The hovel is dark, musty, though a fire burns low in the grate casting a little light, birthing long shadows of dead birds and small game hung by their feet, their images dance upon the cracked plaster walls. She sits upon the dusty floor, her knees drawn up to her chest, the stains of blood darkening the already dark dress, her skin, and the parchment she scrawled upon. Pieces of her writing are strewn about her, some in crumpled balls, others untouched except by ink, blood and tears, the latter still freely escaping her red rimmed eyes as she rocks a little back and forth.
The nearest parchment to her, like the others, a broken mishmash of hatred and grief poured upon them, some words so poorly written that they are illegible, others splattered by her own tears, the ink blooming out once becoming wet. An inkwell lays tipped upon the floor, soaking into the edge of some of the parchment, a quill close by.
Gone..Pain..Come back to me..I will kill him, I will, I promise, please..come back. So much blood, innocent blood, I cannot..
