A towering, gaunt figure stands in a desolate, fog- choked medieval graveyard, cloaked in tattered, bloodstained robes that drag across the dirt. Its face is hidden beneath a grotesque, elongated pestilence mask, the cracked leather stretched over an unnatural skull, with hollow, dead eyes peering out from deep within. The beak of the mask drips with a thick, black ichor, and the air around the figure reeks of decay and death. In its bony hand, it clutches a gnarled staff made of twisted human femurs, adorned with rotting, severed heads, their mouths sewn shut with barbed wire. As it moves through the fog, the ground withers beneath its feet, the grass turning to ash, while silent, skeletal ravens circle above, waiting to feast on the souls of the damned. Every breath it takes is a rattling gasp, like the dying wheeze of a thousand plague victims, and its presence draws the spirits of the dead from their graves, their skeletal hands clawing desperately at the earth. This figure seeks not salvation, but only the embrace of death, spreading pestilence wherever it roams, a living harbinger of rot and ruin