“I’ll marry the first to tame the beast on the mountain,” blossoming poppy-red lips announced to an audience of enamored suitors. 

A week passed. Carnage strewn over the mountainside thickened the air into a coppery miasma of failed attempts. As the beast watched over it all, a poppy-red smile stretched her bloody maw; she padded back down to the village to wait for next year’s feast.

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