[@taistelusopuli]

Death beams it was then.

Lyra's brows furrowed as she hunch forward, and began to chant the old cantrip to attune herself to her energy reserves.  Though it was a beginner's spell, she had never (as far as she remembered using magic) ever had been able to cast any more complicated spells without first casting it.  As her gums flapped and lips pressed and compressed, she began to feel the same numbness as she had felt five years ago, and all so many times before.

Death was a deep sleep, and such lethargy was in her blood.

And there, deep in her subconsciousness, was the urge, the impulse to propagate it in plenty.  Her left palm aimed at the mountain lion, and from it an inky black projectile snaked its way out like a writhing beast, eager to consume its prey.