The woman of power, of the final hour,
Stood upon the gaping edge of death,
Savoring her final due breath,
Recollecting her spent time, as the demons beneath, did climb.

The woman, once unknown, many must atone,
With a simple display, she tore the lights that held the night at bay,
For nothing as powerful as she, should anyone but agree,
Resting upon her belt, the stars forever dwelt.

The woman, demur of the end, a challenge to death, she had penned,
A game, we shall partake, with eternal lives at stake,
For if I do not wish to die, your purpose, you must defy,
With a stolen piece, her years did increase.

The woman of blackened markings, her mind of ever-workings,
Stood tall upon her mare, chased with twisting white hair,
Upon her belt, rested pouched treasures, glittering fondly with pleasure,
For her company never to shake, as her pale eyes did forever take.

She was the woman of Cree, far beyond The Black Ink Sea,
The taker of stars, leaving naught but empty scars,
She was the winning player of Death's Game, her rewards, to gain,
With the twisting marks of power, deep to the pit, she did glower.

For nothing of its sort,
Shall ever hold her short,
From any a task within her aim,
A woman such as I, victory shall I claim.

And with that thought dancing across her mind,
She leapt, and left the mortal world behind.