He's a kid. And she's drunk and who cares anymore if she looks weak? So she smiles warmly and wipes the blood from her wrist with the cloth frlm her mouth, damp with spit.

(The dog--wolf?--usually would worry her. Dogs hate her. It's something about how she smells. But fuck it. If it wants to maul her, let it.)

"A little bit," she admits. "But whatev. As soon as these are done I'll suit up. I'm--"

Who is she, today?

"I'm Shrike."