Luneshale Pass Black moon

flattery echoed like the clatter of broken fine china. pretty company — odd, considering she was evidently a harbinger of death. 

he questioned his own soul, and she paused from her feast to burn a hole into the metallic orange of his gaze. "do you see your death in my eyes, hound?" 

she would permit him to seek his righteousness or damnation for as long as he beheld her stare. 

life or death — which would he unbury in the truth of her eye?