The silent choir's jerky, marionette movements stuttered to a halt as if their unseen puppeteer had abruptly lost interest in the performance. Their patchwork bodies - stitched together from corpses of different sizes, genders, and even species, the sutures weeping black ichor that smelled of gangrenous wounds and spoiled holy water - convulsed violently, their mismatched limbs twitching in grotesque parody of death throes.
One by one, their stitches burst with wet, meaty pops that echoed obscenely in the charged air, their borrowed limbs falling away like discarded costume pieces from some hellish theater production. The canyon floor became a macabre mosaic of rotting components, each piece dissolving into the same foul-smelling ash that carried the metallic bite of arterial spray and something disturbingly saccharine, like honey left to ferment in a sealed coffin with its occupant.
