He turned his face up to the pouring rain, letting it mix with his tears. No one would see, no one would know, because no one came to the graveyard on that rainy night. No one but him. This was his domain, his kingdom, this land of the dead.

He was crouched on the top of a grave's cross as the rain continued to fall. A few hairs had come loose from his long braid and had drifted across his face, creating paths for the rain to follow. His wide, black, draconic wings rustled as he unfurled them slightly, dislodging the water that had collected on them. The rising moon's light caught off the curved blade of his scythe, which he held with its staff slanting behind his back and the blade curving beneath his feet. His tattered, black cloak fluttered in the rising wind as he cried to the silent night.

He waited and was alone.

No one would see, no one would know, because no one came to the graveyard on that rainy night. No one but him. This was his domain, his kingdom, this land of the dead.