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- Sonja dressed. Her clothing did nothing to hide her figure. She had chosen it for the freedom of movement it allowed her—or, so she often told herself. A brief halter of scale-mail about her shoulders and breasts, a short skirt of the same hanging to mid-thigh, boots of rugged Nemedian leather— this was her outfit. This, and her sword-the sword which had once been her father's of good Hyrkanian steel, and tempered by Sonja in the blood of a thousand combats. She wore knives, too, strapped to her thighs.
- Dressed, Sonja regarded herself once more in her mirror, then slid free her blade with the speed of a gasp and brought it up, shimmering in the dawnlight, and lunged forward-all in one graceful, unified motion betraying no waste, no uncertainty-bringing the point to just a hair's breadth from the surface of the mirror.
- - Red Sonja: When Hell Laughs
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