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26

Drops of blood occasionally fall down from the shiny surface of the blade. The viscous liquid breaks on the floor in small red rubies of spray. Lasters examines the blood-stained hieroglyphs on his short blade. The fire in the eyes gradually disappears, the look begins to give cold. On the nose, with a small hump, predatory skin folds are smoothed out. Slowly runs his tongue over the surface of the knife, leaving not a single drop of blood. Turning his head slightly to one side, he closes his eyes with pleasure, his Adam's apple twitching in a swallowing reflex. With a practiced move, Lasters tucks the dagger under his cloak into its special scabbard, the scale-like steel plates on the cloak chiming slightly, yielding to the motions of the seven hundred and fifty year old being. Underfoot lies a dead werewolf, slowly turning into a human. Blood flows from a deep wound on the neck. A little further away, Veilon reloads his pistol, the gleaming clip clattering softly into the steel assa
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