AN: I think the prose I have managed here, which I worked hard for, is among the best on this site.
She rode upon the undiluted mustang, its amber tan orbs coruscating with not vexation but delectation. Her unostentatious hide, so pulchritudinous and yet simple, revebrating the rays of Helios as her terracotta hair oscilliated in the gentle caress of the subdued tempest streaking twycross the moorland. Her toquoisie beryl oculars, like diamonds cut by the most skilled of dwarven stone-shapers, lay rest upon the protoplasm that was her lover: Kratos Aurion. As she moved, her verdant clothes (a tight-fitting elven hem with auriferous inlays and labyrinthine thread patterns resembling two dragons trapped in eternal, everlasting, never-ending combat, and a flailing azure cape adorned with the regalia of the ancient half-elven kingdom Draconea) and the ecru strands of hair framing her face flapped in the wind.
"Do you thinkest we will run into quarrelsome racketeers, oh Chosen?" she asked Colette Brunel, who postulated herself to be the Chosen.
"Aye, these parts are dangerous, Alyssa," quoth Colette with purposeful sobriety. "We are fortunate to have your compaignement."
Kratos expressed his contentiousness by beaming at Alyssa. "Cowardly curs they are, these bandits!" he spat irascibly. "They attack with no mercy and murder in cold blood all those upon which they lay their filthy appendages." He brandished his blade, which was known by the elves as Yel'lanioth, the Cleaver of Skulls.
"Best let you, Alyssa, and you, Kratos, handle the wretched accursed cravens," opined Loyd. "You are our most skilful fighters."
Alyssa responded not, but gently pushed aside her auburn locks and extracted from her backpack the twin katanas Hasimake and Kutsu. (These two brothers thirst for the iron taste of crimson lifefluid) she reminisced in her native mothertongue.
(I know, oh, I know, darling) said Kratos forcefully. (Tonight will be a night of glory.)