The pale, cold light from the sickly moon weakly shone out from the dark thunderclouds, painting the fresh graveyard with a grey marbled tone. Thunder angrily rumbled deep from the throats of the clouds and lightning flashed, spurts of unnaturally white light coloring the black cloud underbelly for a few seconds before fading back into the blackness. Clouds paced the deep vaults of the midnight sky, pushing against and nudging against one another, trying to make the other burst and pour out the rain to wash away the stench of death on the ground.
Deep thunder rumbled again, sounding like the heavy voice of an ancient mountain, causing the earth to quake with a sudden emotion that was both fear and excitement, fear of being so close to the thunder and coated in innocent blood, and excitement of the coming storm to cleanse away the memory of the carnage.
The earth didn’t like death, but felt that when a group of living things became an abomination, it was time for them to be annihilated.
This such race had been one that only brought about death and destruction, and so it was only fair that was how it would end. Or at least that’s how the earth rationalized it.
The thunder rumbled again, and the clouds finally parted, allowing one small, sickly moonbeam access to the ground below them. The moonbeam shone on the corpses, on the newly dead, each killed by their own desires. The moonbeam returned to the darkness, satisfied that all was complete. Or so it thought.
While the thunder rumbled darkly and the clouds continued to jostle each other angrily, one figure on the ground moved. A hand twitched, and dragged itself across the ground. The hand was followed from the shadows by a long, pale arm, which was followed by a head covered in thick hair that was a color darker than black. The head looked up to the sky and silently hissed, mocking the sky with its life. She alone had survived, and she alone would stay alive, no matter the cost.