Another head.

Another reward.

All that was once red will become gold

And again she will enact

The justice above gods

A fate never honored to her

And such as Odel refuses to feed the starved

All while rejecting prayers when wars began to start,

Remba defied divinity itself

Punishment is virtue.

At the tip of her blade, a Netchen curled defensively, it's eyes desperate and loathing.

Her breath was fast. Very fast. She noticed it. The breathing.

"Please," the creature begged in a crude way only it could utter, lowering it's head. It slumped in the snow, and Remba could not decide if it was asking her to spare it's life or end it's suffering. But, she would take no wishes; she readied a final blow, gripping the handle of her weapon with both hands, steady as the birch trees that lurked beyond the mess around them.

There was blood. Seeping deep into the ground, it blanketed all. The delicate snowfall. The inhuman corpse. Remba's abdomen. It pained her. And even though she could feel the lacerations dividing her chainmail apart, she would not focus on that injury. She surrendered another glance. It was all too familiar.

_Punishment is virtue._

Pivoting her feat away, Remba lightly directed the iron against the Netchen's neck. As it's head lifted, by the grace of the sword, the Netchen's tears continued to interrupt it's irregular breathing, but Remba could hear that it was sobbing even before she could see it's face. As if something large was caught in it's throat, it swallowed, and the two remained in that silent pose. Remba heard it's breath. Again.

_Punishment is virtue_, she berated herself, _punishment is virtue._

She repeated her stance, once more, still faltering with the weight resting in her hands. Again, she attempted to ready her strike. The very edge of her blade wobbled, like a leaf passing water off it's surface, as she dragged her arms over her shoulder. This was it. Another act of true retribution. When she reached the peak of her wind up, her teeth clenched, due to excitement or wrath or fear or whatever unclear emotion which had steered her sleepless almost every other night for as long as she could remember; and she faced this pathetic creature in front of her.

"You are evil"—She looked left and right—"You are all that is wrong with this world. You take EVERYTHING!"

It crawled backwards, against the corpse. It's breath, it was even in the bitter air.

"Livestock! Coin! Family."

The Netchen's breath. It spilled into her mind.

"You are... "

It was just like hers.

"Y-you.. are.."

Her blade slipped.

Punishment is virtue,

though she now found none of that here.