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bold independent stubborn disrespectful

Being dead is a drag.

Gwen is undead, and it isn't much better. Most other dragons see the teeth and run; there's something in her eyes now, too, she supposes -- a hunger, maybe, some kind of danger that makes her unwelcome in polite society. Then again, she hadn't taken well to polite society when she was alive, either.

Or, that's what she thinks. She doesn't know, for sure -- her memories come in fits and starts, flashes of feathers, claws, a tightness in her empty chest.

Shit fucking blows, to be honest.