A fierce warrior hiding a kind heart.

She was feared, known as the worst, yet the best.

A reputation built over a lie or ten.

Bom’s mother had been a feared warrior.
Known for being a poison specialist, The Red Owl would never allow an enemy to remain alive.
When Bom was born, her mother had set everything for her daughter to be like her mother. She would be trained in combat with all sorts of weapons, and bare hands; she would learn how to break a neck without using her hands; and the most important, she would be taught the art of poisoning, her mother’s legacy.

At the age of twelve, Bom was the best with darts, always poisoned, of course. She would only decide on the type of poison, according to specific situations, and no one would be able to defeat her.

At the age of twenty, Bom was already known for having killed far more than a thousand men.
Leaving no traces was her mark.
No blood, no corpse, no traces left behind.
There would be those to say she would drink her enemies’ blood, in a way of truly tasting victory.

Lies.

Her hands had never touched a weapon with the true intention of killing; her eyes had never desired to see red in the form of blood; her enemies had never existed.

Different from her mother, Bom abominated the action of ending a life.
Human or animal.

She had never killed a man, she’d rather die.
She had never killed an animal, she’d rather starve.

Bom had secretly specialized in defense. That would be just enough for her to poison the enemy, making sure it’d forget the last hours, days, even years or a whole life.

She would refuse to kill, even if her own life would be put in danger.

Bom.
The worst at being bad, the best at being good.