Crimison Moth

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In the ancient city beneath the cloak of night, there existed an entity devoured by legend. She was called the Crimson Moth, a harbinger of death, her scythe slicing through the silence like a ghost.

Her eyes were deep green, like the heart of an ancient forest—calm, yet unforgiving. Her face was delicate, but her body was powerful, with muscles carved like a warrior's. Clad in a black hooded cloak, she held a scythe of pink-black steel that glimmered faintly in the moonlight.

Each night, the Crimson Moth wandered the city. She did not seek nor wait; she appeared only when fate dictated, taking those whose time had come.

One winter, a nobleman named Varrick made a pact with death itself, seeking immortality. But he did not know that the wheel of destiny had already begun to turn. Proud and fearless, he believed he could cheat fate.

But when night fell, every street in the city echoed with his heartbeat. He bolted the doors, attempting to hide, but the moonlight poured through the window, casting shadows across his room.

There, she stood—silent, still as the dark itself, her scythe like an extension of night, pointed at his fate.

Varrick trembled, his gaze falling before her. The terror in his eyes was swallowed by her indifference. The Crimson Moth said nothing. She only raised her scythe and struck. Her green eyes held no mercy. Her task was done.

And with that, she vanished into the night, leaving behind only a fleeting trace of pink light—a glow that time could not erase, as though she had never been.
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It's a small attempt.