The Girl on the Swing

 She sat twisting the stems of flowers into the hilts of daggers for it was a shape familiar to her. Lush grass washed out by the sun's radiance gently tickled the bare soles of her feet as she swung in the air. The braided vines which suspended her seat creaked softly in protest. They were accustomed to much more lithe Nymphs not a voluptuous woman such as her, whose broad hips consumed the entirety of the carved wooden seat.

 She was safe under this tree's corded branches that shaded some of the ground and left others to the sun's will. Safe. The word repeated over and over becoming a mantra whilst she made her weave more complex.

 In the meadow beside her lay the armor she'd stripped off like a snake's old skin. It reflected no light, it was too tarnished and saturated with blood. Clad only in her undergarments and a layer of grime she wondered how long it would be until she would have to don her second skin once more. She wondered how many more people she would need to kill, she'd already filled the entire meadow with corpses.