Death has been depicted in many ways. Sometimes it's a skeleton wielding a scythe, sometimes it's a benevolent angel that brings salvation. If one were to ask Klaus, however, he would have answered that death was the back of a raging beast's maw.
Saliva dripped in long, stringy ropes from the roof of the werewolf's maw, glistening like molten glass. Jagged fangs, painted crimson from foreign blood, jutted from swollen gums, each on a distinct blade slick with fresh gore. The tongue twitched with a mind of its own as if tasting the fear in the air. Beyond that, a tunnel of muscle and shadow promised nothing but a wet, crushing end of anything unlucky enough to enter.
Klaus didn't know how long he had been staring at it. Time seemed to have stopped, and he was trapped there, forced to look at the dark depths of death for all eternity. Unfortunately for him, the jaws were moving, and the rows of gore-painted teeth were closing around him, ready to bite off his head.
