Brianna's going to give her a chance to what? --oh. Well! That does change the whole "dying far from Gaea" story. Not exactly for the better. . .
Philippus considers the drop, more than enough to harm even a daughter of Gaea. There aren't many options here.
Except one: the one they really won't expect, or at least have time to do much about. There's three rows of decorative projecting brickwork between the twelfth story and the ground, the sills are ornate. . . she can grab one.
Of course, given the strength of the two, she's likely to be propelled past them all. So she braces herself, hard, against their hands just before they reach the window. . . and then goes with it as they brace against her resistance, bringing both hands up over her head. The sound of the glass breaking is a jolt in her ears, almost as much as the sudden wrap of the wind; she catches the wall as she goes out with one foot to slow herself, clamps one hand to the ledge as she starts to fall out. It's not enough to stop her, but she doesn't want to be stopped. She just wants to be able to hook the sill with one foot.
She hangs for a moment, headfirst, over the street; she looks only as far down as the next window. She wants to look up reflexively, but fights that; there must be glass falling still. She draws her arms into a meditative pose, blocking out the ache, locking her mind onto her next objective.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2007-11-11 05:12 am (UTC)Philippus considers the drop, more than enough to harm even a daughter of Gaea. There aren't many options here.
Except one: the one they really won't expect, or at least have time to do much about. There's three rows of decorative projecting brickwork between the twelfth story and the ground, the sills are ornate. . . she can grab one.
Of course, given the strength of the two, she's likely to be propelled past them all. So she braces herself, hard, against their hands just before they reach the window. . . and then goes with it as they brace against her resistance, bringing both hands up over her head. The sound of the glass breaking is a jolt in her ears, almost as much as the sudden wrap of the wind; she catches the wall as she goes out with one foot to slow herself, clamps one hand to the ledge as she starts to fall out. It's not enough to stop her, but she doesn't want to be stopped. She just wants to be able to hook the sill with one foot.
She hangs for a moment, headfirst, over the street; she looks only as far down as the next window. She wants to look up reflexively, but fights that; there must be glass falling still. She draws her arms into a meditative pose, blocking out the ache, locking her mind onto her next objective.
And then she points her toe.