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    Summary

    Hod felt the words more than heard them. She only knew them to be Gebura’s because no one else could have uttered them with such annihilatory gravity. She resolved from settling blood like the pale autumn fog through falling leaves: silent, precipitous, like dew beading in the tender moments between dusk and dawn.

    The sleek black, silver, and neon-streaked crimson armor was new. Her flowing-flame hair and piercing steel mask, Hod would know them anywhere. The mask was sheer of anything but a blazing focal point of bloody light. She raised before her a massive and many-eyed, single-edged sword of blistering flesh and cold metal. It sang too, the melody accompanying the dance of death in which Gebura immersed herself. It was a sanguine harmony of heart and soul. Hod saw Kali that day.

    The scars in her heart made her motion mesmerizing, the madness wielded there, the resolve to wade against the tide of slaughter and fearlessly rip fear itself limb from bloody limb with her own hands. It captivated Hod. Monstrous blood soaked her armor like rain, casting her jutted silhouette in a halo of gore and violence befitting her namesake. Hod was transfixed by the color and the proclamation.

    She was the Red Mist.

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