As the grim reaper plays his deathly tune, people start to die all around. Blood shedding and bones shattering, the soft, melodic tune of death plays, ringing throughout every ones feeble ears. The angel of death is watching you. He plays his harmonic flute made of the bones of his true enemy. The heart in his lap, he stole it from his foe. He ripped it right out of their chest while his heart was still beating. His ribs were broken into small puncturing shards to retrieve this precious offering. The key to the underworld hangs around his neck. His black cloak flails in the wind. His pale gray skin is almost translucent. The sun beats down on him and and his skin; it shines almost a reflective diamond-like substance. He sits cross legged on his pedestal awaiting his next victim to play
his dreaded perish song for.