[I dream in darkness. I sleep to die.]

[Sheera]

It seemed as if an eternity had come and gone by the time the charcoal fae returned to the crimson scene. Her eyes had gone completely blind and she was finding her way by scent most of the journey back to the wounded devil. 'Thank you's tingled in her legs as she halted and collapsed on the ground, her ears sealed over, her eyes closed, and she accepted the unconsciousness that had been chasing her for days. Her breathing slowed, but did not stop, her body relaxed, and she welcomed the black-out her body forced upon her in an attempt to conserve her energy.

Noises. What are these noises? Scents. Feelings. What is this? It's all a blur. Sense is but a memory; far off and distant. The colors, the colors around me are just a blur of confusion. Words.. do I sense words? Is there a voice out there speaking? Speak. Feel. Scent. What is going on with my head? insanity flashed lazily through the russet patterned she-wolf's head as she lie confused upon the corpse of her lover. His blood drenched her fur, clinging to it, staining it, tattooing it. Her eyes blinked opened and closed, dizzy and unfocused. Twitching at every noise, her ears flicked in every which way, not truly in her control.
"Can someone find me cobwebs?"
The words echoed through her mind, not making any sense, only repeatedly bouncing from one ear to the next. Something deep in her brain buzzed, as if masked in drugs and sealed in a high.
"Mephisto..." the word was quiet, choked, mumbled, and slurred. A sob but too quiet to be called such. The wolf who had captured her heart and her adoration through his crazed methods and loveless life had been slaughtered. The only wolf she ever loved. The father to her pups. Gone; dead; voiceless; breathless; lost.
He had left with only a single soul mourning his departure and here she laid tiptoeing on the line between sanity and insanity, on the edge of losing her mind in the loss of her love.
Fate's eyes snapped open, her ears perking stiffly. She still lie limply across the bloodied body of her departed soulmate. Her nose twitched, taking in the tangy scent of his blood and inhaling blood from the pool her nose lie within. Pushing herself to her paws, she sat, her eyes wide, crazed. Blood clung to her fur, pulling down at the roots and dripping from her frame.
She couldn't even take in the scene as she pushed herself backwards a few steps and collapsed with her nose touching Mephisto's fur. She would not leave him, today; no, not soon.

[.Rabid Lycan.]

Only the faintest of replies touched her senses, but she scarcely felt a syllable against the drum of her ears. A lean trail stretched out before her, absorbing miles and miles of clustered forest into the fringed edges of her vision. It was a tunnel, her line of sight thinning until a single focus filled her gaze. For a moment, herbs. Then moving ground. Blood. Lucifer.
For a single instant, she hardly dared to touch the angry wound. But the moment was short-lived, and a more analytical mindset clicked into being. Among the materials she had gathered, a thin twig peered through the chaos like a timid flagpole. Seizing the stick, she thrust forward, impaling the remnants of skin already threatening to shed from the underlying flesh altogether. The catatonic response from Lucifer was expected, but all the same unnerving—the subtle creasing of his brow as he writhed in silent agony was the only visible sign of acknowledgement. She needled about, maneuvering the spear, but ultimately withdrew her head. Crimson splatter and blackened flesh staining her maw, she reached desperately for the herbs. No… not enough skin…
Her body grew rigid, grinding to an abrupt stillness as the pads of her paws grazed the precious antidotes and remedies. The blank ebony sheen of her left orb glistened lightly, and her opposite pupil shifted to incorporate Lucifer’s entire frame within her vision.
How so familiar, Mr. Prim and Proper… your face, I mean. Your eyes, too, if I could see them… you look like shit, you know that? Really, now, this is probably the worst I’ve ever seen you. You’re so… tired. You were never tired, not really. Sleepy, maybe, but worn out? No, you were too tough for that. You’re a bastard, Lucifer, and you’re going to Hell for it, make no mistake. But, really… did you have to go out like this? So… weak?
“Did you do this just to make me feel sorry, or was this an accident?” she whispered softly, narrowing her eyes. A sort of resolution bubbled in her chest, a vague idea of an idea blossoming in the twisted depths of her torso. Her limbs began to move, acting with a will that seemed almost possessed at the time. It seemed so obvious, now, what she had to do.
Really, who knows what would’ve happened if we never found Morgan… I at least owe you this…
It was quick, the sound of the strike whistling through the air in an infinite number of fractions per second. Her fangs slammed directly into his jugular, aiming hard. True, her bite was not quite so formidable, especially when faced with the more toughed skin of a routine fighter, but the weakness of the body aided the penetration. She dug deeper, fastening tightly against the now-quivering mass of blood and bone that lay beneath. Somehow, a silent wave of gratitude seemed to shower over her mind, yet nothing was communicated in any way shape or form.
Illusion, most likely. But as she tore violently away, the shredded remnants of his throat lay open for the world to witness, and—within seconds—Lucifer’s jaws trembled as they slackened in an inaudible scream. And he was dead.
Sanceul fell swiftly away from the corpse, diverting her gaze to the mourner sprawled over Mephisto’s form. The experience momentarily suppressed by any portion of conscious thought, she sniffed at the nearby female with a disgusted scowl. “Mourn the bastard all you want; you’ll be the only fool.” A soft growl trilled in her throat, and she slipped toward the river to rinse her pelt of blood.
And the night had seemed so quiet...