A field of blood roses blowing in the wind. Angels crying down from a far. A figure standing alone in the midst. He’s caught within himself holding back the hatred he’s felt for years. His woman long since gone now only dust blowing in the wind. He has nothing but pain left. Morning and Night to deaths delight his swords bring home cold blood and broken bodies. the widowed lover. He’s the soured warrior. The corporeal form of the reaper. He’s death itself
