Darksiders: The Abomination Vault

“I see you’re still going with crows,” Death observed aloud. “Bold choice.”
“Your sarcasm is unwelcome here, Horseman,” the Crowfather rasped at him.
“Pity. It seems determined to follow me everywhere.”

"Most common substance in Creation is dramatic irony."

The heat here, though no more severe than that of the Council’s domain, was unhealthy. It was thick, somehow oily. It left a sticky sheen on the skin that was most assuredly not sweat, and a memory of discomfort in the deepest recesses of the mind. It was the heat of dream-fire. Soul-fire.
Hellfire.

Great humanoid figures, their specific features long since worn away by harsh environs, half emerged from the sides of columns and hills; ancient sentinels, their vigils long ended, left to slowly return to the rock whence they came.

Death had a very simple doctrine for just such a circumstance: When in doubt, strike first and kill everyone.