Savage Reaper .25 ozt

He is older than any grave. Older than any name ever etched into a stone. When plague and famine could not finish their work, when blades dulled and empires forgot how to fall, he came to remind the world that all things end.

They call him the Savage Reaper, not for his hunger—though it is endless—but for the way he revels in the harvest. Where other reapers arrive in silence, cloaked in pity or purpose, this one drips with a glee that borders on madness. His hood is forever soaked in the black ichor of a thousand perished souls, and when he emerges from the fog, the living feel their hearts tighten in their chests, not just with fear but with a dread certainty: their time is up, and he will enjoy every moment of their unraveling.

It is said his scythe was forged from the ribs of the first betrayer, its edge honed on the regrets of the dying. When it swings, it doesn’t simply cut—it devours. No final prayers, no peaceful crossings. Only the Savage Reaper’s hollow laughter as he drags what remains into whatever black pit spawned him.

Some fools believe they can outrun him. That they can slip away, hidden among the multitudes. But the Savage Reaper does not tally the fallen by number. He knows each name, each heartbeat. He comes not when the hourglass empties, but when he decides it should.

And when he fixes that skeletal grin upon you, understand: there is no bargaining. No pleading. No escape. Only the harvest, and the joy he takes in claiming it.

**Shape will vary per piece**