There was the flutter of sound. With queer ease, she pinpointed where it came from. This was natural to her; prey were always ever so wary.
But so were the predators.
So it is that the baby deer thing, this zombie-esque creature of sinew and fur and magic tumbles into sight. It is followed by a pale horse with shocking eyes, obviously its tormentor.
She waits, all patience and grace, like flowers at a funeral. Or, perhaps, the girl slave on her knees, in her raggedy used-to-be-a-pillowcase dress. Her hair is matted, dark. With dark, angry sad trusting hating eyes. Awaiting her orders, awaiting to obey.
Or was that the deer-thing?
She blinked, he spoke. He invited her to have at, to hurt this thing.
But sensation stopped back when we got the scar tissue, didn't it? Did the pale thing cut and rip at the deer thing until there were no nerves left?
She felt no mercy for the damned.
And so it was that Magdalena kicked the cowering (but not fleeing) zombie.
Zombies were not horses, after all.
m a g d a l e n a ;
for one chance, one kiss, one taste of you
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