Oh, but mein kleines, had you heard the song of death and destruction? Had you felt the blood pool around your hooves as you tasted it's life giving substance upon your lips? Drinking up the liquid as if it could quench your dehydration? Had you felt the maroon liquid as it cohesively trailed down your horn and across your forehead, acting like an adhesive to the pelt that was as dark as night? Had you ever tinted your horn in that colour of blood, making it look like stained glass?

No? Well. That's because you are not me and you are not a mörder. Your heart beats and you relish the feeling of it. You plead so that it can continue to carry those cells whose only job is to make sure that each of your extremities get the necessary oxygen required to push forward. I? You want to know what I do? I listen to the swirling of the souls as they pull on own brain. Each of them vying for attention. You do not realize that there is still a place for you in this world. You do not realize that death is a release. You only see it as an ends to a mean. I find it the perfect form of torture. To watch your soul wither away as you gasp for air. Your physical vessel screaming in pain as your soul fights to break free from the restraints. Oh. How you can only learn that floating in this limbo, not falling into Hell or floating into Heaven, is the real torture. It's where you can cause the most pain and destruction. It's where you can begin again.

Death is not a release... Innerste reminds me and I simply shake my head. It is a release for everyone other than me. Death is something that will only cause my spirit to haunt and torture. But you say I already do that? I wouldn't want you to even attempt to imagine what I'd be capable then in death. Murder is wrong! She screeches in disappointment. But does it phase me? Could it phase me? I think not. My coat was designed to look as though I was stained in blood - simply staining it even more only adds to who I am. I was born a killer and I was raised a Recke. It was that simple.

Mein puppe. I applaud your decisions. Go. wreck more havoc on some souls. Schwere commanded, pride rolling around in his voice as it swam through the volatile waters of my cranium. I was a machine. I was built to cause death. I was built to distract and to look like I couldn't harm anything. But, as soon as I was given the chance to strike I would strike like a viper and sink my teeth into their jugular. I would rip their soul from their body and watch as they the confused vessel struggled for air. Watch as the blood spilled from their frame and pool around their warm vessel. I would laugh as the cold air chilled their frame beyond recognition until they were frozen with the panicked look upon their skull. It would be the perfect way to die. And I would be der Sensenmann. Death and destruction in my glass horn posing as the scythe, cloaked in black and hidden in the shadows. Todesengel. Necromancer. It was perfect. It was hidden.

Two voices snagged my attentions. Voices not coming from the wall of souls I had begun to block out so well. Voices that were not Schwere, Innerste, Liebling, or Unheil. Voices speaking of death. Voices speaking of destruction. Oh, but my dears. You do not know of death. You do not know of destruction.

"You do not understand dämonen. No one can understand them until they have allowed their souls to become stuck in limbo as they cry out and screech for help. Screeching and sobbing because they cannot return to their vessels to seek revenge on those others who had so viciously ripped them from their only form of contact." I spoke, still in the shadows of the forest. Carefully, I pulled my frame forward, standing closer to the mare who had a lion at her side, but still a good distance from the both of them. "Gutting. One of the most beautiful things. How you can make the soul cry out in vain as they watch the death upon their physical vessel. How the blood pools on the ground. How the vessel can still writhe in pain. One of the most violent ways of death. One which stimmen seem to call for. I, though, just would like to show this one here that dämonen cannot be understood until you hear the voices of the dead in your head. Every day. Every night. You do not understand dämonen until you can laugh at their pain, laugh at their pleading to be returned to some physical vessel..." I trailed off. There was a darkness glimmering in my yellow eyes. A sickness, with even more deadly voices swirling around in my brain. But it was wearing off. It was wearing off and any emotions which had joined it were definitely waning away. I was once again a violent monster. I was once again the sociopath with the schizophrenic tendencies that wanted nothing more than death.

I was der Sensenmann in the form of an elegant, tiny mare most would glance over. I was death on a platter....

SEELE