Espin stumbled through the streets of Shanton as though in a daze. Glassy-eyed, without focus, she drifted along with destination in neither sight or mind. Her plain muslin dress, while mostly intact, was stained and reeking with her own life's blood where she'd been killed nearly a fortnight before. Even the storms shrouding the ruins of her hometown could do little to wash away the gore of her passing. Her shoes, once plain leather affairs, were battered from her travels. Her hair, once lovely, was a disheveled mess. And her eyes...

Upon waking, all she'd known was that her life, as she'd known it, was over. Her family and friends dead or fled, her home destroyed, the very land itself rendered barren, plagued by a ceaseless storm. And she was hungry, so very hungry. She knew what for, but could not bring herself to commit such a foul act unto another human being. She'd seen other refugees along the road, most of whom had fled at the mere sight of her ghastly form. She could have run them down, she knew it to be so. The blood within their veins sang, so tantalizing yet taboo. And now she felt herself growing weaker and less coherent by the night, and worse, more desperate.

Now she feared she might soon lose that last vestige of control...