In the instant of the perfect kill, the feeling came again.  Though a warrior through and through, Clotho did not count herself a sadist, yet in that fleeting moment between life and death at her hands something deep within gave her immeasurable satisfaction.  The very next instant it faded, aided on its way by a horrified realization: in her frustration and eagerness to vent she made a novice's error.  She played with fire, and did not anticipate being burned.

Immediately the rapier-blade melted away, and the incredible heat conducted through her weapon scalded her hand, provoking her to release her grip with utmost haste.  Barely had she registered the pain from this misfortune, however, than a jet of molten metal surrounded in noxious fumes erupt from the body of the slain orc.  The searing liquid sprayed across her hips and left leg, burning into the armor, while the gas bombarded her eyes and made her choke.  Clotho uttered an awful combination of hack and shriek, stumbling away and rushing to jettison her carapace armor.  It detached from her flesh quickly, but not fast enough to prevent nasty burns.  Her legs shook as she gasped, barely keeping her on her feet.  When she found her voice, she snarled at D'Artagnan, [color=9F8170]”Next time someone wants your head, they're getting it on a silver platter.  Haven't you ruined enough for one day?”[/color]  In her present state, Clotho could not fly, forcing her to make an undignified exit on foot.

Once back among her insects, she sent out for medicine, but received little.  Her burns hurt constantly, and try as she might she couldn't shake the cough.  Unable to fly and too distracted to manage, she could do little more than sit and bide her time, waiting for the agony to cease.  In this sorry state she received summons from her master, and only then realized the extent of her mistake.  In coming to the aid of the rabbit, she had done the very act she told Faeles she would not: jeopardized the new alliance.  Cursing her stupidity, she laboriously pulled herself to her feet, and set off at a brisk limp toward the Master.  While not joyful at the prospect of more punishment, she would not shirk her duty or try to escape justice.  The Master would hear her account truthfully, if he wished it, and what happened next would be his to judge.