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Her golden hair waved in the spectral breeze that heralded the impending battle. Walkiria, psychopomp maiden, crossed the mist-covered field to where the fierce warriors awaited their fate.
A guttural chant, somber as the eternal night, burst from her throat. Vibrant notes that bristled the skin of the bravest paladins. For she was the herald of death, the spider weaving the threads of Ragnarök.
She advanced among the dead and dying with the lethal grace of a viper. His steel-cold hands gathered wolf's tails, bear's claws, gleaming boar's teeth. Macabre trophies that adorned his scarlet velvet cardigan.
Neither the best forged breastplates, nor the sharpest swords protected the warriors from her spell. Once the walkiria set her fiery pupils upon them, their fate was sealed.
A flower of dreams and poison born on the banks of the Danube, she beguiled with her ethereal beauty and then condemned with her song of death. For such was her task: to free from the flesh the brave souls destined for Valhalla.