Blood is still spreading, pooling underneath her from where her head has cracked open on the stone upon which she landed so suddenly and brutally; her crossbow is broken under the weight and angle of her body, her sword has clattered out of her now-useless grip. The medical satchel at her hip has fared better than she has, delicate items within it strapped for safety, and what just happened seems utterly insane. She'd been far too high to imagine surviving when she sawed the claws off a beast carrying her through the air.

One still clutches her shoulder; there is blood there, too, where it tore through her coat and sweater and skin. The inelegant way she'd sawn at it had been almost more exasperation than desperation, but there's no guide-book for how to handle this and there is no precedent and as much as she loves to be surprised--

When she breathes in, sudden and deep and gasping, her head still hurts - she can feel bone fragments she doesn't need any more between her and the bloody stone beneath and it's not the kind of thing a person enjoys having a preexisting sense memory of. The problem is never the falling; the problem is always the landing.