The woman who sews darkness with wands, stands still in puddles of black. Pale skin consumed and all thought awry, her hope is all but blown. At her feet in its own blood, all she ever loved, and a devil before her eyes snarling at her weapons.
She sways. She sways, and rocks, and lunges forward pulled on strings of hate toward teeth, and fur, and death, she strikes. They dance.
Rain, and blood, and black between them, evil and corruption collide and slash at flesh and bone, each desperate for different reasons. Old words slide from her mouth and spells she hardly knows, tendrils and horrors reach from her and lash at the beast, drawing thick lines of red on hard flesh and fur.
Roaring, and reeling, and snapping at illusions, the beast swipes wildly at her. Rancid yellow eyes lock onto brown and it charges, teeth and claws find there place in gray flesh digging and tearing and desperately fighting words never stopping from her mouth. Curses and prayers and commands on half formed things that tear at its flesh just as savagely as itself.
The moments drag on like this. Neither stopping, neither cringing in pain, neither giving in to die, words and growls and blood mixing in what could be a sort of morbid beauty.
But instead its just sad.
Blood, and pain, and over whelming dark sadness fill the space of anger in her, as it is such a senseless thing, though the beast, mindless, does not waver. Rain falls hard and mixes with black, and blood, and the sound of calmed growling.
The woman who sewed darkness with wands fell in puddles of bright red.