Flowing in the air, blowing in her long shiny hair, smooth and so fair, the wind guides her to the Yoma's lair, a venture only she would dare.

Shattered bodies and mangled corpses, humans and horses. Men, women, children, picked clean right down to the bone, adorn the grimy home of stone.

Still as a mountain, she calms her heart that's pounding.

Surprise fades away from the fateful midsummer's day. An eerie silence blanketing around is slashed by a shrill sound,
Her footfalls betrayed by a distant bird's call.

The air displaces, echoing paces, she tenses and braces,
Waiting to strike. Her eyes flick first, her body twists in reverse,
Fluidity and rigidity, reflex and instinct,
A hot white glint, silver in tint, darts out
Greeted by a red splash and a guttural shout.

Graceful and elegant, her blade dances about,
Gliding past demon armor to cut the heart out,
Only one will walk away, of this there is no doubt.