Mount Apikuni The trouble is, you think you have time.

death had a specific kind of aroma that lingered on the wind wherever it had found its mark. that fragrance seemed to cling to each jutting bone on his weathered frame. he was made of it; born from the very terror that sniped away the last breath. the ghoul felt it, too. he knew well enough what it was that fueled him. 

near the mountain, the ghoul stopped to check his racing pulse. it throbbed in his neck and chest with a wicked fever. though he prowled the earth as a shadow clad deviant, he did not believe himself to be alive. after all, what sort of ripe hell could he have found if his body was still truly corporeal. 

narrowing dark eyes on the figure that stood out of place in the wild earth, the ghoul began to shadow step toward it without pause or concern. 

he was there to reap.