Hells Butcher, a fell harbinger hewn from the marrow of perdition. Clad in the ashen raiment of desolation, he treadeth the abyssal forges where flame kisseth iron and despair is wrought into form. The heavens shudder and the earth weepeth, for the blade drinketh not the blood of flesh alone, but the very essence of souls. Woe unto those who stand before him, for his visage is a psalm of ruin, and his path is devastation. Thus, the realms tremble, for his song is the dirge of eternity.
