Serial Storytelling, in Paragraph Proportions - Fragment 7

Once it came wearing red.

Incarnadine like freshly spilled heart-blood, still warm from the wound.

Most often it moved here and there in flowing cloth of silken coal. In black cord, bitumen colored ribbons and knots.

But now it danced and spun like a bloody smear against the darkness. With all but its uncanny eyes guarded behind a wimple and veil as deeply red as the rest of it.

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