Death may have always been a constant in Ravine's existence for millennia, she does not revel in its necessary execution. Black vapors drift from the shadows of her form, eyes shifting into that eerie glow as the fleeting moments in time present other threads to her. How easy a single move, a wrong step, a stumble could change the course of events.

But Malgor's aim is true. Only one path plays out before her that she has seen thousands of times already, but muddied and slow.

With a blink, it's all one flow again. The creature is handicapped but not yet dead. One probability plays out in her mind before it has the chance to act.

Ravine shakes her head, her irises fading to the soft brown of her more human-like appearance.

"Cut its throat before it can cry."