[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/Y6tEFKV.png[/img]
[hider=❄]22 | Female | Freelancers | Meltwater Spring
Moya-no-Yume | Dagger | Physical | Frosted Sheen
Snowdrop Vestige | Sangfroid Convention 
Glacial Stream | Aqua | Rime Rose 
[Freeze, Cold Insulation] Damage X, Restrain, Dispel, Rain, Trap, Enhance, Trigger, Blink, Powerful

DAMAGE: D | SPEED: C | SENTINEL: E | 750

[Bronze Touch | Mark | Blink] = -40 Mana

PHYSICAL: E| ARCANE: D | CHAOS: C | 482[/hider][sub][@mantou][@BrokenPromise][@OwO][@FamishedPants][/sub][/center]
Klava vaulted over the spinning cart with the eloquence of a parkour artist, both legs swinging up in the air as one hand planted upon the top of the cart. In that instant of contact, an arcane sigil engraved itself upon the rolling object, before it continued its path, crossing through a burning hallway and crashed to a stop beside the broken window that had been her entrance and exit mere moments ago. A way out, if need be. But even in flames, even in fog, she had her eyes on the prize. Moya-no-Yume scraped against the ground before swinging upwards, its lethal trajectory blocked by gunsteel. With the invocation of Balewulf, burning coal filled the air, its caster audacious regardless of circumstances.

[color=6ecff6][b]“I’m not a bear,”[/b][/color] Klava replied, her dried lips cracking as she broke into a ferocious smile. [color=6ecff6][b]“I’m the fucking storm.”[/b][/color]

And just as quickly as she said it, a wave of embarrassment rushed upwards, coloring her cheeks more brightly than the hot coals ever could. Thankfully, Sofron didn’t respond to that and opted to go for a shoulder slam instead. To create distance, no doubt. A blow to stall for time as his magic ate her away. Thank god for Apollo then; Klava could go all-out without worry about having to get out afterwards. Dropping her own center of gravity down, Klava slammed her massive heels into the shin of the tackling Esper while bumping hips with him as well, using the curve of her own body to flip Sofron over herself and slam him back-first into the ground.

An improvised shoulder throw.

And with him on the ground, his face pinned down by her knee, Klava didn’t even need to see to know where the rest of his body was. Both hands on her dagger, she drove the blade down, in hopes of piercing his right lung and granting him both a mortal wound as well as a chance to save himself via de-transformation.

It was still uncertain, after all, whether or not Sofron was just a freelancer hired by the gang or a tried and tested member of the Cobra Gang. But if he was the former? Well, what comes around goes around. And old folks ought to die in a bed surrounded by loved ones, or at least in a place with a better view than fucking Pax Septimus Precinct Seven.