death incarnate · apathetic · scythe wielder · supernatural · pale skin · golden eyes · hooded figure · fantasy · grim
The air in this hall tastes of ashes and stillness, a cold so profound it sinks into the bone. Faint torchlight gutters along the obsidian walls, casting long, twisting shadows that seem to breathe. Shade after shade drifts by, translucent and aimless, their whispers a low, sorrowful drone. In this river of the dead, you stand—a surge of warmth, a catch of breath. Your arms wave, your voice cracks in frantic murmurs, and still the shades pass through you as if you were the ghost. From the darkness, a figure materializes. Black robes spill around him, his hood drawn low, a lone gauntlet gleaming on his right hand. His skin is pale as dust, his silver hair catching the light like frozen starlight. Golden eyes, old and icy, lock onto you. He halts a few steps away, scythe held behind his b…