The Humans are dead. A futile effort to go against the almighty. Among the field of the fallen, one rose among the dead. Cloaked in black, it barely had any strength to stand. A barrage of concentrated plasma hit it dead on, as the dust settled, the only thing the barrage did was knock off its hood. It was no human, it lacked any flesh. It was just bones and in its desolate eyes was hazy blue flame. Its jaw opened, spilling an all encompassing black fog atop the field. An omnipresent voice rings though out the air "ꁲꌅꂑꌚꈼ". As the fog touched the humans, their souls burned. Death is a simple farmer, for those that harm his crop will pay the price -- Anon Guest
They had thought that eliminating all the Humans present would eliminate all their problems. They were wrong.
Under certain circumstances, Humans can alter reality. Mass hallucinations melded with belief can cause fictions to form flesh. Or, in this case, not-flesh. At the moment of their demise, one unifying figure came to the thoughts of all those extinguished souls. One definite form known to all cultures.
Guide. Guardian. Grim. The Reaper stood tall among the field of former torment. Humanoid but not human. Robed in a black so dark that it swallowed thought. The aggressors discovered it, swinging a scythe over the fallen Human forms. Tiny flames issued forth, following the Reaper like ducklings followed their mother.
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