Breath. Day unfolds into a deeper, darker night. Light flutters from all directions, a vast moon so much closer than reality hanging low in the sky, glaring down at the Earth with a cold light. The velvety bedroom is sliced through with networked gossamer, silken strands tracing from edge to edge, hanging low as horned spiders lurk in the corners, many-eyes staring out coldly.
Eleanora rises, slipping on a white dress as the mirror in front of her reflects the changes in appearance. Blonde curls drift in an invisible, ever present chill breeze. She takes a breath, wings form behind her, feather's peeling off, falling in slow-motion as a white rain, hitting the floor as she sheds.
The mirror ripples like water, the image changing to have her holding two cups, crimson blood flowing from one to another in a rippling pulse-breath of life fluid. Flickering images showing in the blood, of dust falling from scorched clean bones, of a head falling with golden curls to the ground, of sunlight streaming in through a broken roof.
She dies a thousand thousand thousand deaths, blood pulse continuing, speeding up, chalice to chalice, a rhythmic whirl of foaming vitae that slowly builds in consistent thickness and quantity, flowing from her wrist. It's heady, confusingly attractive, building a thorough, bone shaking need until it spills out, coating the dress in red, staining it red in a spreading infection, casting Eleanora in a bloody, murderous visage. Fangs growing, hair staining to a dark, deep crimson.
Cordite scent fills the room, gossamer burning away in the arrival of burning stream of falling gunpowder rain, ignited in a starburst of fire all across the ceiling, banishing monsters, banishing the creatures, forcing them into a flight from the dust. The roof burns away, the walls fall away, Eleanora is caught in the churn of powder, turning to ash and dust all the same.
Cars don't drive, the lights do not shine, the world does not move. The constant noise of urban life, now gone. Windows show empty homes, absolutely nothing inside except the barest miniscule furnishings. A Potemkin village writ large, the entire city cast in this falsehood. Smoke billows from a ruined warehouse, bullets riddled in the walls, black explosive stains near breaches in the wall, a roof blown off by firepower alone.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Estelle sits on a throne of shell casing and black cigarettes. Smoke rises in a trailing arc, cordite and cherry-tobacco alike rising up and drifting around her like a whirlwind. She's in ragged tactical gear, shot through with bullet holes, knife cuts and burns all over the kevlar plates and nearly-visible shattered ceramics. A collar sits on her neck, a chain rising from it, trailing up into the hands of Katherine, vague and blurry, but distinct. The tug tilts her head one way.
A hand rises up to rest on Katherine's hip, pulling her close whilst the other hand holds a gun with a chain bolted to the grip, lowering to a second Katherine, bound and on her knees, held fast by the chain on the gun, a dense revolver that is easily several pounds. Smoke unfolds from the whirlwind as horns form on all three images, drawn in dust and smoke across a casing soaked battle site.
Vision flickering, the corpses can be seen, police uniforms torn up by bullets and tearing impacts. Tattoo'd roughs similarly slain. The bloody injuries brutally spilling blood and viscera all throughout as fire spreads, consuming them and circling Estelle, nearly but not quite reaching her flesh. The warehouse is consumed as bright white chain-links lower from a low-flying black and gold plane, binding to everything. The corpses are animated by them, ablaze as they are, Estelle is pierced by them, digging through her body
Silver ripples with electricity, dragging everything underneath them to a furious life. In an instant, vision traverses distance, rising above the city to slip into the jet through a window. Bare metal interior, none of the amenities of something that flies, not even screens or seats. In the centre, a black suited figure looms, fingers dangling with chained silver links. Their features are obscured, male or female undetectable. The only identifiable feature is that charcoal-black suit, slowly drilling into memory like a bad dream, a twisted presence wholly composed of danger.
Breathe.