The life fades from her eyes, even as her form falls, limp. Her head, no longer attached, rolls to be propped up sadly by one folded wing--the other headwing giving one feeble twitch before it lies still.

Meteion's body curls in on itself at first, though that particular movement is stilled as her body begins to dissolve into smoke, wispy bits floating around and crawling eerily over the pavement until nothing of her head is left at all. All that remains of her sad little body is a palm-sized, pear-cut stone of the palest magenta, sparkling in the dying light of the day.