Succoria wandered comfortably through the dark woods. Darkness was hers. And her prey were far too busy to notice her. A distraction was drawing near. 

A group of highwaymen gathered, preparing an assualt on an approaching caravan and the caravan's protectors were beggining to realize it. Unfortunately, this battle would be taking place in the light. The cover of trees would soon be gone. 

And as the forces clashed, Succoria rushed out from the darkness and into the light. She slaughtered the archers in the rear who would have given support to the front. 

Her blades flashed as she slashed and stabbed the flesh of humans, orcs and goblins. Bringing each down in turn out of a dozen. Some she killed painlessly, others she left collecting their own organs as they spilled out. It was bloody and it was savage. But to anyone who understood violence, it was art. Poetry punctuated by severed heads and other limbs. A pure form of expression. 

The drow's attacks against the brigands spoke of a sharp singlemindedness. They spoke of drive, discipline and passion. They revealed both precision and a bold, sneering refusal to quit. And once she had worked her way through the archers, she would rush to the back of the main effort and press her attack. Those among the caravan or it's knights who hadn't realized that this dark elf was on their side, they were about to.