Heart Of Clay

The hours would pass ever slowly in the pitch black of night, the world full of deathly silence around the blood stained shed. Inside the abyss rusted chains holding Mettle swayed back and forth eerily, a horrid stench of burnt pony flesh rising from within its metallic frame.

The hollow holes of the eyes sparking to life in hate, dark red coals darting across the void in agony.

She had returned.

And she wasn't alone, inky black shadows began to creep up the walls of the shed.

After a few moments of silence the faint clicking of chains unfastening could be heard, Mettle had awoken.