Plague

Her red eyes burned with an unsettling glow, cold and unfeeling, yet suffused with a terrible purpose. She was no mindless pestilence; she chose her path with cruel precision. Settlements fell silent under her shadow, their streets empty but for the echo of her tread—a sound like the rattle of bones. No words escaped her lips, but her presence spoke volumes: you cannot run, you cannot hide. She was the harbinger of ruin, the relentless agent of decay. To cross her path was to invite an end so absolute it left no room for memory, only the haunting knowledge that life could be snuffed out so easily, so utterly.