| The night air was dull, a fog clung to this forest, and the shadows were thick, almost tangible. This forest had long been abandoned by any elf, or any other sylvan creature of good nature for that matter. Though, there was no evil to this place, merely a sense of danger, for any who would enter, whether they were good or evil. The one who protected this forest couldn't care less who entered, they weren't allowed without her permission. The rumors were spreading once more to those in Elven Sanctuary, the demon elf-hunter was back, lurking deep in a portion of their forest, claiming it as her own and banishing all from her home. Her pure ebon eyes peered down at the newest one to enter her home, that steal bow slowly coming from her back to fixate upon the elf intruder, black gloved fingers placed a black arrow to be aimed at the pointy-eared, tree-hugging little fruit, nothing crossed her face, so perfect except for that ebon scar that crossed from her right temple to beneath the left side of the neck of her black chain tunic. It fit each curve of her face so perfectly that it was hard to believe it was natural, and those eyes, like empty sockets, gleaming as they watched her prey wander about the clearing, making himself a perfect target. Her black hair barely fell to cover the tips of faintly pointed ears, showing that half-elf blood, as well as those ebon eyes. Then, she released the string of her bow, no sooner had the arrow buried itself in the elf's shoulder, but she had another arrow drawn.:" How dare thee enter my forest, who so gave you permission? For it surely was not me. " Her voice was thick, deep, like dark music that barely came to even the keen elven ears. She slowly came from her spot to stand before the elf, releasing the arrow into his throat before hearing a response. The steal soul-bow was entirely grey, since she'd lost whatever good her soul possessed with the loss of yet another love. Every inch of her was covered in black leather, except her torso, which was in black chain that never once made a sound, at her right hip sat a black short sword, and that skin was the deep color of coffee barely tainted with cream. This was Night, Dark Lady, or Death's Messenger, whatever one wanted to call her, that was her name, refusing to bend once more to the foolish ideals of love. |