You see everything, you hear everything. It's all going by faster than the frightened scuttle of a trapped silverfish, yet somehow, at the same time, so slow and quaintly. Adrenaline changes it all, the way your mind receives and catalogs stimuli; you become possessed by the chemical as it pumps feverishly into your veins. Your brain, your body, on fire. Your own heart slushing nosily in your ears under the screams of anger, of agony, of cries for help as a surreal and gruesome scene --unstoppable and inevitable as a penny horror show reel-- slowly unfolds like dewy petals in the morn, searing itself into your memory like a hot brand on calf flesh. But gruesome doesn't quite cover it, does it? It's an apocalyptic catastrophe; a crocodile with scales the color of sickly pale upturned fish-belly, as large and formidable as a cliff with a razor-fine drop into the cold and unforgiving riptide that is its gaping maw, lined with hundreds of teeth the size of boulders but whetted into artisan blades, acid drooling in goopy strings around black gums like frayed spider cobs adrift. Stubby limbs like packed sausage covered in rind, supporting the steel wall of a bellows torso; not but one step would pulverize an unlucky horse's bones, while that fat tail --rivaling the size, weight, and girth of those antediluvian redwoods meters wide-- threatens to sweep them all away like little ants. Somewhere in the midst of it all, Imonada heard what sounded like her own voice, disembodied; yelling, perhaps even jeering, rallying the forces, her own fiery tenor of disbelief, anger, and retribution amongst the many.

Then, as the others burned and tore away at the beast with every fiber of their mutual resolve to spare themselves, their friends, their gods, from the demon, it wavered and finally collapsed; a skyscraper tumbling, crumbling, hard and to the earth with a shattering quake that shook the very foundations beneath them all. The violence of being thrust against such weight sends sand billowing out from beneath in a cloud of extinguishment. A single mighty last inhale expels a furious wind of a roar in incredulous defeat before the head drops, one vindictive hate-filled eye glaring balefully and blindly at the Sun God. It grows quiet, still, blood quickly pooling around the fresh corpse from every ripped orifice the Helovians generously granted. Calm returns to the waters of the battlefront, swirling at the creature's snout, and even as its vile taint turns the waters into ink the tide is already at work, washing it all away just as divine magic begins to devour the now inert body. As always. Nothing remains in this world; not even demons. Especially not demons.

Of course, absolute reprieve and tranquility were not quite yet warranted. The Sun God and his warriors will loot their treasures, they would see if the demon laid seeds of destruction elsewhere, but the hurricane of terror has passed--for now. Imonada is left by the wounded and fallen that had been gathered away, although she barely recalls running to and pulling off one vicious fighter ready to collapse under the demon's paw--the images firing off were faint, in tatters, dispersing like smoke, and only then does she realize the adrenaline is fading like twilight, leaving behind gaps and pieces of the event. Shellshock eases into the void left by anxiety and desperate survival as a tiny, childish giggle bubbles up inside her throat to squeak out in stuttered whispers of maniacal, relieved, exhausted laughter. Normally as black as a starless night, the tiny pegasus mare is covered in a thick layer of dust; it coats and clumps into her mane, blankets her backside, and rises like stockings over her lean legs, turning this dark broken raven into a little sooty dove. Noticing this about herself, she looks at the others, really looks at them. They're covered too, all of them like ghosts, their original colors and brilliance and individuality blotted out. Some aren't just ghosts either, as char and their own gore leaks through the film of powder, and it is all she sees; familiar shapes, like her very own, all red, black, and white like soiled linens, with the glowing Sun God comparatively pristine as he addresses his flock of victorious vanquishers.

Uncertain, carefully placed steps begin to take her backward one foot at a time, away from the scene, a new wild spark captured within her eyes -- much more primitive, savagely so, than the beginning of her discreet withdrawal.