A Moment of Despair: The Ritual (Dice, Camera, Action!)
She had never seen such beauty, such unbridled brilliance.
The winged mare beneath her glided effortlessly, glimmering, glistening in the rays that reached for her, beckoned her to the golden city gates. He waited for her there, bold and beautiful. He waited beyond the heavenly palisade, between the shoulders of his faithful disciples, gilded and glowing and glorious.
She was home.
She was His.
The mare gave a distressed whinny as they neared and reared, as though to strike out at the ether. The warmth that wove through her limbs, that lifted her in the Light, was sapped and seeped from her clawing fingertips. She was falling---no, flailing, fighting the black bile that bubbled up from the gaping maw of some demonic face, beating tendril after bulging tendril from her breastplate and bracers.
The Light was fading.
The Light was fading in a fountain of raven feathers.