The world is drowning in blood. 

Iron tang and velvet notes of warm quivering meat; sweeter than the richest wines in all of Empire. Intoxicating. Terror sweats and the shit smelling foulness of war linger on her tongue after every breath. Flowers, ruptured organs and the overwhelming immediate smell of rot the punctuates their bursting, the dusty aroma of packed wet sand, sickly sweet sap from branches snapped in two and oozing with parasitic infection. Every fresh scent carries through her body and builds excitement for her next breath, so they can wash over her again. 

She shivers. They come at her in waves, now. Alcedi ranks like clouds of feathers carried on a storm of violence. They break against a rock named XIII. Soft, even lazy swipes of her claws trace across the silver lines holding them together, and they burst apart like balls of confetti. Fresh blood, fresh excrement, fresh rot, fresh flowers for fresh graves. Tiny names grow cool against her skin and pull sweet sighs from her lips. 

Her body sings. She walks forward on unhurried feet, rising out of the crater she built with her own hands. Soldiers scatter like petals kicked up by the breeze of her stomping feet, more afraid of her again than any of the twin cruelties of Ares and Athena. Mother's garden surges and winds around her; ivy around a trellis. She is careful when she trims the bonsai: do not smash the roots, but trim off useless and unseemly limbs that this temple of death might grow more beautiful. 

She turns her head to the heavens and beholds a pair of falling stars. Her blood quickens at the sight. The names itch to the point of rawness. So close. So close now. Perhaps she will drink from them when they die. A memory flitters to the front of her eye and up across the surface of her mind. Drink is a reward. An indulgence meant for good girls. A favorite treat. Yes. She will put her teeth to their necks and suck them dry. This is the meaning of her heart shivers. 

Pink steam hisses from her palms where the blood of her targets drips across the absurd heat of her body. She lifts a hand to her face, and turns it over curiously. Her rough tongue drags across the rigid surface of her armor, her claws, and the unctuous taste of blood fills every last space of her conscious mind. 

There is only the flavor. Richer than the galaxy is wide. Sweeter than ambrosia. Cool and refreshing. The battlefield quiets, to listen to the sounds. Slurping. Sucking. Slobbering. Singing. Sighing. 

She is come, Vasilia. She is come, Dolce. You are broken, and she is whole. And she is here. No fury in her eyes, no smile on her lips. When she raises her claws to you, it could almost seem a greeting if they didn't still hiss and drip with the smeared blood of your comrades, and the oozing sap of hers. Her tail flicks once. Twice.

Whatever your desperate dancing and sacrifices have bought for you, now is the time to pay it out. Pay another price, and take your best shot.