Dark Art Weird One

He stands alone in the desert, his sandwhite cloak fluttering in the wind. He is the reaper, the one who harvests the souls of the dead.

He looks around, but sees no signs of life. Only sand, blue sky, and rocks. He remembers a time when this place was green and fertile, when people and animals thrived here. He remembers the wars, the plagues, the famines, that wiped them all out. He remembers the screams, the tears, the prayers, that he ignored as he did his duty.

He feels a pang of regret, but quickly pushes it away. He has no emotions, no attachments, no sympathy. He is only a tool, a servant of fate. He has no choice, no free will, no purpose. He is only a reaper.

He wonders if there is anyone left in the world, anyone he has not claimed yet. He wonders if there is any point in his existence, any meaning in his work. He wonders if there is anything beyond this life, anything beyond death.