She is made up of skins and bones, though people call her insane for the scars they painted on her.
Her rusted, weakened bones could crave a million thousand stories out on the walls you passby, but who would even want to read a story filled with sadness, that could only bring tears out of the sky.
Though she wouldn’t do that so, she’ll keep her head down, read every lines engraved on her favourite story book, living in stories she’d never live in reality, carrying her day in different symphonies of her own.
With no knights guarding a warrior like her, she is left alone facing the battle on her own.
And she kept wondering how was she going to win a battle with no visible souls to fight against through.
She kept wondering and wondering, with no trace of an escape, and the battle numbed her soul, and ever after that, no pain could indulge the life out of her.
And her stories were engraved on stones with the sword she made out of her bones.