A horned goddess of war — her face framed by a towering, bone- white metal collar that rises like the jaws of an ancient beast, etched with cracked runes and ivy filigree faded by time. No helm shields her, only the sharp geometry of the collar casting shadows across her glowing black skin, patterned faintly in antique rose and parchment- toned sigils like scars of old enchantments. Her eyes hide beneath the deep hood of a ruined war- cloak, stitched with ghost- white threads and washed- out blood- red fabric that falls in soft, swirling folds — worn like a priestess’s vestment twisted into something predatory. A single pauldrons crowns her right shoulder, shaped like weathered sandstone curling into fossilized vines, elegant yet lethal. Her busty form is bound in heavy armor sculpted with Art Nouveau curves, every plate an artwork of brutal grace — stained, cracked, and holy. No flesh is exposed that is not deliberate: the ornate neckline bares power, not weakness. Aura tendrils rise from her back like smoke drawn in floral lines, casting sepia shadows that shift with every silent breath. Behind her: a desaturated battlefield of memory, lit only by the haunting glow of wine- red mist and volumetric pale light. Her presence carves into the scene like a myth — motionless, eternal, manga- framed in fine, worn ink lines. A relic of war and wonder, unforgiving and divine. slomesty, mythp0rt