The ground shudders when she lands. The sands sink and crater under the power of her legs. She doesn't even crouch when she impacts; her armor absorbs the full shock and comes to an abrupt halt already fully upright and standing on her feet. She stands there for a moment with her face to the rain. It's peaceful, here. Untroubled. 

XIII's skin itches with the promise of the names etched across her body. Thousands upon thousands of them, waiting to be purged. So much work to do. So many seeds to plant. Her steps are even and unhurried as she exits her crater. Her tongue darts out from between her lips and licks them clean of spit. She can afford these moments of wastefulness. The sheep in front of her is in no shape to offer sport. He has no tricks or weapons left to run away with. So she plants her feet deliberately and softly, following the trail of silver footsteps across the ground that lead to his soft body and the wavering, fading lines etched across him. 

Three, two, one. Even the act of acknowledging him is an excess. His spear was weak. His form is terrible. More efficient to hunt Va-Si-La. Her name is larger besides. But this act of bravery needs to be answered. She will purge this lesser name from her body first. She reaches forward without urgency and grabs him by the collar of his coat. 

Ah. This one uproots so easily. He is like grasping a cloud. Was this flower even planted? She holds him at eye level for a moment. When her knee crushes into his stomach, it's the softest and sweetest thing she's felt in her entire life. More. More! Let them all feel like that! She tosses him into the air and kicks hard enough to shatter bones. She pauses to watch him skip across the sands like a stone across a lake. XIII pauses the length of three heartbeats before she gives chase. 

It is time to darken, little name. It is time to soothe her burning body. She pounces before the sands can finish slowing him down, and they slide down a dune as a pair. Battle lines break as they pass, neither side being brave enough to cross a Diodekoi in the middle of a hunt. Dolce's body feels soothing and cold against her palms. His flesh is supple and satisfying for her claws to pierce. His eyes quiver with terror, but they never look away from hers. Her lips pull back into a wide smile, revealing sharp and hungry teeth. 

How easily she forgets there is a war happening around her. Other gods besides Artemis are watching them today. A shell fired from the [i]Plousios[/i] drops onto the hill next to them, and explodes with a roar and a cloud of hideous, noxious smoke. 

XIII howls in agony. The sheep pinned underneath her is forgotten in an instant, and she rolls off of him onto the ground to writhe in agony. She can't. She can't. It hurts. It hurts! Her ears are nothing but the shriek and ring of a blast that won't stop, won't stop echoing no matter she squeezes or claws at them. The air is nothing but waves of pressure that squeeze her into a ball long after the explosion should have subsided. Fumes fill her nose and coat her tongue with an awful film, and even the rain is no reprieve. The smell. The taste. Rot and burn, sting and sweat, so putrid it pulls her straight to vomiting all over the sands and wafting flowers. Her skin is heat, burning hotter than she can manage.

Go away! Go away! Her claws swipe weakly at the air around her, as if smog was a thing she could kill. She gives up quickly as her legs give out from underneath her again, and all that she can do is gurgle and heave and claw at her own body looking for relief. Trickles of blood run from her ears as she clutches them and whimpers, barely audible above the din of battle. 

XIII rises to her feet, snarling and drooling and trembling from head to toe. Her vision blurs. The world spins. She collapses to her knees as soon as she finishes rising. The moans that escape her belong to a dying animal. And still, she clutches at the ground and wills herself to stand. And fall. And stand again. She smashes her chest with her fist and screams. She lets her face and ears bleed freely. She drops to one knee again, and this time stays there.

A moment ago, she was a perfect killing machine. Unstoppable and terrifying. A moment from now, she will be again. But right now the entire edifice of her body and its overtuned senses has been turned against her. SP weaponry is a famously effective tactic to confuse and disorient even the most powerful of warriors, but to [s]Bella[/s] it is more akin to torture. To watch her now is like seeing a child being made ready for the kennels all over again. Her skin treated with acid baths until the fur burns away and leaves her glistening and "almost human". The whiskers plucked from her face with superheated tongs to cauterize the holes shut, each one snatched from her with an admonishment. Her claws ripped from her fingers for some mysterious punishment she could never understand. There are tears in her clouded silver eyes. 

In might be possible to pity her right now, in spite of every awful thing she's done. Or maybe it's easier to see a way to fight her unfolding in front of you.