Warning: Nephenee may appear OOC depending on how you see her.

A/N: I've always wondered why a quiet country girl like Nephenee started out with a skill called Wrath.

Wrath

"I ain't – I mean, I'm not like you," she said. Her grip on her lance tightened. "I'm not beautiful at all."

Callil clicked her tongue. "Don't be silly, girl! Look at you! You're gorgeous! A splendid face, plus that fantastic figure, and yet you hide it under armor? Oooh! I'm so jealous I could scream!"

At a loss for what to say, Nephenee blushed and stayed silent. The older woman always caught her off-guard with her over-the-top praise of her beauty. Nephenee wished she was deserving of even half that praise. Standing there before the elegant blonde in her immaculate mage robes, she felt wholly inadequate; her own armor was bloodstained from battle, her hair and underclothes stained with sweat and mud. Battles were a dirty affair, and eventually she had just gotten tired of spending hours cleaning everything – not like Callil needed to worry about something like that, she thought. The woman seemed to change outfits every day.

Nervously, Nephenee played with the shaft of her lance, hoping that Callil wouldn't notice the blood dripping from its tip.

She needn't have worried. "Look at those high cheekbones," Callil plowed on, "those large blue eyes, that long green hair. And your body, it's as slender as that lance of yours! It's a travesty, I tell you! Girls like you should be in ballroom gowns and drinking champagne with all the lords and ladies, not wearing armor and slavering in some army somewhere! It's a veritable crime against nature! I won't stand for this!"

"W-Whaddya got planned?" Nephenee asked, almost fearing the answer.

Callil's grin was predatory. "Why, I'm going to turn you into a proper lady! You have all the traits of a lady already, you just need some polishing. Some etiquette lessons, a few posture corrections, and of course we'll have to fix that horrible grammar of yours…but trust me! You'll be the talk of the society pages in no time!"

For a moment, Nephenee dared to hope. Perhaps she might actually become noble and elegant and sociable like the woman in front of her. After all, if someone like Callil believed it so fervently…A vision of herself appeared in her mind then: beautiful, graceful Nephenee in a beautiful, graceful dress, talking and laughing with Ike and Elincia and Geoffrey and Lucia like she had been friends with them her whole life. It was so beautiful she almost cried – too beautiful to be true.

The steady drip drip drip of blood from the tip of her lance brought her back to reality. Her armor was heavy on her shoulders and the smell of blood clung to her like perfume. Three days ago she had killed four men, seven days ago she had killed two, ten days ago she had killed eight…Their deaths knotted in her throat even as Callil continued her preaching in strident, confident tones. Men with wives and children and parents, and she had cut them all down like wheat in a field, cut them all down with a smile on her face because she was happiest when her lance crushed some poor fool's chest and pierced his heart. She closed her eyes, wishing that Callil would stop talking and leave so she wouldn't have to endure having happiness forced on someone who didn't deserve it.

"…a little eye shadow here, some rouge and your cheeks, perhaps a bit of lipstick, and the guys won't be able to keep their eyes off of you! You just leave this to me and I'll – "

"I ain't beautiful at all."

Callil sighed, eyeing her potential protégé with exasperation. "This again? Believe me, Nephenee, you're as pretty as any court ladies I've ever seen."

Nephenee said nothing, though this time it was not want for words. She looked sadly out the window of her tent. The days-old rotting corpses of soldiers still littered the battlefield, Crimean and Daein, beorc and laguz. She still remembered the feeling of her lance as she impaled an enemy soldier. There had been the slightest hint of resistance when the lance first tore through his chainmail, and then it was like piercing air when it ripped through flesh and bone. She remembered the raw, primal scent of his blood when it splashed on her face. He had screamed, but all she had been able to hear was a joyful laughter inside her head. Her pulse quickened.

"I ain't beautiful at all."

-oOo-

She ran as fast as she could. Her armor was old and rusty and clanked heavily whenever she took a step, but she paid it no heed. The cruel-looking face of Yeardley was still branded in her mind, him and the legion of men he lead to insurrection, touting their shovels and scythes in eager anticipation of war. Bloodshed is imminent, every fiber of her being screamed.

She hated herself for the way her heart pounded in her ears, for the way her blood boiled in anticipation, for the way her fingers danced madly across the shaft of her lance. But she couldn't deny the elation that flowed through her veins. She had spent so long in the peaceful countryside that she had almost forgotten what excitement felt like. This vast sense of freedom, diluted with a touch of danger, spoiled with a hint of ecstasy…When she had left the Crimea Liberation Army and returned home, a part of her had died – maybe forever, she had hoped. But now, now that armed rebellion was brewing right in her home town, it had reared its ugly head once again. Three years of dormancy, she found out, had merely whet its appetite.

Her steps quickened. She spied him in his field, plowing his crops.

"Brom!"

The older, heavyset man turned around. "Well, if it isn't Nephenee. What's the story with the armor? Haven't ya heard the war's over?"

Thank the Goddess it isn't, she thought, and this time was too excited to berate herself for such thoughts. "You'll be needin' armor too. A revolution's brewin'. Hurry and suit up!"

Before the other man could even give a reply, she turned around and left. A part of her wished that Brom wouldn't follow her so she could have all the rebels to herself, safety be damned. Visions of blood and death passed across her mind, tantalizing her with the destruction that was to come. She struggled to control her rising emotions, to calm the monster that had awoken the moment she spied all those young men screaming for battle, but even as she tried to quash the growing bloodlust, a feral grin sprang on her lips.

Goddess save any foe who met her in battle.

-oOo-

The axe cut heavily into her shoulder. She twisted away as quickly as she could, but the damage had already been done. Blood erupted from her shield arm. Gritting her teeth, she backed off, eyes never leaving the white-armored form Yeardley. He was grinning like a madman.

"And here I thought a warrior of Ike's army would put up a bigger threat. Perhaps you were just some whore they used, cowering in the tents while the real heroes fought? It wouldn't surprise me. Country peasants would do anything for attention."

She tried to control herself. She swore she tried to control herself every time. But it was a losing battle, as it always was. White-hot rage boiled deep within her chest, choking her, throttling her, filling her up until she could no longer contain it and it erupted from every pore in her skin. How dare an arrogant noble like him talk to her like that? He had still been hiding behind his guards when Daein soldiers tore through Crimea, ravaging and plundering, and had only showed his face once all the hard work had already been done. Something snapped wondrously in her head. She felt like she was going to suffocate, breaths coming out in sharp, quick gasps of ecstasy. She had to kill him, rip him apart, cleave his head in half, tear so many holes through his body that his flesh would fall apart like ground meat…

Yeardley's smirk disappeared. Perhaps he had realized his mistake, but it was too late. For a moment his eyes were entranced by the graceful twirling of the blood-red lance in her hands, and then the next she was upon him. He tried to bring up his shield, but the lance had already pierced through his chainmail like it was paper, the momentum of her thrust impaling him clean through the chest. He opened his mouth to scream but only blood flowed forth. The axe and shield dropped lifelessly from his hands. His body slumped forward.

"N-No…this cannot be," he croaked. "To think a peasant girl…would do this."

She leaned down towards him, mouth crooked in a voracious smile, face and helmet splattered with blood. She had not yet freed her lance. From this close up, he saw, for the first time and with the last vestige of life, how beautiful she was. Her pale white skin glowed in the sunlight; her light green hair cascaded down her shoulders. But it was her eyes that captivated him the most – twin fiery orbs that burned red with wrath, alive with fascination and hunger and rapture. They were the last things he saw before his vision darkened.

For a few moments she stayed like that, relishing the sensation of the kill and the feeling of his blood trickling down her skin. Her tongue darted out to lick a drop of blood off her lip. Then, disgusted, she pulled her weapon free. It came away with a soft squelch. Yeardley's body fell to the ground, stained armor plates clattering softly against each other. Turning away from the corpse, she leaned on her lance, feeling like she was about to vomit; the aftermath always left her dizzy.

Brom and Heather had already finished their battles. She counted five corpses on the battle field.

"Nephenee! You got 'em?" Brom called. He started towards her, Heather close behind.

She felt vile to even be in their presence. The two of them were grim-faced and weary, resigned to the inanity of their killing because of their own sense of duty – but she, even now she craved blood as a baby for her mother's milk. She remembered the feeling of euphoria when her lance pierced Yeardley's heart, when his mouth began bubbling blood, when his black eyes closed and slowly lost their luster. She had wanted to stab that putrid face of his until it turned to mush on the meadow floor.

But a few deep breaths and she was (almost) back to her old self. The bloodlust calmed in her heart, where it would stay locked until the next time she arrived on the battlefield. Nobody needed to know, she told herself. It had hardly been her first time, after all.

"Yeah, I got 'em!" she called back. Her shoulder had started to throb again. She started towards them, leaving the corpse of the arrogant noble behind. Perhaps, one day, her secret would be revealed. Then she would gladly receive any punishment the Goddess deemed fit. But until then...she smiled, and for an instant a glimmer of red appeared again in her eyes.