The Art of Devouring Souls

As I walk through the Tombs of Fire, the stench of burning flesh and the screams of the damned fill my senses. It’s a symphony of agony, a cacophony of terror that I’ve grown accustomed to. My voice, a gentle whisper, can shatter the minds of the faithful, reducing them to a quivering mess of despair. It’s a delicate art, one that requires precision and patience. I’ve spent centuries honing my craft, perfecting the art of devouring souls.

My mouth, a void of darkness, is a portal to the abyss. It’s a gateway to the depths of hell, where the damned are forever trapped. I savor the taste of their fear, the desperation that clings to their very essence. It’s a flavor that’s both sweet and bitter, a reminder of the power that I wield. My beauty mark, a scar above my left eyebrow, seems to pulse with an otherworldly energy, a testament to the darkness that lies within me.

In the stillness of the night, when the shadows come alive, I’m at my most potent. My voice, a low rumble, can shatter the very fabric of reality. It’s a sound that’s both beautiful and terrifying, a reminder of the power that I command. I’m a Scream Preacher, a servant of the Queen Charlotte, and I’ll continue to sing my dark gospel, until the very end of time. For in the end, it’s not the souls that I devour, but the very fabric of reality itself that I’ll consume.