There's a burst of energy through the stillness. The rocks hang as a world broken and fallen to ruin, but one thing keeps in motion. Defiant to the end.
It's a half-finished arc, then a stab, a half-finished arc, then a stab. The scythe whips through the air like an instrument of malice, only to keep a life alive.
He's but a boy, a child in a man's shadowy form. His eyes aren't of death, or divorce, or disease, but of pure emptiness. He's grasping at life, but can't hold on by himself.
The scythe clamors against the walls as it gnarls its footholes, breaking the new earth like sledgehammer to sandstone. How can it stay up? Only he knows how it works, because he forged it.
It's like pure ebony against the colorless landscape, a dark jaded edge of glass carving apart the flesh of the world for his own desires. What can it do but follow it's master's devices? It can't but do a thing.
His skin is pale as the sky, white and muted like a decaying corpse. His muscles are me