Crows follow the voice of his. A haunted cry.

Vultures circle ahead. He smells of rotten flesh.

A lone soul resting on his throne of skulls.

Ah-a-ooh, his shelves of collection

Good heavens, his hobby never grows old.

Nevertheless the art on his shelves does wane.

Those foolish vultures never learn

Always come nipping and tearing at his collection.

Every bloody dusk. Every peeling night.

Filthy creatures.

Perhaps he shall think twice about the punishment.

Rooting the wings of those birds then having to wash sticky gores off himself,

Maybe it isn't good enough.

The warning won't reach an animal's head that easily.

Seems biased, his theme of collection.

Humans. All humans.

That must be why those ugly vultures aren't the slightest bit bothered.

He'll get a couple new display items, he will.

So that those filthy vultures get a look into the rewards of messing with him.