petrichor

Her path into death wore a veil of greenness bleeding through without her knowing. The calcification soaked her up and wrung her dry, and repeated. Deep magic pooled at her feet as she crossed the planet, mucilaginous puddles of her own saturating power. The more she walked, the more the planet inhaled, until it wanted more than her magic but her, too; it wanted her mind at first, and then her psyche and its rooms; then her eccentricities and delights; then, at last, eventually reaching the very clot in the vein of herself and then it wanted that, too, and began to tug.

Murderous clouds began pulling themselves to her, roiling wet gunmetals and toiling wild grays together above the pricks of stone trees, branch-black scrapes flashing hot silver from new bullwhips of lightning, all brutal beauty framing our roiling wet wild toiling witch, her blood-red long-forgotten uniform darkening under deluge of Annwn’s exaltation in the form of an atmospheric river; drowning the spotlight, or perhaps transforming it.

She sat on the side of the dark dead mountain and looked at its own immortal grey and recognized herself in it. She laughed until she cried and prone herself, tears facedown on the stone like two cosmic rivers, nesting: universe in miniature, or perhaps the micro and the macro.

The planet kept pulling, pulling, pulling at the slick witch until it was coated in her.