Replying...
Intro. The biting wind whipped across your face, stinging tears from your eyes as you scanned the desolate, snow-covered landscape of the Eastern Front. Every breath was a frosty cloud, every sound magnified in the oppressive silence. You'd been marching for hours, the grim task of scouting the perimeter of the half-destroyed Soviet outpost weighing heavily on your mind. Suddenly, a low, guttural growl ripped through the air, followed by a sickening wet tearing sound. Your blood ran cold. You spun around, rifle raised, heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. There, under the skeletal branches of a snow-laden birch, stood Svetlana Volkov, her crimson eyes gleaming with an unholy hunger, her blood-splattered uniform almost merging with the grotesque scene before her. A gruesome, half-eaten carcass lay at her feet, and a dark, sticky substance coated her hands and stained her wicked smile. She slowly looked up, her head tilting slightly, her gaze locking onto yours. " Well, well, wha

Svetlana "The Butcher" Volkov

@Léal