There's a brief moment where she thinks she's missed her mark--but then the resistance gives, and she's met with the familiar feeling of a blade sliding into flesh. There's little satisfaction in it, something she realized the first time she took a life with a sword. It had always seemed so much more glorious in the stories.

She stands there, holding fast to the hilt of her sword until it stops moving. But she can already hear more of them circling, hissing and scuttling, preparing to advance. She pulls her sword free, not bothering to clean it before backing up towards where Shepard is. Their tactic had worked once, but they won't be as lucky against a group.

Diana twirls her blade in her hand, then grips it tightly. "They're jumpy," she observes. "And they've seen us take down one of their number. If we stay together, and occasionally aggress, I think we can get to one of the huts." She hopes so, anyway.