[Macbeth]

Smoke stings. Fire licking-- trees crack in their own weight, hollowed by the flame. Combustion. Explosive.

Crack. Vertebrae visible through his back, like the bone in mouth: teeth. A growl, background to the crackling fire.

[Ashtaroth]

   The maze is even more advantageous on fire. The twists and dead-ends she memorized on droll patrols as Boshin have changed, toppling trees cutting off old exits, smouldering breaks in the brush providing new ones. Whenever Chinensis blocks an exit, Gigantea burns it to the ground.
   She doesn't run, knowing better. Ears alert to the kick of wind that blows embers, battle-tired footfalls in the brush. A limb drops nearby; Ashtar regards it with a sidelong glance, and the response the sound spurns with raised brow. The figure is black, sooted or dirty or maybe just born so unlucky, threatening the dying forest. One would think paranoia to pay in circumstances such as these, but she can't imagine it as any more than exhaustive. Save your strength for the real enemies.
   Crouching beneath the smoke, she creeps on ashen ground, separated from her target by what was once thick vine, now little more than a wall of flame. Sizing him up, she stalks around to his flank, watching through a burned-out break in the foliage for her best opportunity. Another distraction, a shift in his stance, a blink-- and she lunges, silently, eyes trained on the slope of spine.

[Macbeth]

Pain bursts from his back, crying out, head thrown back. Whiplash, snapping at the source, a pair of uncoordinated claps of teeth before a roll. So absorbed in the fight, forgets the fire.