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Tish laughed.
Alone in her dark, candle lit house, with only a cat and chopsticks for company, she laughed and tried to flick her hair out of her eyes, forgetting, as always, that she had short black hair now, not long blond hair. It made her stop laughing.
With cold eyes and no candy, she took her cloak, her beloved full-length, black, embroidered, purchased-for-way-too-much-off-EBay, cloak, and slipped out the back door toward the cemetery for her annual stroll.
If she ever could have guessed what horrors awaited her, surely Tish would have dressed as a fairy princess and stayed home with Twix and Skittles. If she could have known - and known that they'd reached a time of human existence wherein epics and death chants and songs of heroic deeds pretty much stopped existing - she never would have stepped onto the dark road.
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