whispers in the rain

She did not argue his words of her lacking the title, but she rebuked him all the same. "This is my home," she bristles, her furs on end, "You are on our borders," comes her words as she takes a step forward, bile rising in her throat, so sick he made her! "L—" But his last words gave her pause...

He spoke of youth like it was an everlasting chalice. Youth ended so quickly, and so did life; the light was smothered in young and old. Early graves, late graves... did it matter? But Atropos, drawn to death as she was, could feel him thrumming the thread of his life, waving it in front of her face. As good as an offering as any.

Death would come for him. Atropos wielded the fangs that cut the thread, and she had many, many beings that worked for her. They did not know it, of course (this was a delusional belief of hers, but she believed it wholeheartedly). And it was then a malignant, toothy grin came onto her features. "Would you like to find out?" Another step forward.

For she too, was young; but it was clear by the look in her eyes she was no stranger to death, that she had seen it many times before.