And there it is. The wait --that anticipation building like kinetic energy under a false guise of calm, the inner eye of a violent storm that swirls at the periphery and primes itself to drown them in a tsunami of fury and vile hatred that can no longer be contained-- is over, with nothing less ceremonious as the deafening supersonic boom of realities crashing together that brings both gods back into Helovian corporeality.

Unfortunately for Imonada, that happened practically right over her very own head. By virtue of dumb, blind luck and terror-fueled urgency, she flits away like a bounding rabbit giving chase before she ends up an unfortunate statistic, just barely missing a nice date crushed between the two behemoths. Satisfied she would not be pounded into a circumference, she wheels around in a threaded mass of tangled hair to face what sent her packing moments before.

Eyes bugging out of her skull, she reels at the sight of the putrid tigress and Earth fronting one another. The stench of rotted meat and sickness that assaults her nose was a rosy fragrance compared to the misery of corrupted magic that laced an acrid, soul-withering bite into a concoction of dissolution. When the fallen god rasps out her claim, it's like hooks dragging across her spine, that kind that summons the base animal fear. She freezes, meters away from the two, as her fellow Helovians descend onto the ruinous creature like a pack of wolves ready to chew through the tar, the perverted flesh, into its oil-pumping black heart to rend it obsolete.

Do something, you git.

Do what!? She was a rat, a courier, a spook. Not a fearless warrior who surrounded herself with the light of triumph and glory; no, her battlefield was everything in between, in the dark. As she struggles within herself for what seems like eternity, although really it only takes but the breadth of a heartbeat, a more sensible portion of her mind registers Aithniel casually flicking a dollop of fire onto the slick, greasy mass that spills from the tiger. Her voice way ahead of her, she howls with the ferocity of a hurricane upon making the connection: "Burn her! The tar! BURN. HER."

And then she is off, arcing the perimeter set by the two celestials, making a pointed effort to not look directly at the blazes being set -- what was once a headache has grown into photosensitivity accompanied by a peculiar trickle of blood from the ears, but since it had not felled her yet and with no cure on the current horizon, she chose to largely suffer it. What another ailment, mind or body, in the myriad of others she collected?

She could not fly, but gods could she run, hooves tearing hungrily into the sand of the island, mane and tail flagged like a raised war banner. Sharp eyes notice Ampere as she dives to send a certain degree of incapacitation hurdling toward her lead's companion, but she is distracted by Earth shaking the ground furiously. Faltering once before she regains her composure, she quickly arrives at her destination flanking her god and draws up to Resplendence's side. "Madam Resplendence. Let me know if I can help."

How calm and collected she sounded, if a tad breathless, as if they were tending to a garden and not fending off a giant crazed tiger god. Even so, she would be hard-pressed to not keep a wild eye on the action.