ACROSS ENTRAILS DEVOURED BY PUTRID WINDS

A miasma of decay hangs heavy in the void, thick with the reek of annihilation. The wind, a putrid serpent, writhingly around the mangled corpses, tearing flesh from bone. The bones gleam like pearls in the morbid light. A symphony of groans echoes through the valley, a chorus of suffering as the entrails are devoured by the whirlwind of oblivion.