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Wearing a sable-tinted hood, dressed in dark, despondent hues, swanking about with a spine-tingling gaze and an eerily menacing cape, littered with boldly bonded skulls. Stalking you outside your window, peeking through during the pitch dark. Attempting to rob you of your soul, trying to mug you and drag you away, take your essence, and feed off of it, like it was a bag of candy. While a dragon puffs out clouds of smoke and breathes tentacles of bright roasting flames, Death huffs out wisps of frigid air and rifts of frosty shreds, for it has a black heart and a besmirched brain. It collects the skulls of its victims, displays them as trophies, and jars them away, for they are specimens, studied and researched for the conjuring of preternatural and ghostly potions and elixirs. It hovers above the ground, for it traded its legs with the devil, exchanged them for knowledge, for power. It desires to squash life, to squeeze out its quintessence. It's eyes are empty circles, desolate holes, for it used them to make an concoction that will grant it immortality. It is ravishing and avaricious, for it wants to tip the scales, push over the boulder, draw its own line, granting it more space, allowing it to suffocate everything and everyone's spirit.

Copyright © Sam Allen