They fall before her eyes, leaves in autumn. The mighty tree, gnarled, twisted, groaning in the storm, shedding itself of the dead and dying. Azazel has heard so many stories of this tree, its dynasty, and now it is about to be felled. She's helping like she always knew she would. It's what she was bred for, born for, trained for.
There's no clear winner, just yet, only the evident losers with red smiles upon their throats.
sorry it's short. seemed like a good place to leaf it.
hahaha.