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This woman is not her. She looks like an Old Hag, a filthy bonepicker or camp-follower, who is not beyond rummaging amongst the corpse-heap just to loot whatever remains of value.
In her hands are a broken wooden sword, a headless straw doll cleft in two parts missing an arm. She stops and mutters, craning her neck and turning right and left and back again, as if there is something she has dropped or lost.
With a muttered curse of recognition, Old Hag Kospelina finally retrieves the small figurine of a ferryman on a boat, half-buried in the mud, the marsh grass and the blood.
