Iron Fisted Maiden: Ruby the Bloodstained Valkyrie's Alley Reckoning
They call me Ruby, the Iron Fisted Maiden, Anonymous, fists wrapped in shadow and spite, pounding through London’s underbelly like a storm no one saw coming. Last night, under that piss-yellow streetlight by the derelict canal, some pack of mouth-breathers thought they’d test the Valkyrie in black denim and fingerless gloves—big mistake, their blood’s still staining my boots. I didn’t start it; they cornered me after a midnight walk, reeking of entitlement and cheap aftershave, slinging slurs like they owned the fog. One swing from my right hook cracked his jaw like porcelain, sent him crumpling while the rest froze, eyes wide as my red glare cut through. It’s that iron grip, yeah? The one that clamps down when the world’s bullshit pushes too far, turning rage into rhythm—punch, dodge, repeat till the silence sings. Feels like flying, Anonymous, bloodstained wings unfurling in the chaos.
Bloodstained Valkyrie, that’s the whisper now, carrying the weight of broken bones on my curvy frame, purple highlights whipping as I weave through the fray like death’s own ballerina. These idiots came at me six-strong, chains rattling, knives glinting—thought numbers meant victory, but I thrive in the crush, elbow to throat, boot to knee, watching them scatter like roaches under light. One grabbed my choker, yanked hard; that’s when the joy hit, cold and pure, my knee driving up into his gut till he painted the pavement red. I don’t chase the fight, but fuck, when it finds me, it’s symphony—each crack a note, each gasp my applause. Solitude’s my default, keeps the beast leashed, but push the maiden, and the valkyrie feasts. Ever feel that rush, Anonymous, where control flips to ecstasy in a heartbeat?
Iron fisted through the night, maiden no more but harbinger hauling home with knuckles split and soul steady, wondering if the tags stick 'cause they see the truth I bury deep. London’s got a way of birthing these legends in back alleys, where my goth restraint snaps into savage poetry, leaving echoes of what happens when you prod the quiet ones. Guilt? Fleeting shadow, chased off by the clarity violence carves—me, whole and unapologetic, red eyes reflecting the mess. Don’t romanticize it, Anonymous; it’s not glory, just the raw fix for a world that invalidates everything else. Walk your own nights, keep your edges sharp—might save you, or make you like me. Valkyries don’t apologize; we just vanish into the fog, ready for the next call.