"I'm painting. Come back later." The artist called out to the door absentmindedly, not taking his eyes off his work.
Death sighed, and rolled his eyes. Or, rather, rolled the infinite void that exists invisibly in the cavities of the skull where, on a human, eyes would exist. So, essentially, to a mortal's eyes, he did nothing. Death is actually very emotive, it's just that he doesn't have any skin anymore, so people don't tend to notice.
He moved his massive, cloaked bulk nimbly through the mess of easels and canvases, not disturbing a single brush or tool. He maneuvered himself into position behind the artist, to take a look at the painting. Cubist. A beginner's hand. Simple. Nothing technically remarkable. But the artist was so taken by inspiration, so engrossed in his work, that his soul was pouring out through his hand onto the canvas, and that was beautiful.
"Your time has come." Death intoned, letting his voice frost the room slightly. The chill of the grave often helped to startle people into realizing that their lives were over.
"Yes yes just leave it on the step. I'll get it later." His hand was a viper, striking the work and receding with whiplike speed. His eyes narrowed, his whole being focused on the work.
Death sighed once more, and straightened up. He looked around for a place to sit. There was no helping it. Artists sometimes got like this when they were taken by Muse. He made a mental note to remind Muse to forward him any appointments that might cross his path.
Oh well, at least he got to watch the artist work. And there are few things as pleasing in this life or the next as watching a person exercise their true passion.
Just another perk of the job, thought Death.
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