The door to the office of Archetype Management burst open, and into the sterile reception area stalked a tall, broad-shouldered, well-muscled woman dressed in skimpy leather and bronze armor covered completely in gore.
The receptionist shouted as gobbets of bloody flesh slid off the warrior woman and landed on the plush ginger-colored carpet with meaty-wet plaps.
"Look at the mess you're making!" the thin, bird-boned woman said. She stood, eyes blazing over the tops of her granny glasses, hair bun so tight it looked as if her head might explode any moment. She stabbed a slender finger at the door. "Get out of here before you make it any worse!"
The blonde swordswoman--the very picture of a Norse valkyrie with a touch of stone-age savage thrown in for good measure--dropped a callused hand to the hilt of the sword hanging at her side. "I would consider it a personal favor if you wouldn't speak to me in that tone," she said evenly.
The receptionist's face reddened in anger and her jaw muscles tightened. The already severe lines of her suit seemed to become sharper, sharp enough to draw blood.
"Don't think you can intimidate me, Ms. Tugenda. As Mr. Abernathy's executive assistant, I deal on a daily basis with all manner of archetypes, from thunder gods to demons. I don't threaten easily."
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