• There was a crashing in the woods. Not normal. The red hooded figure was angling through a tree, the hood covering the figure well. It was a small person, maybe five foot four, and had a bow and arrow on its back. You might say, 'Oh Dandilion, it was only one of the Scoia'tael! Or perhaps just a forest elf passing through!' But no, twas no ordinary elf. The figure fell down the tree with ease, murmuring some kind of incantation. This might have been a normal traveller passing by, elf or not, but the one thing other than the brightly color cloak was the swords barred on its back. There were two, one that appeared silver and another that appeared to be steal, both with designs on the front and back, the hilt ever-so-slightly curved. She pulls out one that appears silver, drawing it with a metallic ting.

    A monster, it appears to be a drowner, dragged itself from the depths of the water in the swamp, a feriocious undead roar erupting from its mouth. The figures hand whips out, fire erupting from the slender, pale fingertips as it readies its stance, the blade whipping out and slice off its undead arm. The figure howls, water splashing about its clammy grey limps as it claws at the cloaked, in pain and fear. The skin of its face was charred and burnt, its strange sea-like creature teeth. The figure, raising up its blade, drove it into the beasts head, twisting it with a dull crack through its skull. The monster choked, the blade twisting through its throat and out, black blood spilling out the split flesh.

    The figure twisted the blade once again, the blood and flesh coming loose as the blade slid out, and the figure growled in disgust, wiping the oiling liquid from the sparkling blade on some nearby moss, muttering something to themselves.

    There was a rustling of leaves ahead of the figure, a flash of dark brown and green, twigs breaking silently as the figure stood, sheathing the blade and grabbing the hilt of a bow, carrying it deftly in one hand.

    "I know you are there. Three, four, five." The figure says. It had a lilting, light voice, most probably female, but we don't know that yet. The Elves, not sure what to do, whispered in the tree tops before they were shushed harshly. A tall elf, obviously the leader, edged out a branch and slipped down a tree, approaching the red clad figure with a swagger that smelled of disgust and smugness, so sure of himself.
    "I am Norvael, Leader of this Scoia'tael Unit, and you are in our territory." He said, walking past the dead Drowner corpse, already attracting flies.
    "Does that matter to me? I am simply passing by, and I happen to find this monster trying to kill me." The figure chirps, not exactly implying the drowner was that monster. The elf gives it the stink eye, the turns towards the hooded figure again.
    "I will not say this twice: You must leave this area immediately. This place is not befit for humans." He said, not out of worry or warning, but of boredom. The red hooded figure looks over, muttering to itself and gripping the bow tighter, brown leather gloves slightly squeaking in effort.
    "I am not exactly human, elf."
    The Elf, looking over, smirked.
    "What then? You are not an Elf or a Dwarf. You may be a halfling but that does not matter to us."
    The figure shakes its head, smirking under the shadow of its cloak.
    "You might be a monster, a Bruxa or a werewolf, and if you are, we will have to hunt you down and kill you."
    The figure flicks its head, and what seems to be a silver hair edge out of the hoods rim.
    "I am neither Elf nor Dwarve. Nor Bruxa or Werewolf. I am simply something new." It says, fingers itching.
    "Then what are you, beanna?"

    The figure whips out an arrow, tipped in poison and steel, and without warning buries it in the elven mans chest. The elf, screaming, falls back in suprise, yelling something in Elder speech, scrambling back. The red clad figure holsters its bow, and retrieves a dagger from its belt, gently dancing past the undead corpse and over to the bleeding Norvael, who was trying to hold the wound the was spilling blood. His screams alerted his unit, who readied their bows.

    "I am a Witcher." She says finally, the hood slipping from her face. ",And you, elf, are a monster."
    His screams end off abruptly as she split the skin across his throat, reducing to pitiful gargles of spit and blood.
    "Cáerme d'yaebl, cerbin saov." She spoke with sea-shell pink lips, her fair pale face illuminated by the moon. Her cat-like yellow eyes swallowed up the last of the dying mans soul, and ended.