(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

~~~~~
Her mazes were cold and still. Already the songs of the trigits had gone
silent. The brambles grew wild and twisted, and leaves fell like shedding
flakes of skin.
The brambles grew into the flesh of her corpse, desperately nourishing
themselves on her cold blood even as they die. Roots dipped into the gaping
wound in her breast and into lips parted by a tongue fat and swollen in
death. Her once-burning eyes stared off into the distance, glassy and blank.
With the grim determination of an executioner, one creature floated
forward, reality rippling as he moved. He seemed to be nothing but twisted
branches himself, but with an aura that caused existence itself to scream in
his wake.
Ravel's body lay still. Yet there was a twitch, a disembodied swishing motion
of her arm as if trying to wave the creature away. Her voice was distant and
hollow as she hissed, "Off wit ya! Dead I am."
The creature was not amused, and its voice tolled like a deep, sonorous
gong,
"Sh-sh-sh... away wit ya – I’m dead, and no traffic with the living may I
have."
The brambles crumbled away and flaked into ash as she stood, dusting
herself off. The swollen tongue withdrew, the redness blinked back into her
eyes once more. With a clean hand she wiped away the wound, and stain
and tear were wicked away like a smudge, leaving the flawless cloth of her
blouse beneath. "I had thought that dying at his hand would fulfill the
requirements the past put forth," Ravel hissed.
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