Gehrman stood slowly, confident, certain that he would triumph. His cloak hissed softly, whispering in its meaningless tongue the scripture of our doom, weaving from its folds the sibilant song of death waiting patiently to descend. His grey hair swayed, covering his features then laying them bare, curtains frail and threadbare, sweeping over eyes that burned like coals set within his pale skull. He thrust one hand out to the side, his scythe unfolding with a sharp clack, its edge blazing as if cast of moonlight, its light the tainted radiance of eclipsed stars, bright at its fringe and hopelessly, purely dark at the center.

Each step branded the earth, grass wilting and retreating as if in terror, leaving a barren halo around him as he strode toward us, still with that air of unwavering certainty, of a man who knew no fear. Indeed, in his life sodden with misery, steeped in the blood of others, lost in the darkness he called his own, I doubted that he had ever felt ill equipped, ever been forced back, perhaps never had he truly known the desperation of leaning upon one's back foot, fear clawing with talons of frost, pain answering with ragged claws of fire. That gait of solemn certainty belied his ignorance, belied how little Gehrman experienced that which he so eagerly sowed.

At our hands, he would learn.