Of rise and fall

Sylvanas world turned red in figuratively and barely moments later literally.

The Mistress of Lordaeron let herself glide into the dance of ****. Her first 3 arrows killed their targets before the toads even tried to get through to the delicious elf. What followed was a symphony of grace and decay.

They came for her, from the ranks, through the dust, from above and beyond the croaking humanoid toads charged at the elf in their ranks. They throw themselves with a passion into the fight that could easily be compared to an orcish outbreak. Fading out anything but their luscious cum-covered prey.

And they all did fail. Sylvanas slithered through the bodies like an untouchable shadow with a speed and grace that denied anyone of them to reach out for her. She rolled over hunchbacks, through legs or graping tongues. Moving in a way that perfection looked like a remarkable performed choreography. Any single movement of her wonderful body was designed to avoid contact or kill her prey.

The Warchief of the Horde may be a capable leader, a master of the dark arts or a never to underestimate diplomat. But here, in the heat of the fight, unbosomed her true purpose. She was the Incarnation of ****. Every arrow, every slice or throw with her daggers, every bone-breaking leverage or kick with her boots was designed to kill. One by one the fall before her and as she danced there on the brink of **** or success, she began to embrace the moment to ride the wave of adrenaline and satisfaction. Tasting the triumph a grin of salvation on her lips...

a body lurched itself into her back, tossed the queen of her podium and into the depth of the well. Still, in her fall Sylvanas turned around her eyes wide in shocking disbelief as she recognized the long silver hair of the body who had thrust herself into the dark elf to set an end to her killing dance.

"Little bird...?" she whispered until the impact on the ground turned Sylvanas world from red to black.