The wind howled through the crags of the High Fangs, biting at any exposed skin, but Lynx didn’t feel it. She was a statue of focus, lying prone on the frozen slate, her cloak whipped back by the gale. Through the scope of her crossbow, the world was a tight circle of grey and white.
The Elk collapsed, dead.
Lynx nodded. The failure on the ridge still stung, but the penance offered a way to burn it away. To reset the score. video title huntress lynx pegging after fail
The Resilience of Streamers and Online Personalities The wind howled through the crags of the