Barish Daraphim (Maestro)
A faint tune that has lightly tikled the ears of many, but graced the hearts of none.
A deamon lay beneath the garb of a humble conductor, drawing in any passers by to his decaying web with his alluring melody. His head, encased by a seemingly decritive meatal mask, hides a sickening, rotten face that defies all “natural” law. A red line runs from its eyes, down its face. The eyes of this cover are as black as the abyss, concealing the feind’s eyes, bloodshot to where they adorn a deep crimson hew, leaving only his ghostly white puples. Any hair that is left upon his skelital cranium is white, dry, and pachey like a decrepid cadaver.
“Why concern oneself with such trivial things? Our pasts are best left to ourselves.”