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Torn to ribbons, the remains of Bomi's form-fitting robes did little to keep out the bitter chill or hide her scrapes and bruises. Barely older than eighteen, the young martial artist knelt on the snow with her best friend's head resting in her lap. With long black hair, a light tan of eastern origin, and pleasingly upturned eyes, Bomi winced at the dark green creatures celebrating their victory and eyeing her in ways that soaked her with quiet dread. They had avoided hitting her face: they wanted her to remain pretty for reasons Bomi dreaded to process. The goblins had had no such compunction towards Jack who lay wheezing in Bomi's trembling arms. Dull fragments of his shattered sword interspersed with his blood stains marred the once pristine snow near his limp right arm. Only a month older than Bomi, the aspiring warrior's valiant efforts did little to hide his incompetence with a sword. His wild swings wasted energy and left him wide open to the crude, poisoned goblin daggers