Her katana's blade glows a deep, ember-like red. It crackles like snapping electric wires. It flashes, brightens. When she reaches it towards the throats, the torsos, the genitals. Flames and lightning leap out to close to gap. Then, incineration. Smoking vivisection. Burnt edges of eviceration and -
Smell of burnt flesh, smell of smoke, fires, soot and scorched earth. A flash of red. A flash of bright orange. Heat, wind. Metal. Mellifluous, almost, somehow. Within movement. Within strikes of lightning. Within the mirages created by the heat of her blade. Flood, black water. Ripples in the air. A slumbering mind.
The blood does not stain her blade or armor. It evaporates into red mist like vapor, obscuring the battleground. Her enemies begin to smell like the blood, the vapor as it sticks to their skin like a fine mist. They are tracked, they are marked. Even when they escape, she hunts them down.
Her expressionless white mask, painted to look like a hound. Her curtain of violet hair. Her gray-metal armguards, shinguards, torso, the black leotard beneath it, the exposed left shoulder baring her insignia - two lines curving in towards one another, creating a infinity symbol, in deep red - and the fingerless gloves she wears. The bloodhounds that appear in a cloud of sudden dust and smoke. As if created by the palm of her hand and the streak of her own blood she painted onto the dirt. They appear and dart off, already knowing what to do, their black rubber noses low to the ground as they scatter into the woods, searching.
She waits, breathes, looks into the sky. The glow of her blade dims. Like a metal ember, brooding. Then, just steam from the metallic blade, too hot still to touch, she stabs it into the dirt of the road and waits.