THE ENTRAILS DEVOURED BY PUTRID WINDS

A miasma of rot hangs heavy in the air, thick with the savor of death. The wind, a putrid serpent, violently around the mangled corpses, ripping flesh from bone. The remains gleam like gems in the morbid gloom. A symphony of wails echoes through the chasm, a chorus of agony as the entrails are devoured by the vortex of oblivion. That is left is a