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Jegath shrugged softly.
"Bold words, elf, bold words. Here, let me make a target for you... where would you like it? My heart? My stomach? My forearms?" Jegath smirked quietly and extended a sharp ivory claw and tapped it against each said body part. "Oh, I know, I will pick it for you." Suddenly the claw lurched forward and sank into the Dracon's bared shoulder, black blood began to well up along the claw as he sank it in with a muted groan.
Hurt so good. Jegath smiled and ripped the claw away from the flesh wound.
"Alright, your turn."
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"I am ready to meet my maker. Whether my maker is prepared to meet me is another matter."
-Winston Churchill

Artwork © 2002 MG Publishing/William O'Connor
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