As the black sphere of death and madness crumbled into pieces, the Clown's new form appeared.
From the black sphere of death, something colossal emerged from it.
A giant of madness.
The Clown's new body towered like a mountain of twisted flesh and dripping scarlet ichor. Countless faces, the remnants of those he had absorbed, bulged and contorted across his skin.
Some were laughing, some were crying, some were howling, and some were whispering the secrets of death. Secrets that mortals should never hear.
The Clown's hair, if it could still be called that, flowed like black smoke, writhing in defiance of gravity.
His spine protruded in jagged arcs, forming something like the ribs of a broken cathedral, and from his back were tattered wings made of flayed pages, each etched with runes that bled as they fluttered.
