The Bride of Death

The pale bride of Death weeps blood. I do not know whether to comfort her, or to run from her sorrow. All I can do is watch as she cries. The world spins and burns at her engrossing fury. Her perpetual tears glisten in the moonlight, until finally she rips it down from the sky and it disintegrates into ash. I am motionless and emotionless.
I finally realise that we are evocable to her power and madness. Like a burning entity of collateral calamity, she sweeps over the land, leaving nothing but desolation in her destructive ire.
The streets are dilapidated where I stand, quivering and convulsing.
She rides no steed, but she does not require one. Simple sadism brings satisfaction.

I lock eyes with her and want to cut out my heart. There is an overwhelming sadness in them that can not be comforted. The gentle blue is striking. I expected nothing more than the blackness that is her lover. From the umbra of her soul, I can feel pity. Not for me, for mankind. I cannot help but nod my head shakily, granting approval. With a sickening drive of purpose, she takes leave, and all that can be heard is the resulting screams and splatters.
The prize of vengeance is brought to us all, but now we are forever taken from the game.


We lost.