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You do not look back to the young lady sitting on her knees behind you. You do not need to. The scent of her fear lays heavy in the air like a dense fog of clouded judgment, rippling with every quiver of her body. She hugs herself tightly, her arms crossed around her bosom and covering the ripened pair of breasts exposed by the rip in her gown. The pupils of her sky-blue eyes constrict and stare out into the distance, dark hair that once fell in immaculate ringlets mussed into a wild tangle. Urine pools between her thighs, tears run down her face.
"Don't worry, young one," you reassure her. Thrusting your right hand out to the side, you flash her a thumbs up shrouded in flames. Those gestures alone disperse the worst of her fears. "This old hag and her shapeless, sagging tits don't stand a chance against me."
Your arm crooks up, your thumb point at yourself now.
Against a weaker foe like a goblin or an orc, you might have looked back and flashed the young lady a gleaming smile. Against someone who could dodge not one, but two of your flying kicks... even if she sacrificed her minions to save herself, you can't afford to take your eyes off of her.
The leader of the Blackhands snorts in disbelief, her held tilting and her face twisting into a frowning grimace filled with far too many teeth. Her empty black eyes glare at you, the pinpricks of coal within them flaring with hateful red light that casts a shadow upon her hollow cheeks. "An ancient relic like you has no right to call me a hag. Which rebellious daughter would you be, I wonder?"
Ignoring her question, you take a confident stride towards her. "It takes far more than age to be an old hag. An ugly personality withers the bosom and wrinkles the skin, don't you know? And, well..."
You cast a meaningful eye at her breasts, goading her on with an assault to her pride as a woman. You know it works when she clicks her tongue in anger, taking her own step towards you. "The brand of the leminscate marks you as Dienoh's creature. Which mean's that you must be Asht-"
"Such an ugly name they used to call me," you snap, cutting her off before she speaks your demonic name. It holds no power over you, beyond the ugly memories you would rather forget. "I go by Azalea now. I would say you would do well to remember that, but I think you and I both know that your shriveled up bosom won't live to see the sunset."
That sets her off. Steam pours out from her ears, the points of red flaring up to fill her eyes as she shouts, "I'll show you <span class="mu-i">shriveled</span>, you treacherous fossil! <span class="mu-s">Behold</span>!"
A tearing sound fills the air as she rips the top of her robes away, and tosses them to the side.
Her arms are surprisingly thick for a broodmare of the Abyss, with wiry and coiled muscles that strain against her skin. Her abdomen is solid as a rock, and her breasts are full and pert. Her red hair falls in waves of fire below the rope chord belt that keeps the skirt of her robes settled on her hips.
