What Remains

[PastaTM]

Those among the war, the Invasion of the Western Front... would see and witness a figure watching across the sandy dunes. Nothing more than a shadow would cover their face, with a scythe as red as blood upon their back. Not a word was uttered as the sands blew, the war came to a clash, as friends, family, and foes all crumpled into one mass.

Watching the bloodshed that was war, but that's not all that they were there for, even among the masses the bodies of the fallen.

Their life escaping them for a higher purpose would remind such for a time.

For a price.



A sickly ritual was done, and death in the air started to fade away- as the bones of the follow. The flesh and bodies would be carried off into the shadows. As if it was alive, eating away at whatever flesh, mana, and bones the shadows could get their hands upon.  Ravens cried out as their feathers fell to the ground, crumpled as the once outlines of armor, weapons, and even more would be hollow.

Non-Magi, Magi, Demons, Night Creatures, nothing was safe from the grasp of the ritual.

These battlefields were 'cleansed' and picked clean, and weapons and armor were left to rot in the beating sun.

No one can escape death.

A message was provided.

"Too slow, Old Man."

"But not even I will take the heroes of The West..."

"...I am not that cruel."