He is wearing a ferocious snarl on his battle-scarred face. He has empty eye sockets that are occupied with raging fires. He has muscles corrupting his body and he has just won a glorious war. His soldiers are celebrating their victory with wine and cheers. Whiel this happens, he struts on his battlefield, his lust for violence never seeming to end. He is wearing a blood stained black tunic and is carrying his sharp as steel scythe.
He is the meaning of violence. He is Ares.