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Death - Blog Posts
Mentions of alcohol, death, and drugs.
Spike, my Hazbin Hotel sinner OC. I don't know what to make of his demon, but I'll come up with something. I was drawing a smiley face with a bow and a odd nose when I came up with this idea to make it into a character.
He has ears, similar to Husk, with stars on the inside. He has short hair- have not decided any colors yet- and a nose similar to Husk's. His hair looks more like fur. He has an obsession with bows- bows in his hair, neck, with bows on this strap he has across his body, bows on his bracelets.
He was sent to Hell for killing innocent families/people(who may or may not be related to people who did him wrong, so some are innocent and some are not.) that disrespected/insulted him, or bullied him(when he was human and alive). His parents were abusive, into drugs. He later got addicted to drugs and alcohol. He had gotten hit by a vehicle, and was killed. He killed his parents before that. (icebound, that you? Except Spike is still better than that vegetable old ass.)
Не уверена что это конец, но уже не знаю что делать, а показать хочется. Мои персонажи (Крейзи и Зародыш)
Sometimes
Sometimes I wish you hadn’t died.
You left him so broken, beyond repair.
It was all I could do to keep him afloat,
treading water, a burden too heavy
for me to lift. You left him drowning
in unspoken love, unable to let go of
a deflated life preserver.
Sometimes I wonder what you’d think of me.
If you could would you thank me or would
you tell me that I could never heal him?
It was my job to gather the wreckage
you left behind. I taught him to love again,
but I could never teach him to let go.
I could never empty the ocean of hurt.
Sometimes I believe we could have been friends.
He clung to me too, driftwood in the open sea.
We must have something in common. He said
he thought I would like you. Even when his
heart was sore and his lungs were filled,
drowning in the memory of you. Friend,
can I tell you a secret?
Sometimes I hate you more than anything.
I hate what you did to him. I hate that no matter
how far away you are he can’t let go of you.
I hate that he will always love you, how he
doesn’t know how not to love you. I hate
you for dying – not that you chose to die. I wish
you had chosen. Maybe then he’d accept it.
Sometimes I feel like the other woman.
He’s still swimming through the waves,
fighting the current to get to you as if he
doesn’t realize you’ve already been pulled under.
I try to bring him back to shore, to my safe
harbor, but he’s still anchored in you.
Sometimes I think you are selfish.
When you had him you took him for granted,
and yet you held him tight enough to keep
him clinging to you like a buoy out at sea,
clinging to you for air. And now he still clings.
You can’t tell him to let go. Not that you would.
Sometimes I wish he had never met you.
Sometimes I am happy that you’re dead.
Sometimes I wish you never existed.
Loitering
Smoke curls from the ashen tip
of a long-lit cigarette on a moonless night
The streetlamp light arcs through the rain
tiny diamonds disappearing to dust
He breathes out death, lungs burning
one more light will make it okay,
further from the end, another hour
for the pain to fade a little.
Smoke disappears like the rain in the
navy air, and yet the cool ice of her eyes
is all the more vivid in his empty mind.
Yay! Finally reached 300 followers and at the same time finished this grim lady..💀 Thanks a lot to my fellow Blank Ink Mangaka members on FB.... Still using the #mythologicalmay art prompts because I don't have any idea what to draw for a while... #femalegrimreaper #traditionaldrawing #traditionalartwork #traditional_art #colourpencil #colourpencils #death #instaart #instadraw #artistsofinstagram #drawingoftheday #semirealism #inkdrawing https://www.instagram.com/p/CCX7P6NJrnE/?igshid=2oloox2ohhfw
I'm gonna transfer this messy pencil sketch on a vellum board later... #pencilsketch #pencildrawing #pencilart #sketch #femalegrimreaper #death https://www.instagram.com/p/CBffvrWJ9dT/?igshid=lhd9taak65hn
Whoops! I think I killed the Cap by accident...(Mwahaha) Not my fault I draw a lot sad and bloody shit on my other accounts.
This is another old piece I drew a long time ago. Idk the contacts for this but ig. The captain was ambushed and attacked. And until then his crew went to go find him and they were to late. And his beloved sea otter cried her heart out.
Nothing really connected to a story or anything I was just bored when I drew this.
“I was never really welcome here, was I?”
The darkened study was lined with bookshelves against three of the walls, with a stained-glass window on the far wall from the door providing red, green and blue light across the room in an image of the virgin mother. In front of the window was a desk of polished ebony. The atmosphere in the room was tense enough to cut air, and the man leaning over the desk, short and squat, with white hair and a priest’s frock, laughed bitterly.
“Of course not, you stupid boy. You may have your father’s power, but you have your mother’s naivete.”
The boy, dressed in a white shirt, a leather jacket and blue jeans, looked normal enough, but he was positioning himself to flee if he had to. In his hand he clutched the locket containing the greatest secret his mother had ever kept – one known only to a few. The priest before him was one of them.
“Why? If all this time you meant to kill me then why haven’t you done it?”
The priest drew a cross from his belt and said solemnly, “We weren’t allowed to kill you in the womb. Papal sanction. We weren’t allowed to kill you as an infant – for you seemed normal enough. But as time wore on, I knew your father’s influence would get to you – and that would be our demise. But it seems there is still time to slay you before you betray us. Still time to do the right thing.”
From the door sprinted two younger priests, each gripping one of the boy’s arms. The priest approached, holding the cross at arms-length towards the boy, and drawing from the desk’s top drawer a pistol. He got to within an arm’s length of the boy, and held the gun to the boy’s forehead. “God forgive me for what I’m about to do.” He said coldly, pulling back the hammer of the pistol with his thumb.
It was then, for the first time, in a moment of rage and panic, the boy felt his father’s presence in his soul, and the power within his body. With a shout somewhere between a scream of anger and a growl, the gun was thrown backwards from the priest’s hand, through the stained-glass window that was the only source of light for the room. Clear light poured in through the hole.
Like a surge of adrenaline, great strength and powerful instinct over took the boy, as he threw the two grown men pinning him bodily against the bookshelves on either side of the room, knocking them apart. Books fell on the ground, scattering the floor with ritual literature and apocrypha. The priest backed away, knocking into the front of the desk and holding the cross at arm’s length still, beginning the Litany of the Saints.
At this the boy laughed, a harsh bark that sounded only vaguely human. “Old man,” he said in a guttural tone, different from the voice of the boy who had spoken moments ago. He waved his hand, and the cross flew out of the priest’s hand, into a pile of broken and splintered bookshelves.
He raised his hand, and the priest’s did likewise, gripping himself by the throat. As the boy clenched his fist, the priest gagged and choked as he strangled himself. The priest’s last moments were as pathetic as a dying fish’s, kicking and squirming on the floor as he fought for air. Once the priest had ceased moving, the boy relented, and the strange power faded from him.
The boy looked at what he had done. The dead priest, laying against his own desk, his aged hand still gripping his own throat. Against each wall were another priest, either unconscious or dead, he could not tell.
He went behind the desk and searched through the drawers, finding the things he was looking for. Another pistol, this one set in silver, and a pile of cash. He ran back, out of the room, and into his room in the orphanage. Gathering a bag of clothes, he sighed, and let reality sink in. It really was true. He was… he was…
He looked at the amulet again. Gripping it tight, he slipped it into his pocket. He’d think on that another time. For now, he needed to get far away from here. Once he had as many of his things as he could carry – it wasn’t much, nor, he figured, would much be needed – he ran for the door, and out of the orphanage.
He ran down the street, and didn’t stop running until he had made it across town, to his ‘friend’s’ home. A well-built two-story on the more affluent side of town, he knew his friend could help. He knocked on the door, a steady banging until the person he was looking for answered. “What’s up, Daelyn? You look like you’re… wait, is that… blood?”
Looking down and silently cursing himself, he saw that he did indeed have some small portion of blood on his shirt, from either the priests he sent flying across from the room or somehow from the man he had choke himself to death he did not know. “Zeke, I don’t have time to explain. I need a shirt, and I need to get a fake ID or two. Out of state ones, too.”
Zeke looked scared. As well he should, Daelyn supposed. How would he respond if one of his friends showed up on his doorstep, drenched in sweat and bloodstained.
Zeke looked around the neighborhood, the empty street, and then sighed. “Get in the house, dumbass.”
“I never really was welcome here… was I?”
Prompt - Dirt, Shoelaces, Hip
@big-bad-grimbark
Shadows danced as the gravedigger did his work, lit only by a single torch placed above him, dug into the ground at the foot of the grave. Opposite lie the memorial tombstone, for a William Berk, a man who died in his fifties, and was well-liked by the town. A shoelace salesman, he made a living selling what many did not realize they need – baubles that make life easier. Why, the gravedigger himself had bought a set just a fortnight ago, from the man himself, not that it mattered, he supposed.
The gravedigger continued his grim work, with each shovelful of dirt making the hole greater down, down into the dirt. But then something was wrong. He put his shovel to the dirt, and rather than reaching soft, moist earth, it hit something hard, like stone. Thinking that perhaps he had just hit a rather large rock, a not uncommon thing, he dug around it and uprooted it, and saw what it was.
It was not a stone, as he had thought, but a hip bone – from a human. The gravedigger shrieked aloud at the discovery, for this grave was not supposed to be inhabited. Scrambling for the edge of the grave, to climb out, he was gripped by the ankle by a hand – or rather, the skeletal remains of one. Ripping it from the ground in his mistake, he dragged the upper half of a human body from the ground with him. This body was mostly rotted – next to no meat remained on the bones, but the rotted remains were enough to hold the skeleton together.
The gravedigger was on the edge of the newly-dug burial ditch, when he saw it, and froze in horror. The ground of many graves was convulsing as if the things inside longed for release, and then clawing to the surface came the many dead. He watched as a man who died from a gunshot wound, buried a fortnight ago, whose body had begun to rot, clawed his way out of his grave. He watched a grave for lovers who died in an accident, as one rotten corpse crawled out, and helped the second to its feet. He watched as corpses, by the dozens, crawled from their graves and began to group together in the center of the graveyard.
He watched as the corpses of the Leer twins, who had drowned and been found days later, bloated with decay in the ponds buried with their favorite toys, met up with the skeletons who walked out of the Lovelace mausoleum; a married man and his wife, wealthy enough to afford affluence in death.
He watched, and then he saw Him.
He was a tall, thin figure, playing a flute, approaching the dead. He was dressed in a cloak and hood obscuring his upper face, but his hands were pale and paler still in the light of the full moon above. The sound of the flute was unearthly, but it seemed as though the dead were drawn to it. He played with skill, but the gravedigger could not hear it.
He watched as the skeletons from couples’ graves began to pair off and dance to an unheard tune played by the thin piper, and then those who died unmarried began to pair off and dance, a waltz to death’s memory. As they continued to dance, the gravedigger fought to free himself from the grip of his skeletal captor. Dragging himself to the surface, he ran towards the gate, trying to avoid the crowd of the dead.
But then the piper saw him, and began to play a different tune, one that the gravedigger could hear. The gravedigger felt frozen as he saw her rise from her grave – the woman he had loved in her life, though she died before her time. She rose, and he saw her as beautiful in death as she was in life, clad in a white dress. She approached him, and curtsied, and offered her hand to dance. Speechless, the gravedigger complied. Together they danced, closer and closer to the crowd, but the gravedigger could not care. For even as he looked, he saw them all as the beings they were in life; men and women, beautiful and forever in their prime. He saw none of the decayed beings they had become; he could not see the bone or smell the rot of aged and dead flesh. He could only see the couples dancing, happy as a yule-day ball.
The piper played faster, and faster still they danced, keeping time with the pace until the waltz became an insane jig, faster and faster they turned, turning and he noticed not them approaching the grave he had dug. He was too caught up in his love being returned to him, if only for the night.
For hours they danced, and the gravedigger could not feel the burning in his legs as they ached from exhaustion, he could not feel the pain of his own aging limbs as they were pushed to their limits. He could not see himself, as his time with the dead drew him closer to them; in both form and function.
Finally, they drew to the lip of the grave, after hours of dancing, and by the time he noticed his placement, he had lost his footing and tumbled into the grave. Hurting his back in the fall, he could not move his legs. He raised his hands for help, as he saw the ghostly party gather around the edge of the grave. He silently begged them for help, imploring them, imploring his beloved to rescue him.
But as this happened, the sun creeped over the horizon, and the glamer was broken. He saw them as they were – skeletal, ragged creatures in the tatters of burial clothing, skeletons, some with coins over their empty eye sockets. He saw his beloved as she was – a bare skeleton now, with a hole through the right cheekbone leading through to the back of her skull.
He tried to scream, but no voice came out. He looked up, and saw that skeletons were pushing the heavy tombstone – weighing near a ton. He saw as they pushed it closer and closer the edge, and finally noticed his hands – aged and wrinkled, as if he had aged four decades in as many hours. He raised them to protect him, as the tombstone reached the edge, and tipped into the grave. The last sight to greet his eyes before the tombstone struck was the face of the Piper, a face like a grinning death mask, its cheeks cut and restitched, a smile that never lowered. A last smile for the departed.
As I drove along the highway that night, a snowy November evening, I suspected little of the contents of the evening; it had been a fulfilling one, after all. After leaving work, I had gone with some friends to get drinks at a nearby bar, a favorite of one of my coworkers, and I’d promised for a while to join them.
Before I left, I had gone to the bathroom, and on the way out, walked into someone. A woman, probably no older than thirty, who I did not know. I apologized, but she made eye contact with me, almost blankly. Then, in a somber tone, as if she was delivering a verdict, “It ends tonight.”
I thought nothing of it, and continued drinking with my friends.
Maybe that was a mistake.
Maybe I drank too much that night.
Maybe it didn’t matter.
All that mattered was the drive.
The night was dark and the road was dimly lit by poorly-spaced lamps, and though I had made the trip many times, I had never done it in the dark. But I was not afraid; I had no fear of the dark, I didn’t fear the car that was behind me, even when they swerved in their lane. I did not fear them when they were alongside me, and I heard the people inside, four or five college students, drunker than I by far, screaming and hooting as they tried to pass me.
Tried. Their rear bumper hit the front of my car, sending me veering off of the road and into the ditch.
Before that, I looked to my right, and saw Her. The girl from the bar. She was smiling, something inhuman and ancient in her brown eyes and hair. Even in her ordinary features there was something eldritch and ancient that brought out a primal fear. A fear of death.
I was thrown from the car, and blacked out.
I woke up in the black and cold, with a splitting pain above my right eye, but otherwise intact and whole. I looked around and saw my car, aflame, broken and ripped apart by the collision. The college students, it seemed, had left without attempting a rescue.
Lit by the flames of my now-nonfunctional vehicle, I looked around. I expected to see nothing, but there was not. On the ground, not fifteen feet away, was the girl. She was lying on the ground, breathless, motionless and unstirring. Crouched above her was a strange girl, blonde-haired, not older than nineteen, dressed in simple clothing – jeans and a t-shirt – and carrying a weapon of some kind. It looked like a short sword, but the blade was thin and linear, not unlike a sharpened rapier blade but shorter still. Its hilt had a hand guard fashioned in the imagery of an Ouraboros, except with outstretched wings, set in gold but the blade of some black material I could not identify.
I stumbled forward, still disconcerted from the blast. “Who…?”
The girl looked up at me, and her eyes reminded me strangely of the girl who had been in the car with me; not in actual appearance, for this one’s eyes were an unearthly pale blue, but rather they evoked the same primal fears – the same fear of death.
This girl was dangerous.
She sheathed her strange sword in a leather hilt at her belt, and raised her right hand, and shouted, “Khairete!”
I shook my head, not understanding, wondering if maybe I had a concussion.
“Willechomen aband?”
I shook my head again, wondering if maybe I was having a stroke and this would be the end of it.
“Avete!” At this she waved her hand as if miming a greeting.
I stared blankly this time.
“Dia dhuit!”
I continued to stare.
She slapped her forehead and said, “Ego eimai Angelos.”
At my lack of a response she continued, “Ich bin Angelos?”
Rapid-fire she continued to spout in what I could only guess was a multitude of languages until she stumbled upon one I recognized, English. “Hel…lo?”
I nodded at this, encouraging her to continue, “I am Angelos.”
She spoke with a thick accent, something between Greek and German. “You should not be alive. You-“ at this she pointed at me, and paused. “You were supposed to die.”
I felt a little faint, and saw shadows dancing at the corners of my eyes as if my vision was being devoured by something. As I began to swoon, she ran up, but it was inhumanly fast, as if she had less ran to me and more flitted to my side. She waved a hand over my face and I felt a warmth, as if my body face were bathed in sunlight. The cold around me seemed to bite less, in that moment, and I felt awake again.
“Try… to stand,” she said hesitantly, helping me again to my feet. I tried to get to my feet and, nearly fell again, slipping into the snow. She put my right arm over her shoulder and helped me to my feet. As we walked along the snow, I began to ask questions. “What do you mean I was supposed to die? Who was that girl? Who are you? Why was she in my car? Why are you here? Are you… going to kill me?”
She gritted her teeth at my questions, but answered them all the same, “I mean you were fated to die tonight. In that crash. My handmaiden,” she gestured behind us at the crash, “was supposed to take your soul to my kingdom, and you would have been given judgement and sent to your proper afterlife. She has accompanied you, intangible and invisible, for most of this evening. I’m here because it seems she became the victim of fate tonight – her cord cut in place of your own. But you cannot stay here. For you are no longer fated to die.”
“So I’m not in any danger?”
She laughed, a harsh bark befitting an animal moreso than a human. “Not from me, paidi. But the elements, it seems, may have different plans.”
“So where are you taking me?”
She chuckled a little at this, and seemed a little more human in turn. “To my realm, Katachthon. Deep in the bowels of the underworld. It seems we have a vacancy that you could fill in the place of Tilphousia back there.”
I stumbled a little. This was all so much to believe, but what else could I do? Magic seemed the only explanation at this point; the girl appearing in my car, predicting my death. This girl, healing my wounds. I noticed, after a bit, that we were walking into the woods, away from the highway. We made our way to a clearing, and she stopped.
“Tóso kaló óso opoiodípote. This place seems as good as any. Hold to me tightly; this will be a little… disconcerting.”
In a second, it seemed, we were travelling at the speed of light, shadows dancing, laughter – raucous and unearthly, inhuman – and we arrived, on the balcony of a castle overlooking a darkened lake, within a massive cavern. I let go of her, and collapsed, and saw no more.
oadelԙ���
You’re driving a long, dark stretch of highway, when Death appears in the passenger seat, informing you that you are about to die. The car then spins out of control, flipping, and you black out. You wake up, hours later, in a deserted field. Death is laying lifeless on the side of the highway.
Spring, digital sketch by Danila Golmanov
Drew some lobo and Quentin -Mun
That sobering moment when you are brushed by death. Only by proxy; a tragedy twice removed.
But you see different, taste different, feel different.
Confronted by the fragile state that is humanity. When death is more than just mortality and morbidity.
Floating without even grief to hold your heart. Unbroken and unsure.
Black Shuck
Black Shuck o Cane Nero, un'entità spettrale ricorrente nel folklore delle isole britanniche: la sua apparizione era considerata presagio di morte.
Black Shuck or Black Dog, a spectral entity found primarily in the folklore of the British Isles: its regarded as a portent of death.
OC creato da me. Per favore NON USARE senza la mia autorizzazione.
OC created by me. Please DO NOT USE without my permission.
Prompt #14
Death just wanted to take one (1) vacation. Only two weeks on Mallorca. Death didn‘t have a vacation in 2.000 years. 2.000 years. They really deserved a break. It had only been two weeks. And now ... everything is a mess.
Death stares at their sibling, who had been their substitute for the last two weeks.
„What happend?“
„Well... funny story actually. And none of this ... uh... mess ... is my fault. Really.“
Old warrior cats comic from 2020
warrior cats design: -Yellowfang: fav.me/ddl4vul -Ashfur: fav.me/ddn4hax and fav.me/dcwf3vf -Jayfeather: fav.me/dd375xu -Brokenstar: fav.me/ddl6jqb
I try to explain a scene from Warriors without have even reed it .3. I can't believe this thing took me over 100 layers ;-;
I've wanted to do this for a long time, but just now I decided to do it. I have not read this part of the book but I have seen many videos that talk about Yellowfang's decision to let Asfur in Starclan. Personally, after thinking for a long time, I think it really makes sense in her character to take that decision. Now I have only read The prophecy, new prophecy and from time to time Power of Three (I have too much to read and I don't finish ;__; ), so I have not read Yellowfang secret, just whatched a video talking about the book (and I found so stupid that they gave powers to her character, she doesn't need them. What's up with doom every medicine cat with horrible powers?). Well, for me Yellowfang is a character that although she seems to hate everyone, deep down, I think, she feels a love and a concern for her clan as big as she could get to feel for her son Brokenstar. I find her as a character who comes to give second chances and wants to help every cat she sees in need, even when they don't deserve it (* cof cof * Brokenstar). We could say that she gave Broken so many opportunities because he was her son, but it is that sense she also got to know Ashfur since childhood. Now, if Starclan really is always watching over the clans, imagine see that little apprentice who risked being chased by dogs in the first books, to save his clan, to be imprisoned in his hatred without anyone noticing, that prompts him to make a lot of stupid decisions, which eventually lead to his death. I legitimately think that Yellowfang wanted to help him, as a kind of redemption, and that "he just love too much" was more directed at her for not knowing when a cat could no longer be helped (* cof cof * Brokenstar again).
Now, in all this, I sometimes wonder how Ashfur's mom felt, because I don't think we actually ever saw it, or how this afected her relationship with her son.
Well, tell me what you think, I hope you like it :3
hese is for a project for tomorrow, from school :b This is the last week of school before Christmas break, so it's been a little heavy on projects, but at least it's drawing, which I like :}
For this project the teacher decided to do something simple, so we had to make posters related to animal conservation.
I decided to make the angry wolf, because I was thinking about a metal cover while I was making it :b and also because I'm angry at the way the fight to prevent the extinction of the red wolf is currently going on, basically it's not going well.
A sketch I did at around 12 am, I did it in a few hours, so sorry if it's out of proportion. I didn't really like the first drawing I did with this character, so I decided to try it again, and exaggerate the light and the proportions a bit. What do you think? I don't quite like the pose and color palette, so I think I'll just leave it as a sketch :0
Ugly Lie And Bitter Truth.
Nobody loves death. The cold touch of your very life force being sucked right out of you.
A so called godly creature staring down at you into your burning soul, ripping out all the knowledge you use to know. Everything you thought to be real, to be reality; fake, a fraud.
Or just darkness, your body thrown in a endless black void of nothingness only your existence floating alone. All by yourself, with no one to call your name, to say “Hello.” To embrace you in the dark as you fall, fall, fall. There is no one to say “Goodbye,” to, no one to say “I love you.”
A man just running, running, running, to nothing. He doesn’t know why, doesn’t remember. There’s no one to ask, for there no one around. Everything surrounding was covered in a white sheet, like a empty vacuum bag, just blank. Why am I running? Where am I going? were the constant questions that swirled around inside of his head. But then, before any answers could be constructed, a voice whispered in his ear. Something within told him to turn around, to look. It repeated over and over, look, look, look. The man obeyed the whisperer’s command.
Far, but close, a blurry figure walked directly towards him, carrying behind it a darkness of some-sort. The fog spread with every step following, covering the whiteness in dark. As the man stared at the mysterious creature before him, he couldn’t help but think of exactly what it could be. I-It carries the color black with i-it.. New questions were formed, developing at a devouring pace. It’s a man. N-No a male monster, with horns. As his thoughts rambled on, the being changed taking the characteristics his mind set. Transforming into a male humanoid-beast with horns, growing ten feet tall, with a scaly silver tail that thrashed about it went on walking, still become what it was told to be. Nails that once didn’t exist appeared now as claws, eyes that held no place, now shined a bright crimson red, hair that is now there matched the dye of the dark.
At the sight of such a monstrosity, the man let out a voiceless scream twirling on his heels as he darted down the only path that remained bright. Tap, tap tap went the entity’s feet, slow and steady yet winning the race between himself and the mortal man. No matter how fast he ran, he followed right behind.
Just as the human’s hope began to go like the clock of time ticking away, in the distance another figure stood. Like how the monster once was, it was blurry leaving the man to come up with it’s attire. It put off a warm feelings as it remained in it’s place. So gentle..
The man couldn’t help but think again of what it could be. A woman, there’s no doubt about it. She’s so warm. Just as fast as the thought came, it was so. The figure that was once gender-less, now a female. A woman with hair like pure gold that reached all the way to her feet, and eyes like the first tear of a newborn with branches and leaves of nature wrapped around her body like a dress. She’s perfect, too perfect to be human, but a Goddess she is. Her appearance was now that of a holy being. His eyes locked on her, nothing else could pry them away from the beauty. A smile spread on her face, the one of a mother opening her arms to her child. Picking up his speed he ran as fast as his legs could, longing to hug her, wanting her to keep him safe. Only three feet away the goddess remained when his arm reached out to her, but in vain. For before his fingertips brushed against her waist, behind him the monster had sent out his ‘demons’.
Out of the endless abyss hands formed of shadows latched themselves onto the man, retraining him, dragging him to the darkness. He cried and shouted, yanking, struggling to break free from their strangling clutches. With one final attempt, he surged forward snapping his binds and leaped into the goddess’ hold. Tears streamed down his face for he knew the beast could not reach him now. The only thing she did in return was wrap her arms around him, and slowly he began to disappear as he smiled happily. In only a single minute he was gone without a trace. Seeing this the monster let out a rasp sigh in the void that was now half black and white. The goddess continued to hold a neutral expression walking to the center of the borderline to end’s darkness.
“Why do people love me, but hate you?” She asked, staring at his hunched back. His face carried no emotion.
“Because your a beautiful lie, and I the ugly truth. You show them false illusions of happiness while I show them reality, try to take their hands and bring them to a place called “Paradise.” But you tell them their living, tell them lies when they are truly suffering. You make them think I’m bad, when you are the one who’s actually taking them to the gates of Hades.” The Goddess herself sighed, letting her lips twitch at her attempt to frown, but her godly body refused to allow her to do so.
“That’s what the do. The world tells me my roll in this universe. It tells you yours as well. We’re not allowed to tell them that I’m the real grim reaper, the real death called “Life” and your the real life called “Death.” The monster didn’t say a word until his corrupted image disappeared returning him back into an it, a blurry figure once again. Only then did he speak,
“Time to convince another soul.”
I enjoy this movie a Normal Amount
Welp guess who's fan of Bendy and the inkmachine.
🐀 No. 6 - Rodent -🐀
