The field had stood empty for longer than before. Roses and poppies wove together, the ivy vines were slowly reclaiming the tower ruins as their own. An old owl napped quietly on the edge of twilight in the hollow of the single tree that stood to the edge of the field. Red apples decorated the green foliage, falling to the ground to rot among the browned petals.

The moon was rising, the moon of the dead, the moon of those that had come before, of those who had lesson if you wanted to learn. The dead who knew the ways of the mysteries and the path to the great stair. The little bunny sat in the middle of the field. His fur was white but his mouth bright red. Dead things lay in his wake.

The second her bare foot stepped into the field a ripple ran through the air. The old owl was disturbed from his napping and let out a sharp hoot. The bunny sat upright, his ears twitched as his head turned toward her. Sharp teeth still dripping blood, black eyes glistening with dark interest.

Shadow ran across the sky, the twilight sky lost all colour, just a deep dark grey. The flowers seemed to become black, all traces of red gone from them. The ivy shimmered before falling to the ground, winding itself far from the tower, which seemed to grow in size.

With each step, a deep grumbling from within in the ground, dirt flew into the sky, as great chunks of rock arose and rebuilt themselves upon the ruins of the tower. The bunny turned slowly and watched the great show, the sky a storm of dirt and petals and leaves and vines. The wind kicked up and raced round and round, the field resembled a small tornado as the rocks continued to rebuild themselves.

Just as suddenly as it started, it stopped. She stood before the tower, fully rebuilt. Her dark hair swept across her face as she reached down and picked up her bunny. The blood stained her white dress, but she didn’t notice as she held her twisted bunny, dark eyes alight with the fire that burnt in her eyes.

It was the last hoorah, once again. It was always the last hoorah, but this time, she wasn’t going to burn it down, this time she would take heed of the dead, and set the world on fire. This time, she would use her fortress, and not tear it down, in her window she would sit, and watch the blood boil, listen to the screams, smell the fire of the burning sins. This time, Little Miss Mo wore the mask, and she was as deep and as dark as the grin upon her bunny’s bloodied maw.


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