She walks in from the fog and the darkness, dragging a sword in one hand, the other pressed to a wound at her ribs. She is smiling, and her teeth are bloody. Her hair is plastered to her face with sweat, and she smells of gore and smoke.

She is beautiful like this. She wears struggle like most women wear jewels. Her dance is battle. Her dented, bloody armor fits her better than any ballgown. The Wolf, they call her. She goes by no other name, for her true epithet she guards closely. Wolf suits her better, in any case.

20 tracks