• She sat on a rotten mossy log by the crackling fire. Her icy blue eyes held a secret of decades past, and darted around untrustingly. Yet, her thin metallic lips held a quirk, while she listened to the bard with her long pointed ears. Her black cloak was as dark as a cloudy midnight sky wrapped around her shoulders, and her silver hair that fell over those shoulders was like streams of moonlight on her night sky cloak. She was an image of a secret, dangerous perfection, and an undying beauty. In her hands, a long silver-green sword, and on her back, a quiver hung, now almost empty. On her dark cloak, if one looked closely, they would’ve noticed muddy dry and fresh blood. She looked at the fellow men of her company, and they shrank back from her gaze, no one dared to look her in the eye. She’s seen centuries go by, seen and taught many a thing that no one should’ve even known. But, by the crackling fire, on a rotten log, sat the last Warrior Lady Elf, and she watched the flames dance.