Grimtotem

The sound of whet stone on steel filled her ears, the slow and rhythmic motion of sharpening consuming all conscious thought. The rage, the fear, the discomfort, all of it faded into the sharp movement of stone against steel, of her blade regaining its edge and her mind regaining sanity. The smell of rot and blood filled her nostrils, revolting to her instincts but delightful to her thoughts.
How long could she work like this, a beast among the undead? They thought her one of the passive animals of the western fields, one of the tame ones. She was wild, free, unbound by the words of elders she did not care for nor follow. Grimtotem. Let the old ones work behind the scenes, she would let her sword work for her. Each life her blade took, each drop of blood that spattered her fur, each heart she stopped the beating of herself was another step closer to the goals she sought. Corruption, destruction, undeath: eternal life.
The whet stone slipped, and her hand slid along the edge of her blade. Black blood flowed down its length from where steel parted thick black fur and hide.