Perched high on a cliff above the plains below, Mokali did sit with a cruel smirk upon her face watching the battle transpiring beneath her. Fallen orcs cluttered the ground on both sides, the ground running red with blood. And she was amused.

The wails of the injured were like music to her ears; the carnage a banquet for her senses. The smell of rotting corpses an overpowering temptation to feast. She licked an elegant finger tasting the sweet sweat of her excitement upon its surface. She tossed her head wildly like a steed of war, her mane of raven ringlets falling around her like a mantle. The twisted smirk on her face growing crueler by the moment.

These toys of hers were so easy to manipulate. Their desires so intense but their minds so addled. Violence lurking in their blood and ripe for her whispered seductions. A carefully placed phrase in the right ears and the conflict had begun so naturally. A turn of a word to interpret motives, a shove in the right direction and her passions were actualized. How sweet these mortal puppets were, even sweeter her skills as the consummate puppet master. How she loved the feeble mortals; how she loved the way their predictable actions caused her blood to rush and her body throb.

She cackled gleefully as more and more fell to their knees. Her eyes twinkled as their death cries floated up to her yearning ears. She ran her fingers slowly across her rose-hued cheeks rubbing in the sensations of the battle. And when she had sampled all the pleasures the scene had to offer her many appetites, she slowly rose to her feet and blew a kiss to the few mortals still alive and warring. Slowly like mist she began to dissolve from sight, the glint of mischief in her eyes the only hint that she was off to begin a new game with new toys.