Raavana sipped her wine in the shadows of the tavern, favoring the dim silence of negative spaces to balance her battle-addled wits. She was blackguard and had earned countless skulls in battle. Sometimes at twilight the winter wind rang through the skulls, singing dark melodies even as she meditated on wrath. Usually her face was locked in a blanching grimace, but tonight her dark lips lifted to what some might consider a smile.
“I froze the nordlander in his place,” Malikus the dark elf said to Izobella. “The look on his face, now that is something I cherish even to this day. It was a look of blind fear.”
“And then you killed him,” Izobella said, reclining in a chair, sipping wine through a long fluted glass.
“I said he was a nord,” Malikus simmered, “of course I killed him. There he was trying his best to kick off the…
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