Death was the first to arrive. He was always the first to arrive, and always the last to leave. He would be there to see his brothers assemble, there to see them triumph, and there to tidy up after them when they were gone.

This time, however, the meeting was to be different. Death had arrived in different attire. Gone were the heavy, dark cloak and night-black horse, and gone was the scythe, although he still wore the scythe, much smaller, as a pendant around his neck.

The colours were the same. Death was always in black. He wore a smaller, light-weight cloak -- mostly for the hood, as it was easier to hide the glare from his gleaming white skull. Underneath the cloak, he wore leather from head to toe. Leather knee-length boots, leather pants, a leather jerkin, and leather gloves. Beneath his hood, Death smiled at the thought of his appearance. He imagined he looked both in and out of place in this world at this time. The thought pleased him.

His mode of transport had also changed. Death had arrived upon the scene in a deep black hearse. He'd always wanted to drive a hearse, and this meeting was such that this would be his first opportunity to come in full regalia. The hearse had black tinted windows, such that to see through them from the outside was nigh impossible. Upon the hood of the hearse was a gleaming, chrome skull for ornamentation, and the license plate on the hearse simply read 'Death.'

As death sat on the hood of his car, looking out across the desert from the shade of the single tree around for a hundred miles, he saw the first of his brothers approach. In an instant, death knew this to be War, the only one of his brothers who could be expected to arrive on time.