--the way i die.

Screams of pain... something was terribly wrong with a terrible little child. Poor thing. As a commoner, the harlot oft found herself drifting toward the battlefield, to obsevre fights and learning new techniques to use in her own fights, and well... this poor being was simply vulnerable. A coo escaped the inky lips of the harlot, approaching in an unthreatening manner. "You poor thing. Let me take you home..." The small being was bleeding, on the verge of death. Even in the cold crust of the harlot, warmth blossomed with a motherly love from her heart, nearing the small child and seeking permit to lie down at his side, and pick him up, cuddle him... bring him up as her own son. "You can be my son..."

"Burn Baby Burn"