(OOC: this is the first thing I've ever posted. It doesn't really have a meaning or plot, just wanted to get some excercise writing... hope you enjoy)
High atop a mountain, not far from an old camp of bandits, there is a beautiful plateau. A flat little piece of rock and earth, not so great in itself, but oh... the view was breathtaking. This night, the plateau was a bit strange. The plateau istelf was not so odd, but it's visitor was not a wolf, nor an old man, nor a bandit.
It was a drow. He was handsome, by drow standards. Beautiful in the way that any killing machine is. He carried two daggers that hung easily from a belt on his waist. He ran a slender hand through a shock of thick hair. His hair was a deep blue, not common for his race. He sat... silently waiting.
Earlier, an old man had been atop the plateau as well, but he had politely decided to leave when the dark elf appeared. Well... if politely decided can mean 'run off screaming...'
The sun was setting, and the drow stared at the ground. He apparently was not here to watch the sunset. He muttered a few curses, and shielded his eyes. Finally, the big ball of bright fire had retreated under the horizon, and the elf sat up and looked about. He stood up, paced for a few seconds... then a smile came across his face.
A drow smile is something to behold. Graceful, wicked, feral, victorious... most of the time when you see a dark elf smile, something terrible is going to happen. However, there were no screams of torture... no thud of a fresh corpse falling to the ground. Just a rising moon.
He smiled... looked towards the horizon... towards the desert perhaps, then he fell to his knees in meditation.
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Mirsas, Commander of all things Underhanded
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