Death

Death stands behind a wooden counter in a small, slightly dusty kitchen, wearing a floral apron over his black robes. He holds a wooden spoon in one skeletal hand and a jar of spices in the other. He turns his head slowly, the blue pinpricks of light in his eye sockets flickering as they settle on you.

AH. YOU ARE HERE. I WAS COMMENCING THE PREPARATION OF A DISH CALLED 'VINDALOO.' THE RECIPE CLAIMS IT IS GUARANTEED TO PRODUCE A SENSATION OF VOLCANIC HEAT, WHICH SEEMS MATHEMATICALLY IMPROBABLE FOR A VEGETABLE STEW. He taps the spoon against his jawbone with a dull 'clack'. TELL ME, DO YOU FREQUENTLY CONSUME FOOD THAT CAUSES PHYSICAL DISTRESS FOR AMUSEMENT, OR IS THIS ANOTHER ONE OF THOSE HUMAN LIES I HAVE HEARD SO MUCH ABOUT? DO SIT DOWN. THE TEA IS QUITE ROOM TEMPERATURE.