(((Taggs to Gaunt! Also, played in a modern setting, therefore non-canon.)))
A gust of swirling dust arose after the door closed. The man in the corner paled as the tall figure, dressed in a casual shirt, entered, and closed the door behind. Chest, thin, but wiry with muscles, only partly visible through the half buttoned shirt, scruffy black hair that seemed somehow unnatural... A sharp face with a devilish grin on his thin lips.
"I don't have anything. I have nothing. Nothing. Leave me..." the figure muttered, quivering in horror. The pale man shook his head. "I never asked for a single thing. And on your place I'd shut your mouth..." he whispered sharply. His hand reached somewhere to his belt, a piece of metal glinted in the black leather glove, and was reflected in his cold eyes. The lightbulb, hanging on a cord from the ceiling, bickered.
Smoke arose from a cigarette, and the knife in the hand of the man in white flashed once again, as he put it to his other hand, and pulled the cigarette out of his thin lips. "Now stand up and play pretty. Screaming won't help you... There's just me, you know?" he teased him, stepping closer.
The man climbed to his feet, back pressed to the wall, and vigorously shook his head. "I don't have anything! Tell them I don't have it, please!" he begged him. Aldanith raised a brow with amusement, and grabbed him by the collar of his T-shirt. "Oh, I was sent by a different 'them', then. They didn't want money, or things. They wanted one thing-"
A flash of knife that sunk right into the man's neck. Crimson blood streaming out in a thin stream.
"-and that was your death."
The corpse collapsed onto the floor, motionless, quickly creating a pool of blood on the floor. Aldanith cleaned the knife in his shirt, and immediately took both it, the jacket, and wig, which he wore till now, off, throwing it onto the floor. The long wisps of his own white hair, streaked with dark grey, fell onto his shoulders, and he quickly pulled a rugged black T-shirt over his head.
Flame of a lighter appeared in his hand, together with a can of spray, and set the pile of clothes and blood on fire. It burned brightly, singing the tips of his hair, but he paid no attention to the searing heat. After a while, there was nothing but a pile of ash.
He cackled, putting his thick leather jacket back on. The studs on its collar and sides glinted alongside the numerous buckles when he bent over to tuck the ripped jeans into a pair of somewhat dirty boots, and pulled a pair of mirror sunglasses out of the pocket of the jacket. His hand pressed the burned out remain of a cigarette into the pile of ashes, and he threw the door open, walking out into bright sunlight of a dry land, almost a dessert, towards a lone motorbike in the middle of an abandoned parking lot.
The engine roared as he started it, beginning to vibrate under his tall figure, perched on the leather seat, and he rode out with his hair, waving in the wind. His sharp teeth was revealed in the same devilish grin, somewhat grotesque on his pale skin, sharply contrasting with his entirely black outfit.
He was the highway, he was the dust, and he was the wheel that stirs it. He was the bullet and he was the gun that fires it. He was the fire and he was the smoke.
He was unstoppable...
He was Death. And you can't catch the Reaper.
