Claws.
Cold, calloused claws.
The grip they have on her ankles is awfully painful, and as she scrambles to get away from them, they yank at her again, making her slip further towards the edge behind her.
“No!” she cries, still slipping, and then looks at the raven, whose agony is clear in its now-watery eyes.
She’s wet; she’s shivering from the cold around her.
Her lips are dry; her tears, not so much.
Her hair – soaked and tangled – sticks to the sides of her face, and her neck.
She stretches an arm towards the raven, just as talon-like nails pierce the skin of her already bruised ankles.
She can feel the blood flowing through her punctured flesh, but she grits her teeth against the burn and tries to pull her upper body forward in an attempt to get away from whatever it is that is trying to pull her down.
“Let me go!” she yells, and her voice echoes aimlessly against the darkness that now surrounds her. “Fucking let me go!”
A sudden yank takes her off guard, bringing her further toward the danger – in such a way that her waist remains pressed against the edge, whereas her lower body dangles over it.
A flash of prismatic light catches her eyes, but she doesn’t shift too much, so as to avoid falling completely. And then, a hand – strong, familiar, and inviting – reaches out to her.
The raven is nowhere to be seen, but this hand – it reminds her of someone. Who, she cannot recall.
She quickly places her right hand over the offering one, and sighs just a little at the warmth of the skin that meets hers.
She’s being pulled forward, but then, that agonizing grip on her ankles returns. It’s firmer now. More assertive.
Cignette tries to kick at it, but it’s fruitless. She thrashes against it, but it only rewards her with more wounds.
Pain – there’s so much of it; in such abundance. She’s being stretched apart from different directions, and it’s hard to say which one of the two is actually her saving grace.
Yank, pull.
Forward, backward.
A forceful jolt. A persistent tug.
It’s too much.
She squeezes her eyes shut and prays that it’ll stop. She doesn’t want this anymore. She doesn’t fucking deserve this.
Another pull. Another yank.
She’s crying now. She’s tired.
“Stop,” she whispers through her sobs. “Please, just…just stop. It hurts.”
But it doesn’t stop. If anything, it grows in power.
She begs, she screams, and then she begs some more, but nothing works.
And in the end, there’s only the cries of her agony as she’s being ripped apart. And blood.
So much of it.
Warm, tasteful, and enticing.
