There sat the toddler, her large dark-brown eyes crying silently from behind the heavy weave of cobwebs. How long it must have taken for those webs to have been wove one could only guess. Still, there she sat amidst the webs, inches of dust about the room. Her cheeks, pink hued as if she had just come in from the summer sun.
“It is our nature,” a dark and graveled voice spoke slowly, “which permits us to violate all probability.”
“The hunt, Sir, is yours.”
A blade erupted from his chest.
“Well done, Sir,” sounded the voice through the gathering darkness.
