<div style="text-align: center"><img alt="[​IMG]" class="bbCodeImage LbImage" data-url="http://i.imgur.com/OBYSo.gif" src="http://i.imgur.com/OBYSo.gif" style=""/><br/>
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<span style="font-family: 'georgia'"><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="color: #9D612B">'CAUSE THEY'RE JUST SPIES<br/>
THEY'RE JUST SPIES</span></span></span>​</div><br/><span style="font-size: 9px"><span style="color: #544A41"><span style="font-family: 'georgia'"><span style="font-size: 15px"><span style="color: #9D612B">Sbatarra weighed her masters words carefully,</span></span></span> nodding as he considered further attacks against the other guilds.  They very well could be happening as they spoke, if not quite soon.  Despite her dislike for virtually every guild besides her own, she knew that if the rest fell, Burland would crumble soon after.  Despite having little love for the races of the surface, her time as an apprentice under Double-Dead had instilled a sort of respect for this homeland.  The more she thought about it, the most she realized that respect was for Double-Dead himself, the one man she truly respected as her superior, and perhaps something closer had her abyssal heritage not caused very damning mutations.  When Double-Dead gave her an order, it was impossible for the assassin to refuse.  Even now, when all she wanted to do was fight by her master's side, to protect what he cherished above all others by his side, she couldn't refuse him, nor his impressive gift.<br/>
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Lost for words, Sbatarra reached out to accept the brilliant falchion, taking the sheet and straps and bringing the heavy blade around her back to strap it there.  Her eyes gave more than enough thanks, and a rare, genuine smile appeared on her face, as she inched forward and pecked her master on the cheek.  Such affections were not rare between the two, but they never stepped beyond that due to both of their own personal wishes.  His to his duties as a guild leader, and hers to her shame for her heritage.<br/>
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<span style="color: #9D612B">"You know leaving won't be easy for me,"</span> the drow said, running a hand through her black Mohawk.  <span style="color: #9D612B">"You're sending me away to find my own place, when we both know its to be by your side,"</span> she huffed, seeming almost pouty about the whole situation.  <span style="color: #9D612B">"But, we both know what'll happen if I try to argue.  You always make such good points,"</span> the warlock smirked, looking down to inspect her gear.  She would need to stop to get her armour repaired before she could properly set out.  But set out to where?  Likely Burland Castle, until she could find some sort of goal there to pursue.  <span style="color: #9D612B">"You stay safe, boy,"</span> she laughed, referring to their massive difference in age.  <span style="color: #9D612B">"Stay alive long enough for me to come back and beat you one day, yeah?"</span><br/>
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With her goodbyes properly said, and her emotions properly bottled, Sbatarra would then leave the ruined headquarters.  She would need to get her armour repaired first, then she would begin her trek towards Burland Castle.  On foot this time, to give her plenty of time to think.  That, and the stables were running out of horses to steal, and people were now on guard for invisible drow.</span></span><br/><br/><div style="text-align: right"><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 22px"><a class="externalLink" href="http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheetview.php?sheetid=454315" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">*</a></span></span>​</div><div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>