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the Third War

Her porcelain face was crushed deeply into the charcoal-black earth; it had been the same earth she blissfully pranced upon, obliviously drunken by its emancipating winds and enchanting meadows, for most of her extended youth. She felt clumps of rock and soil lodged into the skin of her cheek plop to the ground as she tried to lift her heavy skull. Even through the haziness of her mind and vision, the scene surrounding her was unmistakably clear— every life she had ever known lay dead before and around her. A sharp gasp– or maybe a sob– choked her seething throat, accompanied by an odd and unfamiliar, yet distinctly recognizable taste— the thick taste of salty blood. There was not a single time she could ever remember having bled before, for roughness was looked down upon by the high elves, but she knew now that she was no longer of that race. The omnipotent taste confirmed the nightmare she had long-ago subjected herself to— any remnants of her former self were obliterated, smothered, replaced by a spiteful, unmerciful blood elf.



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