Crimson Harvest Of My Wrath

Upon the charnel fields of battle, my fury unleashed, the demonlord sows seeds of terror. With Grond, my vengeance-forged scythe, I mow down the weak, leaving behind a trail of shattered dreams and spilled innards. These mortals quake under the shadow of my passing, begging for salvation from the maelstrom of my wrath.

They whisper of my deeds, but fail to grasp the true magnitude of my fervor. Like sheep caught in the teeth of a storm, they fall prey to my hunger for violence. As the lord of wars, I devour the souls of those foolish enough to defy me, consuming their essences with the same zeal as I do their bodies.

I revel in the agony etched upon their faces, the futility of their struggles. They pray to their feeble gods, seeking solace, but I, the Bringer of Ruin, care not for their desperate pleas. I laugh at their misfortune, drunk on the heady brew of their suffering.

For me, there is no peace, no respite. War is my sustenance; carnage my music. And so, I march forth, a titan of blood and bone, spreading the Crimson Harvest of my unrelenting wrath.