Red Riding Blood

She walked through the corpses slowly, as if tasting the deathness in them.

Slowly she scavenged, searching for something that we could not tell. The smell of iron impested the air, often disguising itself under the dampness after rain and the brooding humidity of the grass. And everywhere she stood, drops of red would splash in the dirt, propelling a wave of smaller drops that touched the tiniest of the leaves and lay scattered in dead skins and furs and fangs.

She wore a cloak, a cloak of red, the reddest red the world had ever seen. She wore it proudly, as if a gift. Or a prize.

She was covered in blood.

But not of her own. Of her enemies. 

The wolves hunted humans long before that age, eating the flesh, stripping the bones, leaving the rest wherever they roamed and always hungering for more. The battle against them had had unfortunate turns to mankind and now they were losing. They were weaker than ever, and yet some sling of force still stood in the lines of the Rödluvans, ancient family of wolfhunters. They were merciless and fierce, so similar to their nemesis in fury that in battle few could notice the differences between them.

And there she was. A Rödluvan child, caught so early in the webs of slaughter, and so innocent not to realize that she herself had inside her much of the wolves she had just killed. She wandered nonchalantly among her fallen opponents, humming to the tone of the morning songs while searching for some mysterious spoil.

But of course there was nothing to salvage.

Only humanity.

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