synthetic-sleuth:

A man looked upon the scythe of the Moon and saw a life half lived.
A scythe, indeed, for where were the Gods to watch over her, their most devoted sacrifice, when the scythe was so near her head? A word flung down a darkened hall was his prayer, for there was no song, no God to which he could pray.
Prey? No, they would be prey for none.
Horror, crushed, crashing, as darkness encroached, near, and nearer, still. 
A wild dog, hackles raised. Fed on fighting, throats wrung raw stained the air crimson.
Hope was a form of torture. 
And where a heart was too heavy to carry uphill, one must roll it to move on.