Tyrant Grim

Sing to the Dead

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Intuitively, Vevay followed the sensory trail. TICK. TICK. Time slipped away between her fingers. When she was hunting, the world stood still. Where are you? Vevay reached out with her awareness. Her essence unfolded in an orderly exchange of being and not-being. It flowed over what was-not-her, coating those things in power; infiltrating her surroundings.

Bright, scurrying spots of living energy surrounded her: Trees, Animals, Squirming things beneath the ground. They were brilliant points of moving light traced by the outline of their power exchange. While she was no artist, she could appreciate the movement and color; the composition of outward winding spirals and sharp zigzagging chevrons against a dark field of moonless pitch. It brought her no joy.

She searched for Death, and all she found was disappointment.
She searched for Death, and all she had found was Life.

In the darkness, she could sense it more than see it. It was a subtle shift in the air. It was a change in taste on the tip of the tongue: a cloying bittersweet note that was dirt and blood with the hint of gamey rot; Musk and sour bowels. It was those things and more. It was an ache in her bones and spray of goose-flesh across her spine. It was the lift of each strand of hair on the back of her arms and a tingle at the nape of her neck. It was the warm tickle in the pit of her belly that no lover had been able to provoke.

Ah. And there, she found it; a barely there invitation. It was as elusive as a fading scent on a moving breeze. And I thought I’d lost you. Vevay pivoted sharply east and then slowly edged south. Lifting a long fingered hand, she strummed them thoughtfully through the air; pushing the night into her open mouth. Satisfied with what she found there, she followed the trail anew.
 
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