He was hooded in white robes as he strode in a footless way across the misty moors. A single shining iron gauntlet gleamed from his robes, and that was all. Beneath the hood was a head, to be sure, but as to a face, there was nothing except a spiral maw.
When shut tight, it looks like a scribble of lip, scrawled on paper by a child with an unholy crayon. Once they part like zippers, armies of sharp teeth appear in impossible battalions.
First, it lashes out with its mouth by thrusting out its unclosing curves into bodies, like drills or tornadoes. It twists impossibly, thin as the entirety of a face, yet extending for miles to skewer its prey, or twist around them to rasp the skin away.
Then when escape is impossible, the mouth collapses inward like a Chinese yoyo, forming a whirlpool, a blender, a drain that could suck the atmosphere dry and drags you limb by bloody limb within the emptiness of eternity.
Oh, one must fear the nightmare grin of this unholy monk. One must hope that he’ll meet his foe soon.