The White Witch, Grim!

Year 21 of the Ruin period, outskirts of Behemot Village, Kingdom of Banshee A lantern stabs through the mist in the night. Heavy mist tonight, swims around the form as it wades through. Towering, black cloak and cowl, one steel gauntlet grips a lantern, white locks flow from the shadow of the cowl hiding the form's face. Near the village now, near the inn, just a bit away from breaking through the treeline. There's a rustling ahead. From out the brush, a wolf trudges out alone. Too big for any known species around these parts, a Vestige, this abomination took the shape of the animal. When it turns its snout to the form, the lantern light catches the wolf in full. Its manged grey fur, the rot of its canines and the foam in its snarl. Along with the fact its head is twisted upside down upon its thick neck. The wolf's inverted jaws snap, hind legs straightening behind it as it fully faces the form. Moments later the wolf watches a giant metal slab coming down edge on. From under the form's sable black cape, in a big arch from its back through the air, and down on the beast. A brutal cleave of bone shatter and viscera, and the abomination lay parted in two on either side of the forest path as the form sheathes the giant sword back under its cape and steps right past the carcass. ___ In the village inn, the front door opens with a brief whistling of wind before it closes again. Chatter dies down wherever the form passes through the crowd towards the bar, a head taller than the average patron. Drunken babble fizzles out into whispers. 'The white witch', 'kinslayer'... Men, even in their fear, cannot resist the gluttony of gossip. At the bar, the form leans on the counter and a gauntlet thumps down the lantern then lets a few silver coins drop on the countertop. The barkeep's cloth stops wiping a weathered tankard. The form murmurs from the shadow under the hood, and the voice is feminine, rough and rich. "Cold brew... Anything you have is fine."