you would be granted the deafening satisfaction of watching her stumble back, making a terrible symphony of pained gurgling and hoarse shrieking as black-green fire spews from her throat.
but i suppose if one were to break apart her corset and strike at a soft place between her ribs her Song would be caught in her throat and her lungs would explode. she has sang for eons and almost nothing can dissuade her notes before they are complete, she is too well-armoured for physical hindrance. her spoken voice is terribly raspy, entirely harrowing to a Guardian expecting a soft purr of false offerings. what the Deep did not chew upon in her adolescence she allowed to be exposed to a causticity of her own design. The manifestation of her own Choir was not simple, and the trials of her work are visible upon the parts of her unsheielded jaw, the flesh there is stripped and burnt-up.
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