You lunge to the right, but get only air, the sacrifice on your leg all for naught. You're as pathetic now as you were then, a mass of flesh and bones with the universe against you. It's no wonder you seem to fail every time you step onto a battlefield. You scream that you want to be general, you howl that you bleed and fall for your Asylum, but when the going gets tough, you just get lost in your mind. You're nothing, a worm in the ground, being trampeled on by every passerby and shaken to the surface every time in rain. You can't even keep it together long enough to get in three good hits.

Yes, you missed... but your broken heart doesn't care.

As Elsa comes back at you, driving for one final attack, you just keep trotting, moving, anything, trying to get away. The illusion is gone. Whatever ideas you had that you were great, whatever notion you had that you were exacting revenge on Kellian has flown away, into the air. Your mind comes back to you in your failure, as if wanting you to wallow in your pathetic reality. You see Elsa coming back towards you, from the corner of your eye, but you no longer feel a raging desire to destroy everything that she is. You just want to leave, to get out of here, to go hide in some dark corner of the Sanctuary that you were so spiteful of just minutes ago.

Her shoulder presses into your right ribs and you grunt, but your mass against her smaller frame is no contest. You bobble, perhaps a little to the side, but the primary damage is bruising that begins to form in what little bit of muscle you have overlying your ribs. You flick your tail in annoyance and shake your head, but you don't have the heart to do anything else. You are done.

Limping away, you try to leave Elsa behind, hoping that she'll figure out you want to be alone. You've got some feelings to short out- some that fighting just doesn't seem to be helping.

Behind you, the little black wisp of a companion follows, obedient as ever, despite your lack of instructions. You only hope that she has the decency to leave you to your musings, in this moment. If she prods at you as she is so fond of doing, if she pokes the wrong sore spot in some sort of childish game... you just might go mad.

WC| 426
Post: Defense