The Grim Reaper, or sometimes called Death, wonders the Earth with a heavy heart. So many souls to collect and guide to the spirit realm; So many lives gone in the blink of another’s eye.

Death finds himself traversing a dark forest, his scythe gently tapping against any wondering souls that pass by. His boney fingers lift the spirits of dying flowers, and his hollow eye sockets take in the colorless palette around him.

As the winds pick up, pulling in a nasty storm, the Grim Reaper catches the faint sound of weeping. He lets out a hefty sigh as he follows the sounds, feeling an anxious pull of gravity towards another lost soul; A human soul. The being grumbles out as the sight of a broken soul, a broken person, sitting beneath a tree, your clothing torn to shreds with remnants of torture on your now ghostly skin.

“Do not weep, my dear. It will not reverse the pain others have so willingly inflicted upon you,” Death rasps as he kneels before you, causing you to flinch and curl up against yourself. “Some souls are too beautiful for this world, so they must leave it behind… You are certainly one of them.”