She is the wanderer, she is the sentinel. Shunned by her kin, hated and feared, yet all must endure her presence when she calls. To turn her away would be the gravest folly. They gaze upon her and tremble with distain and dread, despairing at the heights from which they have fallen, into a reality where one such as she must exist.
They call her an outcast, a pariah, an untouchable. Always alone. How little they know.
She is the servant, she is the master. Deadly in her grace, she endures hardships beyond reason. Always moving, always searching, never resting. None can conceive what she has become. Those who would try reel with horror, plummeting into the abyss of madness. She stands on the brink, staring into Its depths, daring the void to swallow her.
They call her a monster, a daemon. Always alone. How little they know.
She is the joy of the saviour, the rasp of the Enemy. She has bared her soul to She Who Thirsts and laughed. Every moment, every breath, is an act of defiance, courage unimaginable. She bears It constantly, a whispering onslaught of her darkest night. Her will is a bastion against Its malice. She laughs, knowing both paths, and walks without fear.
They call her the Solitaire. Always alone. How little they know.