Mataoka needed to rest, away from the goblins and buzz saws, the noise pollution, the stink of diesel and burnt oil, all mixed with the spiky scent of blood. It was a disgusting soup. Her dulled weapons weighed her hips down to distraction. She had some scrapes that wouldn't mend, and smeared blood, freshly bubbling from tiny wounds, drew biting, sucking insects. She was carrying this burden alone it seemed. Her hawk landed, exhausted, in a small grassy area, not far from the fighting. Bodies of Alliance soldiers like gruesome landmarks made a legend of horrible points-of-interest on the ground. In a tent she believed abandoned she spied a lieutenant. He held a swirling spear in his arms, and she ducked, thinking it was meant for her, until he aimed it toward the field, and she saw a great shaggy wolf-dog chasing after it -- they were playing a game of fetch. Over and over, the dog would chase after the spear, return it to the man, and off and away they'd go. Had the man gone mad? Did he not see the bodies of his men lying all around? But they did not stop, the man and his dog, playing a game. The shaman turned and left them to it. They had no need for her.