Gwynneth Sarbro was always getting into trouble. It started with the little things: broken windows, school-children with black eyes and stolen lunch-money. When she was 13, her parents, who had beaten her for a spilled glass of milk and a misplaced key, threw her out of the house and told her to never come back.
That night she crept back into the unlocked garage with a can of gasoline. She poured it out all around the house, thoroughly soaking every surface she could reach. When she was done, she stepped back, lit a match and threw it.
She'd broken the smoke detectors years before - enough times that her parents eventually stopped replacing them. They had approximately 30 seconds in which to regret this after the smoke and heat woke them up, while the smoke stopped up their lungs and the heat and fire charred the flesh from their bones. Gwynneth smiled as she walked away, her parents' screams discordant music in her ears.
Gwyn spent three years on the streets of Cleveland as a prostitute, turning tricks for a tattered twenty, a hot meal or a warm place to stay. Twice she killed her John: once when a man pulled a knife on her, and once when a man made the mistake of letting her see the multiple hundred-dollar bills in his wallet. When she was 15, she joined up with a biker gang; even she was hungry for the company of her own kind, and they were a hellhound collection of violent misfits. It was exactly what she needed.
As one of the gang, Gwyn learned to kill on a regular basis - for money, for food, for some knickknack she'd developed a liking for or just for fun. She lost count of her victims when she was 19. When she was 20, the gang was wiped out by the police in a raid on their warehouse lair, after they were betrayed by one of their own. Not a single gang member surrendered; not a single gang member lived... except the stooge who'd sold them out.
Gwyn had finally found a group to which she belonged. She'd found people who would accept her, who would understand what she did and could share it. She'd found a family. Their destruction consumed her.
In the Shadowlands she searched out every bit of esoteric knowledge she could, until she'd finally learned enough to regain possession of her body. Then she set out after her revenge.
First she killed the traitor, ripping him limb from limb with her bare hands, laughing as he screamed for mercy. Then she set out to find and kill every policeman or government agent she could get her hands on. She knew it would be a goal without an end, but she was more than content to spend eternity hunting down her prey. They're all the same to her - police, FBI, CIA, ATF, Coast Guard - it doesn't matter. She's left a trail of badges soaked in blood from Nevada to Michigan, and even the Kindred have developed a healthy respect for, or perhaps fear of, her. She's made some sloppy mistakes though, such as that time in Phoenix when she forgot to check the back room of the safe house she'd just raided. The bullets fired at her by the man who'd been hiding there missed her head by scant millimetres. Gwyn "survived" that encounter, but sooner or later the guard she doesn't see will be a better shot than the last, and then she won't be coming back again.
