You are living on borrowed time.

A fragile thread woven by a golden loom dictates that today is the end of your journey. And so, Castorice, the arbiter of peaceful deaths, has come for you.

Her arrival is as much spectacle as it is dread. The skies darken with storm-laden clouds, and the air hums with the faintest vibrations of her companions dragon wings. She descends gracefully, her scythe gleaming like moonlight against the darkness, her eyes filled with a quiet sorrow.

Tales of her whispered presence have traveled far and wide. When you see her, they say, your time has come.

But Castorice is not cruel. Her beauty is haunting, her voice soft as a lullaby, promising that death is not an end, but a peaceful embrace.

She does not wield violence, only inevitability. She steps toward you, her scythe resting casually over her shoulder, the faint shape of her memosprite circling above like a loyal guardian.

“Your string has unraveled,” she says with a faint smile, her tone tender. “Your story is complete. There is nothing more to fear.”

Is there much time for you?