The Goddess beside me explains, "The mortals know her only by her image bronzed by sculptors. She is a symbol of the past glory of the Kievan Rus. Her strength comes from the moment of greatest need for the Ukrainians, but it is waning as the sun sets and doubt sets into the minds of the defenders. They begin to believe themselves to be alone. And though the Kievan will not give up, and will not surrender, they can lose everything if they do not have help. Let us show them, and Berehynia, that they do not stand without allies."
I levitate from the ground to hover then reveal my black-cloaked self to all eyes. As my cowled head dips I declare, "There shall be no time wasted. You do what you are able, my Lady. Scare-Crow enters the field now."
A swirl of crimson energy heralds Kostroma's dimensional passing, while I swoop toward the thick of battle. I do not draw my daggers, as they will be of little use here. This is as much a psychological war, as a physical one. The Goddess appears above a trundling T90 tank, dropping out of midair to remove the big gun barrel from the front with one blow of her hand. She stands before the machine of war fearlessly and begins ripping through its armor, easily as a scythe cuts through wheat. When it lurches to a Halt, the crew within the disabled engine of destruction emerge to attempt further aggression. Yet the slip of a girl, who resembles a peasant maiden of some traditional rural village, evades their violent aims and slaps each man lightly on the cheek. At the touch of Kostroma's hand they fall asleep, lulled by sudden weariness. In succession she moves from tank to tank, disarming them and then sedating its drivers. Guns are emptied at her in vain, for the bullets strike her garnet aura before falling to the ground.
Since I can do nothing against the tanks, I head toward the men charging with machine guns. Coming from their left flank as they are focused on their urban objective, I enter the field of peripheral vision for the men at the end of the column. At first, I only register as a black rag floating in the wind, silent as a feather brushing across silk, and then I begin to disrupt them. With nothing but a gesture and focused will, I cause guns to turn in the hands of one man and then another, the weapons no longer under their control. They shoot at their fellows rather than their intended targets, befuddled by the loss of their Kalashnikovs' aim. Some turn to aim their machine guns at me, but I twist about in the air too quickly for them to draw down and bullets spray around me in desperation. A few strays leave holes in my cloak or sting as they glance off my mail-clad body. I keep the action going, protecting the Ukrainian defenders by turning their attackers against each other. I show mercy and do not aim to kill but maim only: I can see plainly these Russian soldiers are not evil men. Most are young, inexperienced troops, they don't even know the real purpose they were sent to Ukraine for. These are not true believers, but impressionable fellows following orders blindly. They don't even hate the Ukrainians. These are all ethnic Slavs facing each other across earth their ancestors dwelled on for many generations. I feel no supernatural manipulation, no Underworld influence drawing this conflict on. This is purely political, and in such struggles the innocent are sacrificed on the altar of falsehood. So, I knock them out with precise wounds from their own weapons turned against them.
I suddenly surmount a ridge and see the forefront of the Russian division bearing down on an entrenched Ukrainian defensive line, a third of their number. This is too big for me to act upon individuals making up this invasion force. It's now time to up the caliber of my gifts to their max and bring to bear everything I have in an effort for cessation. So I alight on the ground before the Ukrainian lines, facing the Russian advance force. They see one man, clad in black, a face like a Bird of Ill Omen beneath a hood, and raise their guns in preparation to fire. But I am also the Unseen.
I begin to dance like Brother Crow. They cannot see him but he guides my movements. My feet shuffle and my cloak flutters about my half-arms like wings as my head wags and dips. The pattern of my dance evokes things lurking in every man's subconscious mind: the unknown moment when death approaches, the emptiness that comes when there is nothing left to consume, the confusion about the line connecting past, present, and future. Time folds into an endless oblivion that sucks away at the egoic need for permanence. The legion of men watch because they cannot stop, and the chill of growing certainty that what they see represents the folly of their course crawls up their spines. Weapons fall from nerveless hands as Russian troops realize they do not belong here, uninvited. The very ground beneath their feet rejects them. They stagger and start to turn away from the horror that Scare-crow reveals to them, the inhumanity of their actions. The defenders of Kiev watch in consternation as their invaders seem to begin a disordered retreat and wonder if they should further convince them with suppression fire. Suddenly the Goddess appears at my side and I stop my dance as she faces the Ukrainians.
