The other unicorn runs, this bringer of safe haven and a stranger to boot, and Illynx watches with broadened eyes the flight of the dame with disapproval until she sees what it is that the woman has run from.

All is in shambles, is all she can manage to think, and it’s not that she hasn’t faced the evil that has come to Helovia before; she’s already sure that the illness has seeped into her, this the third creature she had faced in the passing month of orange leaves and bloody comrades. She can feel it inside of her as she looks on the child that has been consumed halfway by the wickedness that she feels pressing against the back of her eyes, skipping beats of her heart as she finds herself equally repulsed and enraptured by the sight before her.

It was once a unicorn. She knows that much.

Just look at his sword, revels the bitch as she looks upon its length, a small voice in the back of her mind telling her that she should send Deimos on his way, lead those who still lived on the mountain into the safety that the strange and alluring unicorn mare had promised of. The pounding increases in the back of her eyes. It feels like they’re going to burst straight from her face with each sinister hoof fall of the beast, she feels her heart race for the sweet and sad song of this battle she had always been fated to lose.

"Deimos, you need to take the others with the strange woman," she says, so calmly, her voice ever so sweet and wrong. When her eyes turn to meet the stallion, they gleam the color of blood illuminated by fire, veins of black ink running from the already pitch rims of her lids across her delicate features.

Her lips are a subtle and curved smile; there is nothing at all right in the expression. It is all she has to manage her next set of words, the only ones she can think of that could possibly drive the proud man into the task. "They cannot die, I’ve tried before. Now I know, Lord Deimos," she hums softly in between his name and her next words, her unholy gaze slipping shut in her song before they find him once more, "we’re already dead."

She turns her attentions towards the wolf creature, so close now, the dark shading having slipped midway down her neck and stained her golden lock the same gruesome shade of blood that her eyes had taken on. Her horn is now a red, bloody spear that grows with each passing second, her transition into a wraith taking hold of her despite her efforts to hold it back. She will attempt to keep the hound child busy, for as long as she can; she can only hope that the idiot takes her advice and is already gone.

For the devil has come, he is speaking to her and perhaps the Lord if he has not fled.

She meets his taunting with a smile so fitting of herself, a savage battle taking place in her mind even as the beast lunges and begins one for her physical self. She leaps forward to meet the bastard, even when she feels the remnants of her mortal mind scream in terror at the way the jaws have opened on the creature’s mouth. She wants to throw it to the ground and off its feet to grant the Reaper more time to spare her kin, accepting the savage bite into her shoulder tissues with a high pitched and anguished cry.

It may hang there loosely as the screaming stops.

She no longer cares.

Most of the woman is now the shimmering depth of night, a body of pure obsidian supported by blood hued pillars and equally abysmal hooves, her once golden back a seeming massacre of gore streamed and splattered in thin lines across the deep black of her pelt. She sees the world through glowing crimson orbs, eyes that can see the pulses of heat that emanate from the shapes behind her, the faint rings of light that radiate from the living. The wolf alongside her is lightless.

He is as she is.

Together, they are rulers of this universe.

The being once known as Illynx turns about to look upon the gleam of the souls who have yet to be tainted – and grins.

Hope you’re running, little ones.