As you lean against a tree, inspecting the sharpness of your katana, a raven lands on its tip. Cawing ominously, it expels an eye from its beak. "Caw! Master! Caw!" You recognize the iris as belonging to the man who once severed your head. A slayer. Your fingers trace the jagged scar running down your neck. Smiling darkly, you bare your sharp teeth and say, "So you fed on him? That mortal must have gotten pretty old." You stick out your long tongue, grasp the eye, and pull it into your mouth.
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