Warchief Veylara stepped through the front rank of the Veynar warriors, her boots crunching heavily onto the blood-slicked stone.
Unlike others who were wrapped tightly in thick leather armors, she wore nothing but her simple, primitive tribal garb. Her sun-darkened muscles flexed with every step, each one carved from a lifetime of brutal survival.
Her toned, scarred arms were completely bare, exposed to the harsh wind, and her long hair whipped violently around her face.
In her right hand, she held her spear, Her deep blue eyes burned with the unbridled, terrifying fury of an angry ocean before a tempest.
Her Layer 4 core, completely unfettered and bursting with raw, primal power, unleashed its full, terrifying capacity.
The air within ten paces of her warped and shimmered violently, distorted by the sheer density of her essence. It carried the sharp, metallic scent of scorched iron and ozone, as if the very atmosphere was being burned by her presence.
SWOOSH.
