FAIR WARNING: Violent PTSD relapsing ahead.

He's never seen her like this. He's not worried; berserk juggernaut or not, he's still at least four times her size. Still, it is a thing to behold.

Gone is the calculating general, in its place a bloodthirsty monster. The amount of outright devastation caused by one person is fairly impressive, and Plague is content to sit back and wait for his smaller 'brother' rather than get in her way.

"Good t'in' she dinna relapse in a town…" The Haitian appears from seemingly nowhere with an old-fashioned blowgun and a small case of darts. Immediately, he sets about mixing one of his herbal concoctions. "Dun 'member nuttin' durin' one, but she dun b'needin' to put mo'stress on 'erself, wi. Be a big difference 'tween killin' consciously an' killin' wit'out knowin'."

The Siberian looks briefly toward his comrade before shifting his weight and simply watching. Indeed, the Prussian seems to be taking a majority of her wrath out on the flora in a pass between cavern-towns. "Vhat causes it?"

"Oh, a number o' t'in's." is the reply as the shorter adds a hint of spring water to the mix. "Mos'ly post-trauma spells. Y'dun b'fallin' into Th'Pit an' 'spect t'come outta t'at in one piece, 'specially under her circumstances."

"More vhays dhan one, it seems."

The shaman chuckles a bit, rolling the pasty mixture onto the tips of no less than three of the darts before loading them into the tube. "Ain't t'at th'true-truth." With a huff and a push up, he rises to stand. "Could I … getcha to distract 'er a bit? I need 'er neck, an' I can't hit nuttin'wit'er runnin' 'round."

Plague scrunches his face up in mild distaste at witnessing the volatile end to a small mushroom sprout out of the Prussian beanpole. "Fighting oil vhit' fire…" he mutters before stalking down into the impromptu arena.

The movement catches her eye and her head turns, and the change is startling up close. Usually, there is an expression spread across her features, whether it be a deranged happiness or an insatiable rage. Now, there is nothing; her face is blank, her eyes empty and glazed, staring through him instead of at him. Her gait is stuttered as she moves toward him, abnormal and not as graceful as it usually is. There is a strange feral air about her, each movement made more on base instinct than precise planning.

Artful dodging is implemented, keeping just out of her arm's reach at all times while attempting to get her close to the ridge he observed from earlier. Closer to Death with his homemade and no doubt potent sedatives. She doesn't even notice the shaman, following her target around loosely like a dog on a slacking lead. She comes dangerously close to raking fingertips across the considerably taller man's chest and he recognizes that glint peeking above the tips of her fingers; the Prussian juggernaut means business.

He has forgotten momentarily about Death's position on the rise until, out of worried impatience, the Haitian moves silently closer from behind. A careful aim, a deep breath, and the first dart flies. It hits its target at the back of her neck and immediately, she is sent into a rage. Blank eyes, fangs bared in obvious threat as her face contorts with the inhuman roar she emits and she whirls about to face the new challenger. An eerie combination, like watching a zombie on the prowl. Two stumbling steps is all she gets before collapsing in a puff of dust, a faint clatter of the small knife she held hitting the ground from her slackened grip.

Plague takes a few steps toward her, understandably cautious. Death keeps the blowgun close at hand as he too makes his way slowly and warily toward her. Both are tense, the taller Siberian nudging the fallen in the small of her back gently. When she makes no move, he sweeps her smaller body into his arms, Death grabbing the surrendered weapon.

"She'll come to an' be 'erself 'gain. T'be honest, I dun like seein' 'er like t'at…"

Plague huffs a small sigh. "Like oil and fire…"

A/N: Something a bit more on the tragic side.

While considerably more rare than they used to be, War does still suffer PTSD relapses and loses control. Blacks out, destroys everything in her way until she passes out from exertion, and comes to with no memory of it. Only that she was upset and now she isn't. Thankfully, her title-brothers know how to handle such spells and keep her and others safe from harm.

Relapses are different for different people. Some withdraw and relive the experience over and over, some lash out without meaning to, or without being aware that they are.