Cleaning his scythe, leaning against the ruined frame of a house. The fire is still lit; the smoke taints the sky.
And yet, he already hungers for the next soul. Perhaps he'll resume his hunt, soon.
blood on your hands, they say. as though it stops there ﹔ at your wrist, like a glove. as though you could do this, and there could be any part of you that wasn't stained or dripping.
His idleness came to a sudden stop —and, as if a breath of undead life came to him anew, his greenish hue shone a darker light.
A flicker of something worse; a voice that boomed from beyond the vacuum of space, beyond the ripples of time.
Perhaps... This will be a new path.