Death Of An Assassin

The assassin would stutter and fail, the woman had reached the extent of her use, she understood, she knew that. In her declining years she wouldn't make for a useful bringer of death, her days were numbered and spent, her mate slaughtered by her own hand, her past a bloodied, mangled mess of pain and suffering, she had brought death to the highest of nobles, the greatest of King's what would be a greater poetic justice than to end herself? But the assassin had a bit too much pride for that and thus she found herself, knee deep in the Ghoulish swamps. She was a small, lithe creature, comprised of compact sinewy muscle, deceptively tiny, she packed a nasty punch.

The muck suctioned to her pads, threatening to drag her down into a dismal oblivion, with each paw she lifted free she sunk that much lower into the slime until the filth and debris covered her, masking her scent entirely and blocking it away from the rest of the world. With one final step the muck had suctioned the dual colored woman down far enough to render her immobile. She would stand like some impenetrable stone, allowing it to drag it down. Her dual colored gems would flutter shut, her muscles relaxing, accepting her dismal fate, the image of her lover flickered behind her eyelids, a visage she hadn't seen in years and a true, tiny smile would drift across her maw for the first time since she had torn the throat out of her own lover as the heavy muck finished its job, her cranium disappearing beneath the sludge.

(((OOC: Im giving whoever a chance to save her, a few days at best, if not I will presume her dead. )))