There was almost a poetry to the way she moved, an elegance and grace in the violence that suited her far better than the stillness had. This, then, was who this sister truly was. She was not the cool as marble perfection, nor the perfectly poised daughter of Hera. He did not even know her name, but he knew her now. Because everything she was at her core was currently laid more bare than her body. She was beautiful. She was deadly. She was fascinating.
For all of three and a half minutes, then Dio got bored with watching her eviscerate yet another screaming mortal until he or she was little more than a gurgling mass of flesh and spilled organs. She was deadly and efficient, and she rarely repeated the way she killed them, but still, dead was dead, maimed was maimed, and Dionysus was already tired of the process. Again, it was too clean. He really preferred the chaos his followers created with their rampage over the bloodbath that his sister was causing.
Which was why, when some of the screams rose up from a different section of the town, Dio's boredom evaporated in a sudden flare of anger. Those were not random screams. Those were his followers, his people. Hera's daughter was damaging what rightfully belonged to him. There was a silent but insistent calling that had those that followed Dionysus flooding up the hillside to where he stood.
Dio stood like a bulwark in front of crowd of nymphs, maenads and satyrs, waiting for the goddess to finish her slaughter of the village. Because it would only be the village that suffered. If she attempted to hurt any more of his people, she would find out why her mother was so worried about him that she'd sent him mad. And she would have to be made to suffer for those she'd already harmed and killed. Yes, she would have to pay for that.
Dionysus waited for this sister to run out of victims.