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The three suns that encompassed the world in light.
Morte despised them each with a loathing passion.
She stalked through the forest adorned in pitch black armor befitting even an overlord of shadows. It was Laroa's, the long dead headmistress of the collegium of dark arts in the vysstichi realm of vortex. It was lavished in engravings and decorations it was flawless its craftsmanship was one of excellence. No longer just protective metal, but a work of art. It would have been enough to make any shadow knight envious and jealous.
In an outstretched hand was a scimitar its blade carried a tinge of light blue, it was made of elven steel finely crafted and easily wield able.
These riff raff were going to be in for a treat, she heard there shouts and arrows were singing through the trees.
Her left hand quickly closed the face plate to her helm and she was off, following the sounds of shouts through the thicket. She would be cruel and merciless, to have feelings was to be weak after all. To be cold was to be strong, and with strength comes fear, and with fear comes respect and obedience.
But why was a half elf vysstichi in zerdargia of all places?
Believe it or not, it was a mistake, a miscalculation.
A wrong turn if you will on a treasure map she had obtained.
Her approach was steadfast and swift, she thought she was closing in on an archer and her sword was ready to take a head.
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