A skirmisher stops moving when they are dead or dying. They fight in flight as hummingbirds, consuming the ground and the open spaces at a rate just barely capable of sustaining themselves. To think is an exercise in multitasking, a tradeoff in time. Slower to the mark, in exchange for living longer if you can still reach it.

The Garden grows still at the dodecahedron’s roar. They recognize their own. An apex predator. The cannons grow silent, to better hear their first footfalls. The phalanxes freeze, digging deeper in a vain hope of delaying the violence that stopped the unstoppable. Dolce and Vasilia keep moving. The broken body of Princess Epistia bends as bodies should not. Dolce and Vasilia must keep moving. The hoarse cry of their friend meets the sickening crunch of a kick disintegrating ribs, and they cry no more. Dolce and Vasilia cannot stop moving.

She sees the most dangerous threat on the battlefield, sees the loss of their greatest fighter, and sees no one else this far or this free.

He cannot see his Champion, or anyone else remotely qualified. He’s not even qualified. But he is the Captain.

“Dammit. [i]Dammit.”[/i] She swears, as they send a pack of Kaeri tumbling off the field.

“...do you see anything?”

“I see that we don’t stand a chance if she’s allowed to run free.”

“Then. We. Have to stop her.” 

“We’re no better than Epistia in single combat.”

“Do we [i]have[/i] to be better?”

“I certainly hope not.”

[Rolling to Look Closely: 6 + 6 + 2 = [b]14[/b]. How can they, with primarily close-range weaponry, fight her and not instantly meet the same fate as Epistia?]