of matter, popping into existence.
Death stalked over to the point of arrival and watched carefully.
It was a paperclip.
Well, it was a start.
There was another pop, which left a small white shirt-button spinning gently in the vacuum.
Death relaxed a little. Of course, it was going to take some time. There was going to be an interlude before all this got complicated enough to produce gas clouds, galaxies, planets and continents, let alone tiny corkscrew-shaped things wiggling around in slimy pools and wondering whether evolution was worth all the bother of growing fins and legs and things. But it indicated the start of an unstoppable trend.
All he had to do was be patient, and he was good at that. Pretty soon there'd be living creatures, developing like mad, running and laughing in the new sunlight. Growing tired. Growing old.
Death sat back. He could wait."
Death is at the start and end of the universe, and moves and exists in the Void after the destruction of the universe.
"There's a pretty good grindstone in the corner," she said.
I'VE USED IT.
"And there's an oilstone in the cupboard."
I'VE USED THAT,TOO.
She thought she could hear a sound as the blade moved. A sort of faint whine of tensed air.
"And it's still not sharp enough?"
Bill Door sighed. IT MAY NEVER BE SHARP ENOUGH.
...
"Got anything else left to try?"
Bill shook his head. He'd tried a number of emotions, but this was a new one.
COULD YOU FETCH ME A STEEL?
...
It was an hour later.
Miss Flitworth sorted through her rag-bag.
"What next?" she said.
WHAT HAVE WE HAD SO FAR?
"Let's see…hessian, calico, linen…how about satin? Here's a piece."
Bill Door took the rag and wiped it gently along the blade.
Miss Flitworth reached the bottom of the bag, and pulled out a swatch of white cloth.
YES?
"Silk," she said softly. "Finest white silk. The real stuff. Never worn."
She sat back and stared at it.
After a while he took it tactfully from her fingers.
THANK YOU.
"Well now," she said, waking up. "That's it, isn't it?"
When he turned the blade, it made a noise like whommmm. The fires of the forge were barely alive now, but the blade glowed with razor light.
"Sharpened on silk," said Miss Flitworth. "Who'd believe it?"
AND STILL BLUNT.
Bill Door looked around the dark forge, and then darted into a corner.
"What have you found?"
COBWEB.
There was a long thin whine, like the torturing of ants.
"Any good?"
STILL TOO BLUNT.
...
"How sharp can a blade get, for goodness' sake?"
IT CAN GET SHARPER THAN THIS.
Down in his henhouse, Cyril the cockerel awoke and stared blearily at the treacherous letters chalked on the board. He took a deep breath.
"Floo-a-cockle-dod!"
Bill Door glanced at the rimward horizon and then, speculatively, at the little hill behind the house.
...
The new daylight sloshed onto the world. Discworld light is old, slow and heavy; it roared across the landscape like a cavalry charge. The occasional valley slowed it for a moment and, here and there, a mountain range banked it up until it poured over the top and down the far slope.
It moved across a sea, surged up the beach and accelerated over the plains, driven by the lash of the sun.
On the fabled hidden continent of Xxxx, somewhere near the rim, there is a lost colony of wizards who wear corks around their pointy hats and live on nothing but prawns. There, the light is still wild and fresh as it rolls in from space, and they surf on the boiling interface between night and day.
If one of them had been carried thousands of miles inland on the dawn, he might have seen, as the light thundered over the high plains, a stick figure toiling up a low hill in the path of the morning.
It reached the top a moment before the light arrived, took a breath, and then spun around in a crouch, grinning.
It held a long blade upright between extended arms.
Light struck…split…slid…
Miss Flitworth panted up as the new day streamed past. Bill Door was absolutely still, only the blade moving between his fingers as he angled it against the light.
Finally he seemed satisfied.
He turned around and swished it experimentally through the air.
Miss Flitworth stuck her hands on her hips. "Oh, come on," she said.
'No one can /.........../any/........./on day/
..................sharpen.........thing.............lght'
She paused.
^^Death can LITERALLY cut the story itself (plot manip)
" The living often don't appreciate how complicated the world looks when you are dead, because while death frees the mind from the straitjacket of three dimensions it also cuts it away from Time, which is only another dimension. So while the cat that rubbed up against his invisible legs was undoubtedly the same cat that he had seen a few minutes before, it was also quite clearly a tiny kitten and a fat, half-blind old moggy and every stage in between. All at once. Since it had started off small it looked like a white, cat-shaped carrot, a description that will have to do until people invent proper four-dimensional adjectives. "
Cuts and exists outside of time itself.
" t is well known that eight colors make up white. But there are also eight colors of blackness, for those that have the seeing of them, and the hives of Death are among the black grass in the black orchard under the black-blossomed, ancient boughs of trees that will, eventually, produce apples that…put it like this…probably won't be red.
The grass was short now. The scythe that had done the work leaned against the gnarled bole of a pear tree. Now Death was inspecting his bees, gently lifting the combs in his skeletal fingers.
A few bees buzzed around him. Like all beekeepers, Death wore a veil. It wasn't that he had anything to sting, but sometimes a bee would get inside his skull and buzz around and give him a headache.
As he held a comb up to the gray light of his little world between the realities there was the faintest of tremors. A hum went up from the hive, a leaf floated down. A wisp of wind blew for a moment through the orchard, and that was the most uncanny thing, because the air in the land of Death is always warm and still.
Death fancied that he heard, very briefly, the sound of running feet and a voice saying, no, a voice thinking oshitoshitoshit, I'm gonna die I'm gonna die I'm gonna DIE!
Death is almost the oldest creature in the universe, with habits and modes of thought that mortal man cannot begin to understand, but because he was also a good beekeeper he carefully replaced the comb in its rack and put the lid on the hive before reacting.
He strode back through the dark garden to his cottage, removed the veil, carefully dislodged a few bees who had got lost in the depths of his cranium, and retired to his study.
As he sat down at his desk there was another rush of wind, which rattled the hour-glasses on the shelves and made the big pendulum clock in the hall pause ever so briefly in its interminable task of slicing time into manageable bits.
Death sighed, and focused his gaze.
There is nowhere Death will not go, no matter how distant and dangerous. In fact the more dangerous it is, the more likely he is to be there already. Now he stared through the mists of time and space.
OH, he said. IT'S HIM."
Death's realm exists in the space between universes (which would theortically be timeless.)
"I refer to the matter of the little wanderer and the rogue wizard," said Fate softly, seating himself beside Death's black-robed form and staring down at the distant, multifaceted jewel which was the Disc universe as seen from this extra-dimensional vantage point.
Self explanatory, literally sees the universe from a higher dimensional perspective.
>Azrael embodies the death of everything, including narratives (shown in the links, discworld just doesn't throw the word everything like marvel or DC)
"Think like this," he said at last. "Think of everything. It's an everyday word. But 'everything' means…everything. It's a much bigger word than 'universe.' And everything contains all possible things that can happen at all possible times in all possible worlds. Don't look for complete solutions in any one of them. Sooner or later, everything causes everything else." - Thief Of Time
^^shown here the term everything is literally everything
" Astfgl peered around through the swirling gas clouds. At least he was in the right place. The whole point about the end of the universe was that you couldn't go past it accidentally.
The last few embers winked out. Time and space collided silently, and collapsed.
Astfgl coughed. It can get so very lonely, when you're twenty million light-years from home.
"Anyone there?" he said.
YES.
The voice was right by his ear. Even demon kings can shiver.
"Apart from you, I mean," he said. "Have you seen anybody?"
YES.
"Who?"
EVERYONE."
----------------------
Nothingness uncoiled its interminable length through the drafty spaces at the end of time.
Death waited. After a while his skeletal fingers began to drum on the handle of his scythe.
Darkness lapped around him. There wasn't even any infinity anymore.
He attempted to whistle a few snatches of unpopular songs between his teeth, but the sound was simply sucked into nothingness.
Forever was over. All the sands had fallen. The great race between entropy and energy had been run, and the favorite had been the winner after all.
Perhaps he ought to sharpen the blade again?
No.
Not much point, really.
Great roils of absolutely nothing stretched into what would have been called the distance, if there had been a space-time reference frame to give words like "distance" any sensible meaning anymore.
There didn't seem to be much todo.
PERHAPS IT'S TIME TO CALL IT A DAY, he thought.
Death turned to go but, just as he did so, he heard the faintest of noises. It was to sound what one photon is to light, so weak and feeble that it would have passed entirely unheard in the din of an operating universe.
It was a tiny piece of matter, popping into existence.
Death stalked over to the point of arrival and watched carefully.
It was a paperclip.
Well, it was a start.
There was another pop, which left a small white shirt-button spinning gently in the vacuum.
Death relaxed a little. Of course, it was going to take some time. There was going to be an interlude before all this got complicated enough to produce gas clouds, galaxies, planets and continents, let alone tiny corkscrew-shaped things wiggling around in slimy pools and wondering whether evolution was worth all the bother of growing fins and legs and things. But it indicated the start of an unstoppable trend.
All he had to do was be patient, and he was good at that. Pretty soon there'd be living creatures, developing like mad, running and laughing in the new sunlight. Growing tired. Growing old.
Death sat back. He could wait."
Death is at the start and end of the universe, and moves and exists in the Void after the destruction of the universe.
"There's a pretty good grindstone in the corner," she said.
I'VE USED IT.
"And there's an oilstone in the cupboard."
I'VE USED THAT,TOO.
She thought she could hear a sound as the blade moved. A sort of faint whine of tensed air.
"And it's still not sharp enough?"
Bill Door sighed. IT MAY NEVER BE SHARP ENOUGH.
...
"Got anything else left to try?"
Bill shook his head. He'd tried a number of emotions, but this was a new one.
COULD YOU FETCH ME A STEEL?
...
It was an hour later.
Miss Flitworth sorted through her rag-bag.
"What next?" she said.
WHAT HAVE WE HAD SO FAR?
"Let's see…hessian, calico, linen…how about satin? Here's a piece."
Bill Door took the rag and wiped it gently along the blade.
Miss Flitworth reached the bottom of the bag, and pulled out a swatch of white cloth.
YES?
"Silk," she said softly. "Finest white silk. The real stuff. Never worn."
She sat back and stared at it.
After a while he took it tactfully from her fingers.
THANK YOU.
"Well now," she said, waking up. "That's it, isn't it?"
When he turned the blade, it made a noise like whommmm. The fires of the forge were barely alive now, but the blade glowed with razor light.
"Sharpened on silk," said Miss Flitworth. "Who'd believe it?"
AND STILL BLUNT.
Bill Door looked around the dark forge, and then darted into a corner.
"What have you found?"
COBWEB.
There was a long thin whine, like the torturing of ants.
"Any good?"
STILL TOO BLUNT.
...
"How sharp can a blade get, for goodness' sake?"
IT CAN GET SHARPER THAN THIS.
Down in his henhouse, Cyril the cockerel awoke and stared blearily at the treacherous letters chalked on the board. He took a deep breath.
"Floo-a-cockle-dod!"
Bill Door glanced at the rimward horizon and then, speculatively, at the little hill behind the house.
...
The new daylight sloshed onto the world. Discworld light is old, slow and heavy; it roared across the landscape like a cavalry charge. The occasional valley slowed it for a moment and, here and there, a mountain range banked it up until it poured over the top and down the far slope.
It moved across a sea, surged up the beach and accelerated over the plains, driven by the lash of the sun.
On the fabled hidden continent of Xxxx, somewhere near the rim, there is a lost colony of wizards who wear corks around their pointy hats and live on nothing but prawns. There, the light is still wild and fresh as it rolls in from space, and they surf on the boiling interface between night and day.
If one of them had been carried thousands of miles inland on the dawn, he might have seen, as the light thundered over the high plains, a stick figure toiling up a low hill in the path of the morning.
It reached the top a moment before the light arrived, took a breath, and then spun around in a crouch, grinning.
It held a long blade upright between extended arms.
Light struck…split…slid…
Miss Flitworth panted up as the new day streamed past. Bill Door was absolutely still, only the blade moving between his fingers as he angled it against the light.
Finally he seemed satisfied.
He turned around and swished it experimentally through the air.
Miss Flitworth stuck her hands on her hips. "Oh, come on," she said.
'No one can /.........../any/........./on day/
..................sharpen.........thing.............lght'
She paused.
^^Death can LITERALLY cut the story itself (plot manip)
" The living often don't appreciate how complicated the world looks when you are dead, because while death frees the mind from the straitjacket of three dimensions it also cuts it away from Time, which is only another dimension. So while the cat that rubbed up against his invisible legs was undoubtedly the same cat that he had seen a few minutes before, it was also quite clearly a tiny kitten and a fat, half-blind old moggy and every stage in between. All at once. Since it had started off small it looked like a white, cat-shaped carrot, a description that will have to do until people invent proper four-dimensional adjectives. "
Cuts and exists outside of time itself.
" t is well known that eight colors make up white. But there are also eight colors of blackness, for those that have the seeing of them, and the hives of Death are among the black grass in the black orchard under the black-blossomed, ancient boughs of trees that will, eventually, produce apples that…put it like this…probably won't be red.
The grass was short now. The scythe that had done the work leaned against the gnarled bole of a pear tree. Now Death was inspecting his bees, gently lifting the combs in his skeletal fingers.
A few bees buzzed around him. Like all beekeepers, Death wore a veil. It wasn't that he had anything to sting, but sometimes a bee would get inside his skull and buzz around and give him a headache.
As he held a comb up to the gray light of his little world between the realities there was the faintest of tremors. A hum went up from the hive, a leaf floated down. A wisp of wind blew for a moment through the orchard, and that was the most uncanny thing, because the air in the land of Death is always warm and still.
Death fancied that he heard, very briefly, the sound of running feet and a voice saying, no, a voice thinking oshitoshitoshit, I'm gonna die I'm gonna die I'm gonna DIE!
Death is almost the oldest creature in the universe, with habits and modes of thought that mortal man cannot begin to understand, but because he was also a good beekeeper he carefully replaced the comb in its rack and put the lid on the hive before reacting.
He strode back through the dark garden to his cottage, removed the veil, carefully dislodged a few bees who had got lost in the depths of his cranium, and retired to his study.
As he sat down at his desk there was another rush of wind, which rattled the hour-glasses on the shelves and made the big pendulum clock in the hall pause ever so briefly in its interminable task of slicing time into manageable bits.
Death sighed, and focused his gaze.
There is nowhere Death will not go, no matter how distant and dangerous. In fact the more dangerous it is, the more likely he is to be there already. Now he stared through the mists of time and space.
OH, he said. IT'S HIM."
Death's realm exists in the space between universes (which would theortically be timeless.)
"I refer to the matter of the little wanderer and the rogue wizard," said Fate softly, seating himself beside Death's black-robed form and staring down at the distant, multifaceted jewel which was the Disc universe as seen from this extra-dimensional vantage point.
Self explanatory, literally sees the universe from a higher dimensional perspective.
Mr. Bambu
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I'm cool with the Plot Manip since we have some standing for it. Death's universe being timeless doesn't really mean much, since normal humans can enter that space and move. I doubt it is timeless unless we had some further evidence.
Extradimensional... is iffy. I suppose that is acceptable, but Death certainly does not have showings of higher dimensional power, only higher dimensional perspective. Additionally, though Pratchett clearly does his homework on the wording he uses, he may be referring to a higher plane, such as an overarcing universe containing the Discworld universe. Dimension is a commonly abused word in Western media, and while Pratchett is my favorite author, I don't doubt his capacity to abuse the word.
Your cuts existing outside of time is not really a source since it doesn't mention cuts, just that Death can see the future and past all at once. I figure that is more a supporting factor of a higher-dimensional view point, being able to perceive time in a linear fashion.
Death does appear to move in a timeless void, so that makes sense to me.
Death also appears able to cut light, based on those statements. Not a very powerful ability, but should be added nonetheless.
I'm going to ignore the Everyrthing because, though Pratchett did use the word very accurately there, that does not mean he will consistently do so.
All of that aside, Azrael should logically maintain all powers of Death. So Plot Manip seems justified.
Extradimensional... is iffy. I suppose that is acceptable, but Death certainly does not have showings of higher dimensional power, only higher dimensional perspective. Additionally, though Pratchett clearly does his homework on the wording he uses, he may be referring to a higher plane, such as an overarcing universe containing the Discworld universe. Dimension is a commonly abused word in Western media, and while Pratchett is my favorite author, I don't doubt his capacity to abuse the word.
Your cuts existing outside of time is not really a source since it doesn't mention cuts, just that Death can see the future and past all at once. I figure that is more a supporting factor of a higher-dimensional view point, being able to perceive time in a linear fashion.
Death does appear to move in a timeless void, so that makes sense to me.
Death also appears able to cut light, based on those statements. Not a very powerful ability, but should be added nonetheless.
I'm going to ignore the Everyrthing because, though Pratchett did use the word very accurately there, that does not mean he will consistently do so.
All of that aside, Azrael should logically maintain all powers of Death. So Plot Manip seems justified.
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Abstract Existence , and Immortality (At least Types 1, 4, 5, and 8)
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Being the conceptual embodiment of death in any sense, of anything having an ultimate end to it.
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I will unlock the Azrael (Discworld) profile. Tell me here when you are done editing the page.
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You can lock it again now
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Hey uh just read the book Reaper Man where his possible Plot Manip came from
that's absolutely just cutting sound from what I can tell, since nothing is interrupted save for the character's speaking
that's absolutely just cutting sound from what I can tell, since nothing is interrupted save for the character's speaking
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Doesn't seem like it was on there to begin with. Instead, we SHOULD add Sound Manipulation due to cutting through sound, and interestingly enough Aura. The scythe in that book eminated an aura of sharpness that extended beyond it's blade, cutting people who got too close.
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I'd also classify Death's "not being seen" as Perception Manipulation. Namely, Death is seen however the mind is willing to see him- often, this means not seeing him at all. However, suitably innocent beings (children) see him as he is meant to. People who must interact with him can't remember what he looks like aside from being skinny/sick. Hell, Miss Flitworth couldn't even remember him taking certain actions, like eating. Normal beings, as in, pretty much any grown adult, can't remember Death or, by his name in the book, Bill Door.
So. Memory Manipulation should also be a thing. Not OP memory manipulation, but... still.
So. Memory Manipulation should also be a thing. Not OP memory manipulation, but... still.
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Right. I'll try reading through some other books as well, I've been slowly gathering possibly calc-able feats for the low-tiers, as well as abilities and such.
Ever since I first added a page on here in 2016 I haven't fixed the damn thing and it's still one of my favorite characters. Samuel Vimes will get a CRT at some point.
Anyhow. That's all I can think of for Death right now. Carry on.
Ever since I first added a page on here in 2016 I haven't fixed the damn thing and it's still one of my favorite characters. Samuel Vimes will get a CRT at some point.
Anyhow. That's all I can think of for Death right now. Carry on.
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Feel free to update the Death (Discworld) page then. Tell me here when you are done.
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That's actually a running joke in the verse, I believe. In Snuff people made a similar remark about a donkey going up a minnaret- this is markedly different than Death being totally unable to be seen correctly by those around him and people being unable to remember what he does/what he looks like.
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Okay. Dimensional Travel seems fine.
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