<i>Typical, isn't it?</i>she thinks to herself as she slings her bowstring over her shoulder and grips under Roland's arms, dragging him toward the shadows, into the deeper dark beyond the mouth of the alley and the shadowy nook of an arched basement window.  Still radiating the cloud of darkness, the two of them become night among more night, nothing left of the fight but a faint glitter of fresh blood-- hers and his-- on the cobblestones.<br/><br/>She waits, her breath coming remarkably fast, and begins patting down Roland's bleeding body.  She looks for a suitable piece of cloth to tourniquet the extremity wounds.<i> You don't get to die yet, you son of a bitch.</i>