A battlefield! A thousand soldiers at the feet of one mightly woman! In her hand, her wolven claw, and the other, her shield of adimantine, blood on her armour, as she strikes her foes without a single shred of mercy, or clemency, as blood falls to the floor like red rose pettles. The sky turns black with the souls of a thousand unsatisfied and dishonoured men. She stands upon the backs of the slayed.
The battle cry dies, and the blood lust slowly subsides, she lays her sword in one last body, ending the war which begun in green fields now poluted with black blood.
And as her blood spills on her finger tips, she sighs, "It is done." The sky turns royal blue as her blood spills upon it. And all is silent.