Lyrate stood beside me, her crimson eyes calm amid the carnage. A long elven sword rested in her right hand, its edge humming with Nature's intent. Her body shimmered slightly, wisps of crimson mist rising from her skin like a cloak of living fog.
She glanced at the battlefield, then at me.
I nodded.
"Have fun."
Without another word, she vanished.
Crimson mist flowed forward like smoke on the wind, carving between legs, slipping past barriers. And from that mist, she reformed behind a cluster of Holt Masters.
Her sword danced.
One clean slice, four bodies dropped. She moved like the wind, faster than eyes could follow, her blade a blur of silver and red.
She didn't stop.
Spinning on her heel, Lyrate dashed through a cluster of Holt soldiers. Her sword flashed once, then twice, cleaving through armor and bone as if they were paper. A slash across the throat, another across a spine. Blood sprayed like arcs of crimson mist in her wake.
