Lysander stumbled on a disemboweled torso, clutching at the gaping wound in his left breast. His once-bedazzling garments were now torn and smoldering, his cloak a ragged mess somewhere behind him. Clutched in his left hand was an eerie blue effulgence, catching and withering the sunlight, melting it into shapes and shadows…

He was walking to the base of a rock, where a small child knelt among the fingers. A faint tinkle of music was in the air, a lullaby, but it was a chilling thing to hear in a bloody volcanic basin.

At 20 feet, Lysander fell, panting. His leggings tore at the knee, revealing a ragged wound, bleeding a rainbow of blood. The child, hearing his fall, stood up and turned, a smile on her wan, tanned face. “Hello,” she said, in a voice so sweet it made his ears hurt. “Do you like my handiwork?”

Lysander looked at her horror. This scene around her, where countless good men and women had perished trying to accomplish the impossible: handiwork?

“I’m a good artist,” she giggled, taking a few garish steps towards him. He felt his consciousness beginning to ebb, weariness clutching at his mind. He shook his head, and tried to prop himself on his elbows. His side flared in pain, and gasping for air, he rolled on his back.

“Careful, you might smear the paint!!” She was squealing right over him, black eyes piercing his gray ones. Lysander then realized, he was lying in a very large puddle of blood. Gritting his teeth, he swung his left at the girl. The blue glow crackled angrily as she gaily skipped aside, and the world slipped away, like a frightened lover…

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