She stands in the center of a circle strewn with steaming remains. Panting and sweaty, she turns and surveys the twitching, moaning heap of gore that was minutes before a dozen men. Her sword hand now hangs limp and drizzles blood and clots of matter onto the ground. Her skin is streaked with their blood and her skirts are heavy with dirt and macabre bits of the men that once were. Without regret or qualm, she calmly steps over their dying chunks as she wipes her blade on her kilt. Brushing the bloody hair from her eyes, she spares one glance back, and a slow smile covers her face. Turning, she leaves them as carrion for the scavengers.


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