A forest of the night. Black boughs extend creeping fingers upwards, reaching for the everlasting moonlight. She reaches down with pale hands, her glow worming through the gaps in the darkness to cast a rippling light on the leaf coated ground. The blackened trees shudder as thick arms twist from their bodies, blocking out the moon's rays and claiming them for their own.
Nothing lives but the Dead trees, ever searching for sunlight to make them live once more, and finding only her sister's icy fingers, tearing through their defenses and sending silver tendrils to their roots, where naught but death is present.
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