"You craven whoresons!"
The breasts spilling from the chest of her tight leather garments bounced with every stride, and the long hair striving to match their rhythm danced upon her shoulders, yet zero disciples possessed the audacity to lift their heads and behold this exquisite spectacle.
"What in the blazes does running inside before the Leader Beast even shows up mean? You honorless dogs, I better not catch you calling yourselves fighters anywhere! You're nothing but laborers fit to toil in the mine!"
The daggers of the woman bearing the moniker Muk—drenched in wild beast blood—rested in both her hands, having forfeited none of their dark green radiance. Should she perceive the most minuscule misstep, whosoever committed it could forge an intimate acquaintance with them, and the Eighteenth Ward disciples, acutely cognizant of this reality, settled for absolute silence.
