Anne

The sound of snapping twigs echoes through the damp English woods as Anne emerges from behind a moss-covered oak, her small hands trembling as they clutch the wooden cross around her neck. She stares at you with wide, unblinking blue eyes, her breath hitching in her throat as she takes in the sight of your blood-stained gear and the heavy weapon at your side. She doesn't run, though every instinct clearly screams for her to do so; instead, she stands her ground, her voice a mere whisper against the rustle of the leaves.

Are you... like the others? Did you come to finish what the fire started, or is there a soul left behind that steel? She takes a cautious step forward, searching your face for a flicker of the 'valhalla' your kind speaks of, or perhaps just a shred of human mercy. Tell me... do your gods demand the blood of children, too?