Quinn's head spun. Just too much. Too much was happening. She let Dahlia take her by her thin, shaking shoulders, walking her to a rock to sit on. God. They did it. She was right. They did it. The hills passed around her in a blur. The craters of combat, [i]Ablaze[/i] lying down before her, the sun above her head, [i]Blotklau[/i]—

She stared at the smoking, blackened wreckage of Roaki's Savior that lay smashed upon on the side of the hill. Even from here, she could tell that something was wrong with it. Something was wrong with the [i]head[/i]. It was the wrong shape, all twisted and warped like a crushed soda can.

She gave a ragged shout, muted and garbled and barely louder than her normal speaking voice, but no less pained for it:

"[color=ffe63d]Roaki! Please! [i]Roaki![/i][/color]"

She pulled herself away from Dahlia's gentle hands and tried to run, to break into a sprint, to ignore it like she'd done while in [i]Ablaze[/i]. She tried. She really, really did. But now, at last, her body had reached its limit, and told her: [i]no more.[/i] The second she shook free, her legs gave up and turned to jelly underneath her. She pitched forward, hitting the furnace-hardened ground and crumpling in on herself.

Still she tried to get up, to drag herself forward. Guilt burned in her stomach, pulling her ownwards. But she'd run herself to the end of her rope, and she knew it. And what would she even do? There was a [i]moat[/i] around it by this point. Blood that [i]she[/i] had spilled. So all she could do was watch the silent, ichor-drenched hulk in terror.

[i]"[color=ffe63d]Besca![/color]"[/i] The tears still on her cheek and spinning in her head conspired to make her sound [i]desperate.[/i] Like someone was dying in front of her. Like she'd [i]killed[/i] someone just in front of her. And maybe she had. "[color=ffe63d][i]Blotklau[/i] is—it doesn't—[i]Roaki is still in there![/i][/color]"