Damn. not finished, writer's block got me halfway through. I'll update soon, I promise! I'm just postin' what I've got so far. ::runs off, grumbling 'bout writer's block and things like that::.

..Refrain..

Racking coughs rang in the corridor, and she stood, tiny droplets of the coughing man's blood raining on her face, flecking her lips and running down their miniscule creases like rivulets of crimson rouge. Her alabaster pale face remained expressionless, sepia-gray oculi staring ever forward, unblinking, even as blood collected on their surface and ran from the corners of her almond shaped eyes as though they were coppery tears. She is the avenging angel, terrible and painfully beautiful to behold. The coughing man, he begs. She does not hear. And still she waits. He is weakening; she can feel his heart struggle to beat. It must be very painful. He curses her in his dying breath, damning her in his accursed human tongue. A final hemorrhage burst from his orifices, splattering her with a viscous, red-black riot of blood. He falls, blood running from his mouth, nose, and ears and pooling at her feet, streaming between her bare toes and overflowing over the tops of her creamy white feet in runnels of warm, thick fluid. The woman loosed her mental hold upon his heart, falling, weak and wasted, to the cold stone floor. She knew no more.

Desire paced the dim hallways of its body, fuming, eyes glowing like the coals from a face of extraordinary beauty and cold fury stamped on its perfect features. Thoughts raced across its mind in a quick, repeating pattern, forming themselves into ideas and ideas forming themselves into stories. Yesterday Desire's greatest creation and most valuable servant had escaped, having taken the form of a woman and left with the fey folk who had coming bearing their gifts for Desire. Today Lyta Hall's brother had turned up dead, his heart having burst and his esophagus torn to ribbons as the result of long, painful coughs. The death had Desire's servant's name stamped all over it. Lyta Hall herself was today on the run, and, if Desire wasn't mistaken-and Desire was never mistaken-its servant was close on her tail. Desire fumed and the residents of its realm awaited the return of Love.

Dream of the Endless sat on his throne, face in his hands, white hair falling about his thin features in wiry locks. The Dream King's semblance was twisted into a grimace, his mind lost in thought. Things were not going well, not at all.