Quietly she stalks about with light footsteps, peeking out from beneath her cowl from time to time with bright, silver eyes. She bears few personal effects besides the clothing on her back and the various blades about her person, the most notable of which is a long, slender greatsword that hangs, oddly, from her hip. Her exploits in the Dalelands remain widely unknown, but there are tales spoken among the citizens of Harrowdale telling of a white ghost that resides in the Velarswood who aids lost travelers and leaves brigands headless on the wooded paths.

For an elf, her build is atypical. Corded muscle covers her entire body, not to the point of disfigurment or to be grotesque, but many mistake her as a male of her race. Some might even mistake her for an orc were it not for her elven visage, which is neither lined by worry or age nor disfigured by battle scars. That is, save for a single deep cut across her upper lip that exposes the white of a tooth. However, she bears no great beauty or ugliness, being quite plain to look upon.

Her sword is perhaps more interesting than herself. The make is of exquisite elven design, the style of this century, and it is adorned with interwoven designs of silver and jade depicting moonlight on leaves. The hilt is longer than is usual for two-handed swords, offering great leverage over the considerably thin, five foot edge. Its shape gives it the more fitting description of a lance than any edged weapon meant to be swung, though she wears and wields it as though it were a simple long-blade.

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Her gait, too, is unusual; lacking all the sensuality of the typical power-hungry, femme fatale. Each step is well placed and swift. She seems eager to move forward and determined to find her way.

Anyone paying her close mind would soon find out why. Her utilitarian trousers hang loosely on her figure to make room for her uncomfortably large, meaty package. One leg of her pants is made purposefully wider to house her black, veined anaconda snug against her inner thigh and the crotch sags and sways subtly as her constantly aching  balls are ground together.

Although she is perfectly at peace with the troubling size of her proud tool, its potency remains the greater issue. Removing her tightly stuffed trousers exposes its perpetually swollen and needful state. A network of thick veins, completely circling its corpulent five inch width, stands out from its flesh to punish whatever hole her length manages to slide inside. Just exposing the drow member to the naked air causes it to grow fully erect into a horse-like foot and a half that ends in an even more swollen domed head.

Despite her good and noble intentions, the lush coconut sized testes do their work to poison her mind. She suffers from an unending desire to breed and, once erect, the fat slit atop her towering member produces an endless supply of thick, slimy preseed in large globs.

Her eyes glaze over at the very though of soft lips pressed to her shaft and a small river of musky pre dribbles from her beastly member in the presence of large breasted women.