[b]The Cells[/b]

Faint memories stirred deep within Cold Hands as she listened to the orc, the one they called the Unfortunate Son, speaking in his soft voice. But it was the peculiar feeling in her hands that she focused on, that she latched on to with a fanatical devotion. She let left hands form a tight fist, considering the emotion. She seldom felt the urge to inflict violence, not truly. The sensation was unfamiliar, but welcome, oh so welcome. Leagues she had traveled. Years she had suffered. Kindness was a weakness that tormented her with every step that she took along the unspoken path. Charity a fever that threatened, always, to consume her. The frozen monastery of the Last Stand lay far behind her. She carried the cold within her, certain of the tides she traveled. Hardship and suffering awaited.

"One day," Cold Hands began, nodding at her clenched fist, "One day, I will strike the Bitter Wind herself with [i]this fist[/i]. My mind, my heart, my body, and my soul. They are no more than tools, weapons I have forged to wield against the gods themselves."

"You may tear any god from my heart, but you would only hasten my work."