Sprite reeled from the rotting vapors emanating from Death's empty eye sockets. Ghastly paleness, dank suppression; Death's face revealed itself to be a chipped mosaic of other men's bones. Chaos erupted. The vortex had rent the black veil protecting Sprite's realm from the underworld. The dread tombs of Necropolis lay exposed. The tortured spirits compelled to spend eternity in that doomed city rushed the portal created by Death. Sprite shrank from Hell's horde, cowering, unable to behold Death's ashen glory.

Powerless to snare the object of his grim gaze, Death reared back and let his terrible scythe fall. Not in the direction of Sprite did the scythe fall, but deep within his own breast did the unearthly blade sink. The scythe severed the black bands of sinew holding his primeval heart, removing the source of Death's unendurable pain. The black heart imploded with the power of a thousand whispered prayers, melting hopes, blasting the dross of desire, leaving an empty cavity in Death's breast.