The False Seraph.

Shyreiana stood still over the sanguinary, amidst the sea of corpses sewed across like the seeds embedded within the fields of an orchard.

She lifted up her skirt, tiptoed over the bodies and plunged her crystalline daggers deep inside their chests.

Tendrils burrowed out from the blades and encased their bitter cold bodies in webs of scarlet.

Blood was siphoned out. Their limbs twitched, their muscles spasmed, and their throats gurgled until no blood remained, leaving behind only the former husk of their valiant bodies.

Valiant bodies? But there was no one to take them back, back to their homeland, only festering fleas, festering worms, festering filth that might guide them back, back to where you say? Back to nothingness and emptiness, as such, are the fate of the mortals.