Buffy mounted the expired body of the last satyr, her naked form reclining back to reveal a coy and candid smile. Moonlight swallowed her skin and made her whole once and forever more. She plucked a ripe and waxy skinned fruit from the nearby bush. Its leaves had faded into near nothingness and she contemplated the futility and wonder of it all. One bite and viscous juice spilled down her chin and the metaphor was not lost on anybody present.
Xander lowered his lute to the floor. The sounds he played made the angels weep black, black tears and he for one was tired of their incessant noise. The rainfall spattered his shoulders at all times and it was then he knew he was a man, oh yes, even if the fact hid itself from the cloying masses. His silk undergarments were the color of disturbing midnight and smelled of baby's breath. He kicked the severed stump that lay in his path; the head of a goat or the head of Satan, no one was sure any more. The events that followed were quick and meaningful, of altered views and ruined worlds, torn limbs and easy bloodshed.
She is just a killer, you know. And killers do not document.
This is what they told the man, the Very Important Man, as he polished his china and tutted. They ceased their reading then, allowing the words to grow the arms and legs they had so desperately longed for. Their wishing had been in vain for their legs did not work, instead hanging limply, useless addendums to their wretched spinal columns, forcing them to crawl across the parchment using only their leathery withered arms. They joined hands in a sickening mutation and swarmed together in a vortex, a relentless, godless vorpal sucking the flesh from any unsuspecting carrion until it was satiated.