Khait waits, her pale eyes staring at the horizon where the ruddy clouds boil over the blackened terrain.  A white panther's tail protrudes from her armor, swishing back and forth gently, perhaps with agitation-- the only sign of emotion about the ivory-skinned figure in her carapace of spiny black platemail, its surace looking perpetually wet with blood.  She says nothing in acknowledgement, and merely shakes her white mane of braided hair, her strangely pretty-- if not coarsely beautiful-- face disappearing behind a mask of black and gold in the shape of a goat's face, shaped perfectly to allow her subtle black horns' curves passage around to the front, as she dons her helmet for battle.