General Silverror carries a one-of-a-kind coin. The Lone Wolf’s Head is his personal crest. Made from the bodies of his enemies, he keeps the coin on his person at all times because he likes to feel them. His gold coin was born 1839. Heavy in the pocket. Weighing on him. A poisonous currency of revenge, toxic and as addictive as lead, iron, mercury, and lithium.
He ground them teeth down that used to rattle around. Made fine powder mixed into metal. Bad majik alloy. Haunted to hear their voices. He keeps them. The coin in breast pocket kept them close at hand, his enemies whispering close to his heart. Pulling the coin out slowly from time to time, holding it between his thumb and fourth finger in a strange position, he presses that uneven surface hard against constant threats. To feel his way through vengeance.
The General is a veteran of The War. Where? Which one? No one knows fir sure. Known only to himself. Some say that The War was his war. Still raging. Still burning battlefields. Ringing in his ears. No one knows who the winnerrors was, but it sure ain’t General Silverror.
