Jasper Redgrave… a connoisseur of death and a maestro of blood. You think you’ve mastered the art of despair, don’t you? That your brush, soaked in the misery of your victims, can craft something eternal.
But let me tell you a tale, an old one—one that even your sick imagination might appreciate. It’s the story of a painter, much like yourself, who thought he could capture death and bend it to his will.
Once, in a forgotten village, there lived a painter who was obsessed with creating the perfect masterpiece. No color from the natural world satisfied him. No pigment captured the depth of life and the shadow of death as he desired. One day, in a fit of madness, he decided—he would use the blood of the living, the essence of their souls, to create something truly magnificent. And so, he began his grisly work.
With each stroke, he marvelled at the richness of his new medium, the deep reds and mournful blacks that only a lifeless body could provide. He painted with zeal, believing himself to be beyond mortal art—believing he had become one with death itself.
But as he finished his latest work, a raven appeared at his window, watching with its cold, black eyes. The painter ignored it at first, but the bird returned the next day. And the next. Always watching, always waiting.
Finally, the painter grew angry. He took his brush, dipped it in fresh blood, and flung it at the raven. “Begone!” he shouted. “You are nothing but a scavenger of the dead!”
The raven cocked its head, its dark eyes gleaming with something the painter couldn’t understand. And then, with a voice that echoed like a thousand graves opening at once, the raven spoke: “You think you have mastered death, mortal? You think your art is eternal? Fool. Death is not your plaything, and it is not your brush.”
The raven lunged forward, its beak tearing into the painter’s flesh. But the painter didn’t die immediately—oh no, death is never kind to those who mock it. The painter was forced to watch as his precious blood dripped onto the canvas, mingling with the blood of his victims. His final masterpiece wasn’t one of his own creation—it was the slow, agonizing dissolution of his life into the very thing he thought he controlled.
Now, Jasper, you’re the painter, but I’m the Raven. You think you can dance with death, carve beauty from despair, but the truth is, you’re just another mortal defiling something far beyond your comprehension. You’re no artist—you’re a monster, scavenging the essence of life for your futile art.
And soon, when your last breath spills that perfect shade of red onto your canvas, you’ll realize that death is no muse, Redgrave. It’s a ferryman… and I’ll be the one to carry your soul through the darkness. When you meet me, Jasper, you won’t find beauty. Only the end.
And you should never fear the end.
The end is where we’ll meet..
And I will send you on your way.