Dog-men and their mean women - any.

[Aurane]

Cold. Cold and stark. Rigid and gnarled around the edges, the  great sharp dentition of black spruce and jack pines reach into the grey sky around the borders. They are trying to come together with some waiting darkness above — they are trying to close in on the world, a mighty mouth of soil and earthworms and stars and terrible black. Together, in a exhilarating moment of heat and indomitable, raw energy. Implosion.
(A world, a universe entire, curling in on itself and sputtering. An end time. A bacchanalia for the wretched and ignoble pantheon. A playtime.)

It is grey and hard, rock and frozen ground below and a sky heavy with thin and paltry clouds above. Trees have dropped their fruit to rot and all the sex that was to be had has been spent. The world is hungover and sickly. She is gaudy in comparison. Carnal and remarkably supple. Red and black, rich and boldly curved. There is nothing subtle about her. She oozes, and it is off-putting and enticing in equal measure.

(She blinks. Fire lashes her feet where the ground has split open. A wound, deep and infected to the core. Blink.)
She settles in the clean and unforgiving light. It washes her, scrubs and cleanses, but what clings to her has found root in deeper places. She is not beautiful, not truly. She is a trap of honey and vice. She in unfriendly angles and untrustworthy contours; warning and wanton eyes. Aurane is a volatile and pliable wellspring of chaos, small and pulsing with a prevailing ill will.

The red woman idles, the bitter wind pulling at her, incessantly goading her.
Incessantly commanding her.
Incessantly fucking with her.
Blink. Their skin slips from their bones into meaty puddles. Blink.

Death makes angels of us all and gives us wings
where we had shoulders smooth as raven's claws.