It hurt.

Being yanked by her hair, while it was short, sent jolts of pain deep into her core. Even though it hurt, even though she couldn't stand it, she couldn't stop here. It would only hurt more. But, even so, it was hurting less and less. Pain had been replaced by an inalienable cold. A frigid numbness that restrained her movements. If she could see herself, she would only see a figure more pallid than she already was. In fact, instead of her head slamming into the unforgiving stone, she felt it be soothed by the comparatively nice mud. She kept her wits about her. She forced herself to.

How she regretted not running away.

She still held on to her machete. While she was thrown onto the ground, her grip on her weapon remained tight. She needed to defend herself. With barely any time to react, she held her blade up. An attempt to block the dagger from coming down on her neck. Only, she didn't focus on the dagger. Held in the path of the goblin's wrists—their natural arc as they swung down—she attempted to block with both hands on opposite sides of her machete. Even if the dagger touched her throat, she was certain she would be fine. As long as it didn't go deeper than her skin, she wouldn't bleed out. That's what her instinct told her. She didn't know if it was true or not, but she would have to try. She was running out of options.