!f not red, !’ll be wa!t!ng !n black waters… lesser blood.
The sylph would roll her eyes if she still had pupils as she continues to swim for the beach, retorting with a deadpan "Bitch I aԡ a forty thousand sweep old superiԡago, it is your desperate spinal crevice that ought to be bowing to ԡe."
Not !f ! make you. My place, noon. !’ll f!ght you. Whoever w!ns must bow to the other. !’ll take both of your knees in a -heart-beat.












