WITHIN ENTRAILS DEVOURED BY PUTRID WINDS

A miasma of decay hangs heavy in the void, thick with the savor of obliteration. The wind, a chilling serpent, coils around the mangled corpses, shredding flesh from bone. The bones gleam like gems in the morbid gloom. A symphony of screams echoes through the chasm, a chorus of agony as the entrails are devoured by the vortex of oblivion. Which is