The motion sent her stumbling sideways, directly into Damian. Damian, already off-balance from his passionate arguing, tipped over. He grabbed onto Anya for support. Anya grabbed onto Damian. They spun in a clumsy, desperate circle.
She wasn't a thief for greed. She was a thief for the forgotten. Each night, she donned her mask—not of silk, but of cleverness. Her hair, a cascade of fiery auburn that earned her the "foxy" moniker, was braided tight against her scalp, save for one defiant curl that danced over her right eye. Her eyes, the color of good whiskey, missed nothing. foxy anya
High above the street, Anya leaped from rooftop to rooftop, her tail finally free and trailing behind her like a streak of fire. The city was loud and gray, but for Foxy Anya, the night was just beginning. The motion sent her stumbling sideways, directly into Damian
It was a voice that commanded instant respect. Anya flinched, her comical stealth stance collapsing into a heap of limbs. She looked up to see Becky Blackwell standing over her, hands on her hips, wearing a knowing smirk. Anya grabbed onto Damian