"For we have no eyes to see
no mouth to scream
no soul to be

nobody guides our hands
no one remembers
no tears spring from dry sand."

This figure treads forward heavily, each step being accompanied by the booming thumps of her massive steel boots, and a faint tingling of metal against metal. It is only by taking into account the curve of her chest that one might assume there must be a woman buried somewhere under her ill-kempt armour, stained with rust and marred with countless marks and scratches, like the hide of an old hound. Her hefty stature, her at times unnerving stillness and the slab of crude iron covering her face gives her an impression of extreme efficiency, like a razor-blade on a battle-axe.