The grim hunter, Death, his eyes pale as the moon, his cloak as bleached and tattered as the flag of an abandoned fortress, astride a ghostly horse, moves at a measured pace equally over empty moors and down the crowded high streets of cities, his #fell blade unsheathed, striking at will, and those cut down fall like grass, the butterfly beat of their hearts stilled.
#wss366 #microfiction
Asakiyume
npub18y…9gt0t
2026-10-11 10:44:06 UTC
Author Public Key
npub18y7ymsk5jvfla397a8gslrqt8hkg7yuq0tgteelekzktf5dya6rsh9gt0tSeen on
wss://relay.momostr.pinkPublished at
2026-10-11 10:44:06 UTCEvent JSON
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