Her name is Wynn Mornshaper, and she is beautiful. She makes no apologies for her scars; does not hide them behind her hair, does not turn when she catches me looking. She moves just as quickly as our mounted party—faster, especially when she rouses us in the morning. For the sake of knowing, though I hated to say it, I asked her once whether she’d ever seen a priest or cleric about repairing her wounds. She drew back as if to headbutt me. Wynn only asked whether I doubted our safety in her hands. She tossed her head at me, and her horns pulled my eye—carved with flowers and birds on one, and bones and storms on the other. Crude, but the intent is plain: joy and sorrow. Despite her puckered wounds, her fleece still gleams brightly enough to tempt a god. Wynn’s brush with death has gifted her, I think, a lust for battle and brew. But I watch her in the taverns. She does not brawl when she drinks, does not shout when she makes merry. Wynn is always in the thick of events—but she watches. She sizes up strangers for signs of trouble, and I know that even from here she is watching me. But it is only strategy, I know: which of the party will run when danger strikes? Who can she trust with the rear guard, as she cannot be in front and behind both? She watches us, and I begin to think her clouded eye can see further than I like, can tell some of why we really travel. But—joy and sorrow. Death and life. She is abraxas, and holds the chaos of totality in her scars. She will understand, and she will help us. I can make her understand.
— Endris, priest of the Resonance Unyielding
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