-- the situation is so far out of control that she thinks it's rightly classed unwinnable, but she'll give all she's worth --
-- a line of fire burns in her side, no time for more than rudimentary stitches --
-- her arm is in a sling after a misjudged block wrenched her shoulder but it can still hold her staff --
-- her Ring is running out of compute under the strain of intercepting orbital bombardment --
-- she blinks and --
-- she is somewhere else, still in a panic, and she is falling and --
it would be a great disservice to the world, the galaxy, and herself to die from this, so she will not.
Diana Pallas falls to an Indigo-cushioned stop upon the sands of a barren desert, in a galaxy far, far away, and - gasps as she tries to put weight on her staff arm, what was she thinking - transfers the staff in her injured arm to the other, and hauls herself upright.
First step: Orient.
[> Ring, where am I?]
...She'll wave down that - hovercraft? -, then, and hope their translator works, because she doesn't think she can master the finesse to do translation work out of raw Compassion just yet.