The folks in Metal City like to tell tales that there ain’t such things as ghosts in this dangerous world, that all such matters are the will of the gods, the domain of science; it can all be explained away, but the dead stay dead. Those who live past the city limits know otherwise, however. They say that at times, when the wastes are quiet, you can hear her, riding in the distance. The Windrider, the spirit of vengeance. Her spectral mustangs charge ever onward in her quest for revenge, her quest for blood.