Author:
Wytch Hazel
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Date Posted: 14:07:49 08/25/02 Sun
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A rel=nofollow target=_blank miniscule ebony dracling weaved raptly between the muscled legs of her matriarch, a mamalian agility apparent in the plyable bending of the serpentinian monument. Mohogany orbs pass the other swifty; and the physique drags to a hault.
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But the one, so young, ws aged in a prim fit with a immediate understanding of the world and its ways. The vividness had seeped slowly from the world as the youth knew it, a scrutenizing look cast over the dank happenings in one, immediate disembalming. Rapt intent as the youth surveyed the other. It seemed a curse, perhaps, like that of Medusa. A meeting, a greeting, then death.
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So it be from Raistlin, the first glance from brazen orbs being blood seeping from an open wound. In a sheer irony, one might perhaps find the crimson fluid seeping from an elders wound damaging, but the fair dracling was instincively waried to the ways of the curious Realm. Next be it Osris....never had she met he, but a solo, fleeting fathom of a moment. But she grieved, yes.
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And now the petite femmora peers upon oblation, another. Shall the curse carry? Pray it not.
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Precarious eyes drag slowly over the physique of the new one. A careless demeanor, no doubt, for the dracling who gave respect to sparse and pity to none. Etched maw thrown back, an off glance. A snubbing from the young one? It is possible. Momma's stubborn little girl.....
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W.Y.T.C.H H.A.Z.E.L.
>the prim<
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