The frail-hearted wretches, clinging to their flickering tapers, whimpered like vermin in the talons of carrion birds.
"Surely this cannot be the end!" they screeched.
But it was.
It was the end.
Their lives had come to a sorry end.
As Grignr crushed their skulls and broke limbs from flesh.
Perhpas in their final pitiful moments, these puny little insignificant verminoids pondered on the meaningless dull of their detestable lives.
Yet how can weasel hope to best the snare? There is little sense is occupying the mind space with thoughts of their doings, lest you pollute the psychic fluids with impure reactants.