Like a child which waits for Christmas morning Hisame bears the time 'til a fool makes their move; would she take another crack with a new laughable lance of lightning or step up her game to something more vicious? Contrary to the woman's lack of wisdom the bloody beauty can only presume the latter and such a force may only descend from above. It's only when those warning signs -- a tingling sensation across the flesh and statically charged locks of lifting hair -- that it's understood for what they've become a mark.

She smirks and lets her guard descend; the leaves flit and flutter around her while the sky strikes her down in a white flash and terrific crash of thunder. Like a hammer it claps atop her head and sets fire to the hair; the jolt of myriad volts and heat courses through her body and melts flesh. The stench of charred meat and ozone fills the moist air as the blinding shine fades to reveal Hisame still standing confidently; her bald and singed crown already mending skin from the top down and sewing new strings of silken hair made wet in the rain. Lips peel into a devilish grin and she seizes her moment of counterattack amid reformation of protection.

Her left arm lifts the [i]Fateful Death[/i] vertically and its gleam disperses with a glassy jingle. From it is exhaled a putrid inky mist which spreads like a flame feasting on open air; in moments the mass has expanded a hundred feet in all directions and its touch brings doom to the living. Grass becomes brown and the trees shrivel into fragile twigs before crumbling from their own weight; like wheat mowed down the forest falls around her and should the gaseous cloud contact the missing maiden a slew of awful effects will befall her: intense burning of the eyes to give way to blindness; a locked throat which refuses to breathe in more but is already infected with cysts; flesh rotting like meat spoiled in the summer sun.

Let them run; let them hide... the darkness comes and no tree will remain sanctuary.