There is no movement of charge in response to Procella's ploy, other than in her knives, which means the sword is either gone, or too far away to be an immediate threat.  The spirit is pleased to know there won't be any immediate interference, but she keeps her positive charge where it is.  She can, after all, so why not?

With the possibility of a threat gone, she is poised to advance on the wounded woman, and wreak terrible, beautiful vengeance upon her.  But Procella is interrupted once again, this time by a twin, a replica of her opponent, who now taunts her, and seeks to advance upon her and launch a fearsome assault.

But this doppelganger, be it flesh or illusion, has miscalculated.  Procella has had quite enough of games, and does not give it the time to say its piece.

As soon as the new obstacle appears, the spirits brow furrows with annoyance- and then she strikes, before it can even finish its third word post-appearance.  Procella's right arm goes from still to a blur, whirling around with frightening speed, to fling the deadly blade she held in her hand straight towards the breast of the woman in front of her, carrying enough power to stick firmly in the flesh, and likely even knock this enemy over if it is real.  If it is not, however, the knife will simply carry on through- towards the other woman, still crouched atop the ruined remains of the fallen tree.

And as quick as she let one go, Procella draws two more knives, first with her left, then with her right, and takes one step forwards, daring this strange opposition to challenge her anew.  Her movements have changed: still erratic, still inelegant, but faster than before.  Were she a puppet, her master would now be twitching his fingers, sending his creation into an unnatural frenzy.

The storm's tears, falling now with growing weight and frequency, are not born of sympathy.  They moisten and chill all they touch, seeping into every nook and cranny they can invade, slowly beginning to flood the land with their numbers.  They are not here to console, or even to pity.  Rather, they are like Procella: as time goes on they shall fall faster and harder, until all is drowned by the storm's fury.