Discolored

The lights inside were dim. They were casting a perfect shadow on a lone figure whose hooves rested upon a powerful demon. Its loud roars overpowered the wrath of mother nature, her anxious hooves pounding on the door, begging to be seen by the figure. Just outside the door was a small sign. It was being tossed and turned in the wind, which was a distinct contrast to the soft pitter-patter of raindrops showering the figure's window. Those raindrops washed away the tears of yesteryear. She, the figure, stood at a silhouette of her desk, holding the demon tight while she worked diligently on a little piece of love. The demon whirred, a sudden bit of concentration surged, and the task at hoof became nothing but an everyday occurrence. Before her demon left its final few marks, a sudden loud crack made its presence known, disrupting her harmony. In an instant, the machine's whir had increased; the aura, black and all, began to expand; and before she could move a single step to see who had called her at the door, she fell and then...

...silence. The whirs came to a slow but gentle halt.