[center][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/220419/d955e440c95ac6f731dc5e649ad359eb.png[/img][/center][hr]Damn, right, the thing was [i]dead[/i], what the hell did it care if she punched a hole through it? As soon as it had ripped itself free of the knife, it was at her again, and though she beckoned her weapon back with a sharp wave and another whistle, it was slow. She was slow. Briefly she tried to recall if she’d survived a wolf-mauling before. A mountain bear had swiped at her once, a wild dog had chewed at her shins and she’d waked funny for a week. This, she guessed, would be much worse. Her arms went up, her head went down. She braced for pain. 

Movement in her periphery, then the sounds of a struggle. Her body unclenched and she realized she was not dead, or even dying. There was a flash beside her. She heard fire, smelled it, but still didn’t piece together what she was looking at until she remembered their conversation the other day. 

Kyreth, or the wolf, or both, were on fire. 

Her mind shouted at her: [i][color=skyblue]Move, you idiot.[/color][/i] 

Lilann moved, broke into a mad dash and nearly stumbled to her face as she came to him. On instinct she grabbed the wolf’s pelt, and the instant she let her aether sink into it, she felt resistance. She let go. No time to fight on two fronts. Instead she found the cloak, twisted her fist into its fabric and flooded every fiber with her will. She felt it like she did her lyre, her knife, her props; it became an extension of her, almost. 

Whistling, she crossed her arms first, psychically pulling both sides of the tangled cloak around the wolf’s body once, twice, and then yanking tight as she could. She held those ends together with one mental fist, and with the other she made a flinging motion towards the ground. Again she shouted: “[color=skyblue]Down![/color]” 

The thing was heavy, but with the amount of aether she’d pumped into the cloak she hoped it would be enough to throw the beast off of Kyreth and pin it to the dirt.