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Lovingly caressed by the late fall moon that gently reflects upon the ebony feathers of her
wings that tremble in agitation, she pauses; enshrouded in smoke and fog, one gauntleted hand resting heavily on the cross-guard of her sword, she gingerly and painfully touches her soft full lips from which blood runs freely from. With sharp pointed ears that twitch, she listens to the battle that rages around her. Despite being clad in the tattered remains of linen and leather and having one breast laid bare, her lithe and sensual body remains warmed by the heat of battle and feels neither the late autumn chill nor the damp kiss of the fog. No, the only kiss that she will feel this night will be that of her sword upon the humans that sought to enslave and attacked her tribe this eve... and what a terrible and dark kiss that will be!