Nowadays, her golden paws are spiked boots and her wings are usually pressed tight under her leather jacket, but her smile is still enigmatic and dangerous as ever. She stalks up to men leering over girls in the clubs, catcalling them in the streets, or worse. She drags them away and throws them against a wall and growls a riddle at them. On occasion, they get it right, stammering the answer out through trembling lips, but the result is still the same: she tears into them with claws that are still as sharp as the day she was born. She was created to deal punishment, but she doesn’t serve the gods anymore, and now that punishment is on her own terms. When she’s done with the latest lowlife, she heads over to the Siren’s Den, where she downs a pint or two and tells puns that make the entire bar groan. She grins, her canines flashing, and revels in the freedom of her new life.