Shadowwyn Moor a stately pleasure dome decree

ah--now this is the kind of chaos she enjoys! open land, dead trees strewn across it. it is utter destruction, and the barbarian takes great pleasure in it, racing across the moor. she is long and lean, a bolt of dark lightning; the yearling is long past childhood but feels it in her veins once more as she gallops, feeling freer than she has in moons.

but conquest is always at the forefront of her mind, and she stops to ponder it, fur still lifting on the wind. for though there is much land around, the scent of wolf is heavy on the air. packs, and many of them. taking vast swaths of territory is never easy, and beating down enemies to do so only makes it harder.

it is the blood spilled, however, that makes the victories that much sweeter. any blood--she would rather die on the battlefield having fought then live in cowardice. it will not be an easy road, but the path to heaven was paved with thorns, hmm?

tashkent stands on a small hillock, looking out. staring down the mountains, and wondering if she could take them on all by herself.

well, she can, and will. of course.