How quickly glee turns to gloom when a plaything refuses to entertain; it may be cause to smirk were Hisame not so indifferent.

[i]"Burn, bitch..."[/i]

The spiteful command comes while she shoves herself off the trunk to a wobbling, slouching standing; then fingertips fire fresh fervor in hungry, crackling arcs. They do not seek contact with Atsukawa, but instead ignite the dry leaves paving the forest floor with an airy rasp. Their overwhelming odor flares her nostrils and she coughs, recoiling in disgust as she buries her face in the lavender-scented silk of her right sleeve. There she breathes in comfort, lowering the limb enough to gaze intently at the warming waist-high wall before her; it inches toward her hungrily, spreading from leaf to leaf like a lonely infection and basking her in gentle orange glow.

Eyeing the woman through the waving air above the fire, Hisame wonders if wonderful immolation is soon to arrive and reduce her to ashes forever...

...how one could [i]hope[/i].