[ Still with scythe in hand and breathing hard, Ivan lifts his free one to grasp the vines puncturing his shoulder. He grits his teeth against the pain, against the sting of thorns slicing into his palm to draw blood anew. ]
The hand of Death.
[ With a grunt, he tugs the vines free, sending a fresh splatter of blood across the pavement. He tosses the vines aside, and they land with a soft, wet sound. ]
no subject
The hand of Death.
[ With a grunt, he tugs the vines free, sending a fresh splatter of blood across the pavement. He tosses the vines aside, and they land with a soft, wet sound. ]
Come to take those who meet their end.
[ A beat. ]
Don't worry. I'm not here for you.