Scene #7410: The Churl and the Nobody

Owner	Pose
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	How can one describe the Shadowlands? Imagine, for a moment, a people at the apex of their development, having discovered the very stuff of creation. Imagine wars fought over its control, two factions greedily and jealously attempting to snatch the source code of a galaxy away from each other, until the planet upon which it sat was cracked in two. The barren physical body of that planet is Rubi-ka as it is today, a desert world slowly terraformed by Omni-Tek for the purpose of harvesting notum--which, unbeknownst to all but a very small few, is itself the physical, mineral form of the Source's creative energies. The Shadowlands are a shattered, fragmented memory of the Rubi-ka that was. A massive chain of islands floating in the hazy nothingness of an alternate dimension, populated with ghosts and shades and remembrances of all the lords, ladies, beasts and terrors which once formed storied legends and trickled, in piecemeal, across the stars. Here lurk, as shades, the dragons which knights of old slew, the sorcerers which whispered in the ears of kings, the tombs which daring souls braved, the star-crossed lovers sat in opposing towers between ghostly armies which still war to this day. All of this, situated upon echoes of the cracked and broken flesh of the world which was, slowly, slowly, slowly, over tens of thousands of years, eaten away by entropy, as its denizens wait for the return of those who might claim the Source and heal the world, or to remake it in a more beneficial image. There are many stories which have taken place within this ghost of a world, many still which play out even tens of thousands of years later. But with the city of Jobe established within this ghostly realm, a new and modern place of research and study, built by human hands, there are new stories which are made every day. Today, our story takes place in the region of Adonis. Once, Adonis was an idyllic chain of islands in sparkling blue seas, idyllic in every sense of the word. Its islands bore great forests and fertile lowlands, and when the Source was discovered, several enormous energy veins were opened, feeding the world with the force of life itself. In their lust for greater command over these energies, the beings which lived here built a sprawling city of technological wonders to harvest them. Now, the city, the force fields used to harvest the energy, and all its splendours are in ruins. The Green Chapel, within this ruined archepelago, is a ruined place of contemplation, on one of those forested islands, a partially collapsed building overgrown on all sides by trees, memories of vines and grasses clinging to its mossy walls. One must cross a river of 'meta-water' to reach it, a hazardous liquid/gas hybrid made possible only by the warped reality of this realm. It is not unlike the great and hazy miasma which all of the Shadowlands seemingly drift within. it is here that our story takes place. Here, where the creature who makes his home issued a challenge. <B-anter> Bercilak says, "Whi, indede, fraist thyself ayenst a mounthe? Ayenst the sea? Bicause it is al-wais thire, al-wais unchaunged in its strength--but the ilksame is not true of thee. In fraistinge, and ifailinge, one greus more strengthi." <B-anter> Bercilak says, "Oth that, one adies!" <B-anter> The Janitor says, "You weren't asked." <B-anter> Bercilak says, "I care not." <B-anter> The Janitor says, with a perfect void of inflection: "Shut up." <B-anter> Bercilak says, "Come and make me, bicche."
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	<B-anter> Bercilak says, "I am cleped Bercilak. I ilive withinne the Shadowlands of Rubi-ka, in the ruins of Adonis. Usen the Whom-Pah oth warpgate to the citi of Jobe and ofaxe the scolars thire where-sum thou might ifinde Adonis. If thou wouldst halt mine tongue, thou nau knoue where to ifinde me." <B-anter> Bercilak says, "And thire is nau liti excuse for thee not to attempt hit."
The Janitor	Jane Doe ceases to exist as a discrete being in the flux of the cities. If there is such a singular entity as she, it's dissolved in the crush of fungible bodies and unremarkable souls. It's meaningless to ask if she spoke to one of the scholars, as Bercilak suggested. Only here in the wilderness, away from the chimera of civilization, does Jane Doe again distill into a concrete and distinguishable body. That body pauses at the bank of the meta-water river. It picks up a large rock, throws it across the river, and then leaps after the rock to jump off of it halfway across; an implausible midair stepping-stone that allows her to easily land on the other side. She continues forward, not stopping to exult, stumble, or catch her breath. This is just business. The Green Chapel is a place of beauty; its verdant ruin lends it a peaceful air. Jane Doe is not inclined to respect such things. Her destructive intuition finds an unspeakably subtle and fine stress-point in its overall structure with just a glance; she steps forward and delivers a firm kick to one of its stone walls. Nothing happens for a second, then two. Then a large chunk of its remaining ceiling caves in and collapses with a deafening crunch. She stands there impassively; waiting for a moment or two to see if anyone emerges. Maybe that killed Bercilak, despite all his bragging- just have to wait and see. When he does emerge, he'll find a figure so alarmingly out-of-place and yet so painfully generic that they're both hard to remember and hard to forget: an ordinary lean human dressed in a gray boilersuit, a gray flat cap's brim framing their black eye-obscuring bangs. She is unarmed.
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	The rubble is quiet only for a moment, before, joined in with the echoing rumble and the cries of bird-shades, there is a baritone chuckle. The weight of those mossy stones is cast aside with ease, as if the sole cause of that hesitance was simple confusion. Huge, weighty stones slough off of the Green Knight's armored body, an axe appearing to manifest in his waiting hand. It is a massive thing, bearded, with a monomolecular edge that glows green, and a sturdy haft which rises up the entire height of his towering body. Bercilak steps forward, arms wide. "Here I stond," he says. "Halt mine tongue, if thou'rt abled." His arms are thrown wide, a clear invitation to the Janitor to strike him. It's japes. Not real. Because not two seconds into that stance, his microthrusters fire, his left foot comes forward, and he tests her resolve with a quick, expert slash of the edge from his left. The edge is brought from below up, attempting to cut from her thigh to her shoulder. One as accustomed as she to combat can tell that it's patently a test.
The Janitor	It's a test, and the Janitor is in no mood to fill in any little bubbles. The blade, of course, never meets her; she halts the strike by stepping in before his swing's even begun, placing her palm on the haft, and capturing its momentum (though it jars her arm) into grabbing his shoulder with her other hand, swinging around him, planting a foot in the middle of his back as a foothold, and pulling herself up to reach his height. When did she find the time to grab a vine from the verdant temple's wall? How'd she find the opening to thread it under the chin of his helmet and above the gorget of his breastplate, seeking the neck like a garrote? A twist, a cinch, and it's tied roughly like a noose; she shoves off his back with both feet to jerk it taut, aiming to strangle the life out of him already. In the next instant she's kicking the pommel of his axe to try and jar it out of his hand and running up the wall of the temple, still holding to the other end of the vine-rope. Finding a hole some ten feet off the ground, she leaps through to the inside- now she's not only strangling him by the rope still pulled pulley-like through the hole above, but insulated from counterattack by solid stone. "Okay," she says dully, in a habit-reflex way. "Shut up."
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	His opponent is fast, agile, inventive. Good! It doesn't do to have a boring fight, when a challenge like his is issued. He is choked by the vine, easily, given her penchant for finding such things. But it doesn't seem to bother him much. The axe is swung behind him. But not at her. Not even close. It strikes the wall of the chapel, splitting the stones easily. The vines which cling to it take on a life of their own, wrapping around the Janitor and yanking her off, attemping to pull her limb from limb with unnatural strength. Bercilak's elbow is sent towards her abdomen with strength enough to shatter the mossy brick behind her, and the muscles of his neck bulge as he steps forward, the vine garrote torn into pulpy shreds as he does. He doesn't expect such a crude grapple to hold his opponent for long, which is why he is immediately on the offensive. The haft of the axe is used as a blocking surface, Bercilak's hands expertly placing the butt end of it towards her, employing it not only to block, but as a kind of prybar to corral and control her movement, chasing after her and imitating her acrobatics with brute force leaping and thruster assisted jukes, before switching his grip and assaulting her with the edge of the axe in several broad, fluid strokes.
The Janitor	When this fight started, Jane Doe was at the weakest she could ever be- unarmed, standing still, knowing nothing about her opponent. Every moment that passes since then, every piece of shrapnel that fills the air, every chaotic shift in environment and every new intuition she gleans about him tightens the ratchet. As the stones shatter and the vines come to life, she leaps backwards, grabs a knife-sized shard of rock out of the air, and slashes the encroaching vegetation to ribbons before it can touch her. However fast and agile Bercilak tries to be, he can never quite match up to the Janitor's fluidity. Whether she's dodging a blade or doing wuxia acrobatics, her movements are efficient, decisive but unhurried; not practiced but deeply intuitive. As she runs along the inside wall of the temple, each of his swings falls short, carving into stone or meeting only air with each prescient twist and dodge. Surely she can't be this lucky forever, though- he's got her on the run. Finally, she's cornered; backed up into a place where she can't run anymore. The axe comes down- and she finds a small white rock embedded in the ruined temple's floor to bring up and impossibly block with. It's a piece of flint. Sparks fly as it makes contact with the axe-blade, her merely human arm somehow managing to hold long enough to divert the stroke. The sparks land, and the fire begins to spread. Green vegetation shouldn't kindle a flame that easily, and yet it's already roaring, wreathing Jane in an unearthly red light. The heat doesn't seem to bother her at all. This is the plan, then: destroy all the plants to neutralize his power. "I'm going to torture you," she says in that plain, bland voice. One leg hooks behind his knee, fearlessly taking advantage of his post-swing momentum to topple him. Her hand finds the back of his head- she's trying to shove his face into the fire, while positioning herself on his back so using his strength to pry her off would be too awkward. "I want you to know that."
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	"BAHAHAHA!" He is knocked on his stomach, helmet held into the fire. He continues his full-bellied laugh even as the flesh beneath his helmet melts and heals over and over. The sound of his voice is unnervingly distorted as vocal cords melt, deform and are made new again, a kind of constant wavering. The helmet blackens, unblackens, heats up, cools. Still that laughter continues, the Green Knight not even bothering to fight until he gets bored. At that point, the thrusters on his armor fire, driving him further into the ground while also igniting her clothes. He rises, then, not attempting to throw her off--simply to overpower and rise in spite of the hold. The flames lick at the vines of the chapel, even begin to spread to the grass around it. But he isn't concerned. "The manne, wommane or oth mannish wight which might torment me hath not been borne, and shalt not," says the Green Knight, sedately lifting his axe with the Janitor still on his back. He drives a deep chasm into the earth, so deep that light fails to fully penetrate it--and leaps in, attempting to rake her off by slamming himself into the walls. The dents of the hard earth into his armor rapidly mend themselves. "Bicause not even God Himself may torment me."
The Janitor	The Janitor seems essentially unfazed by Bercilak's show of superhuman durability- he may be able to regenerate however much he pleases, but she isn't so much as breathing hard yet either. "Okay," she says simply, in exactly the same lack-of-inflection as the last several times. It's like it's being played back off a tape recorder. "If you don't suffer, I'll torture your friends next." She doesn't bother to put out the flames licking at her clothes- they don't seem to bother her in the least, and add to the escalating sense of preternatural menace. When he leaps into the chasm, though, she leaps off before he can drag her down with him- and does the same trick she did at the very start, kicking a stone pillar to cause a chain-reaction collapse of rubble to bury him alive. Using a suitable green branch as an improvised shovel, she heaps burning sap and embers into the rubble too, letting it filter down through the cracks- choking ash, drizzling flame, and asphyxiating smoke to force him to free himself from his immurement, though it'll be tougher to extricate himself there than it was for the first pile. Jane Doe doesn't wait idly for him to extricate himself, though. She takes the knifelike piece of flint and heats it nearly red over the fire, knapping and sharpening it casually in the process. When his head re-emerges from the rubble, she'll do her damndest to slam it right through the eyehole of his visor- hopefully his meaty, armored fingers will be too big to remove it from his eyeball without taking the helmet off.
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	It isn't his head that emerges from the rubble. In fact, no part of him does. He ought to be dead, having stayed beneath it for so long. Down there, in that tomb she's made for him, he would be laughing still, if there were any air. As the choking embers burn and starve his lungs, billions of nanites repair the cell walls of his lung tissue in real time, forcing him to remain alive. He's always looking for new plateaus to climb, new opponents to face, new perils to face against. His brain tissue, too, begins to suffer, his vision briefly blacking out before it is impossibly mended in real time. Jane Doe, the unstoppable force, has met another immovable object this day. As her flames begin to spread to the trees around the chapel, the once peaceful place now a blazing inferno, she might take the sudden silence as proof that she's killed him. Not so. Even as the place begins to burn down, plants grow to replace what was lost. She might at first think that to be just some odd metaphysical property of that place, before they start attacking her. Willow trees grow and combust, their flaming boughs attempting to grab, crush and fling her against the ground. Man-eating pitchers and car-sized flytraps wait for missteps. Gnarled roots grow seemingly at random, combusting also, making for dangerous, uneven footing. And a massive plume of earth and flaming plant matter is struck upwards as if a fistful of dynamite had erupted beneath the soil. Bellowing his laughter, Bercilak's head is indeed the first part of him to emerge, clods of dirt sloughing off of his armor as that stone is jammed through the visor of his helmet. She draws blood, pierces the flesh of his eye. The helmet disappears, showing off her handiwork, his grinning face sporting a stone before it's pushed out by a ridiculously quick healing factor. "BI AL MENES! BAHAHAH! I shalt be as glathe to assist theim in smitinge thee as I am to hath thee as gestenere at mine hom, ani-time." He dips into a frontflip, bringing the blunt end of the axe crashing down below. When he lands, the assault continues, Bercilak stepping inside of her reach to attempt to force her off balance and push her towards one of the many hazards he's set up, keeping up the pressure with disciplined, fluid swings of his axe, masterfully using the space between them despite the difference in speed and strength between them. He has a lot of strength, but he doesnt' need to put all of it behind a blow to do damage, or to swing the axe like a crazed gorilla. She has a lot of speed, but he doesn't need to match it--only to remain patient and wait for an opening. He believes he sees one, and seizes upon it. Expertly changing his grip, he attempts to shove her into that flaming willow with a thrust from the blunt eye of the axe.
The Janitor	As the ground becomes home to more and more fatal flaming flora, Jane at first occupies herself with making a fool out of them- testing the fly-traps' reactions, eluding the willows' grasping branches, dancing effortlessly over the contorting roots. The air is half smoke by now, but it still doesn't appear to bother her at all, even as her canvas boilersuit slowly burns. One could imagine that fire and brimstone were her natural element. Bercilak's terrifying re-emergence would be taken by most as an abject demoralization; as strong and nauseating evidence towards his apparent invulnerability. The Janitor has, and shows, no such respect. He hasn't even finished speaking before she tries to implacably high-kick him in the face, driving the piece of flint further in before it can be fully ejected. There is an abject, blasphemous confidence in her continued attempts to mutilate him; Cain lying to the face of God. Though at first she allows her movement to be steered predictably, when it comes to that final blow, she leaps into the air and twists herself parallel to the ground to meet the blunt eye of the axe with both feet. Kicking off it to jar Bercilak's arms, she adds the momentum of her 'leap' to the push of his blow and flies past the willow to cross half of the entire chapel, neatly landing on the far wall with both legs bent before dropping back to a standing position on the floor. "I'll kill them," she says dully, matter-of-factly. Hard to see her now through all the smoke, but you don't need to in order to guess her lack-of-expression. There's an intense disrespect in her stance as she wades back out of the smoldering forest, casually slipping around the carnivorous hazards. She's casual, loose; as of yet essentially unharmed. Not breathing hard. Not sweating. Bored, if one had to assign an emotion to it, though likely her bleak heart lacks even room for that. Her uninspired mode of attack speaks to that, too- she's got a long spear-like shard of heartwood, charred enough to not be 'alive' for the plant-shaping Bercilak's demonstrated thus far, but still quite sturdy. At first she uses it expertly to interpose against Bercilak's axe attacks, having memorized the gist of his style by now- but when next he opens his mouth to talk, she'll stab it down his throat and then kick the other end, trying to drive it right through his spinal cord and keep it there to occlude regeneration.
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	The flint is pushed in even further, but it's like attempting to push a truck uphill with your shoulder. Possible, maybe, advisable, certainly not. Even when it surely enters into his brain pan, there is still that grin, while blood and ichor from his burst-anew eye weep from the wound. "Who yeves a shit--" The disrespect doesn't bother him--he's very disrespectful his own self. Bercilak, His very name may derive from 'bachlach', a Celtic word meaning 'churl,' or from 'bresalak,' meaning 'contentious.' When his throat is stabbed and his spine punctured, the wood snaps off inside his armor, briefly distorting the shape of the bodysuit which those heavy plates are affixed to, staining it with blood. Anyone else would be, should be, dead. But... talking of disrespect. Right in front of her, his hand plunges into his throat, tearing his head off, diving gruesomely into the gory stump where once it lied, and tugging out the unbroken part of that heartwood. Tossing the bloody thing aside, his decapitated head grins at her, as he places it back upon the stump. He wasn't finished. The axe swings low, catching her ankle between the beard and the haft. He makes broad, sweeping swing, flinging her up and over his head, before abruptly changing position to try and break the bone, dumping her before him. He knows better than to leave it at that. But he does, anyway, because he's having too much fun to try and end the fight, allowing her to move freely without harassment, for the moment. "'Tis bet that thei die of one as experful as thee, thanne in what-sum-ever dul manere the Al-mighti hath in iminde." He means it--she may torture his friends, kill them, whatever she pleases. Either they will live through it and grow stronger for it, or they will die, and leave him with fond memories. He will persist, no matter what, for that is his role. The Green Knight isn't the sort to feel shame over failing, as she might have guessed by his relative unbotheredness over his home currently burning to the ground. Or by the sheer number of his blows that she's evaded or parried, or the means by which she evades them.
The Janitor	Jane Doe's expression doesn't shift as Bercilak gorily removes, and then reattaches, his own head. But the fact that she stands and stares at the whole process- even if perhaps only to learn of its limitations and vulnerabilities- says everything about how it upsets her expectations. Even for someone who is so abjectly not a people person, the Janitor is beginning to acquire a glimmer of an idea that Bercilak might just be a difficult person to make suffer. Still, that doesn't seem to deter her from trying. Maybe the attempt to cause suffering itself is enough for her. "I don't care if you like it," Jane says dully. His axe-swing grabs her heel and lifts her into the air, but she expertly repositions herself to stand atop the blade instead of being caught by it. When he slams it back into the ground, she's still perched on the edge, now staring at him at eye level. Her own eyes are, of course, miraculously shaded from his view by a burning leaf fluttering past in the moment before her bangs and cap settle back down. "I don't care if you don't." "I'm just here to hurt people. But you're not people," she continues sedately, stepping off the axe and flitting around a burning willow to kick over its char-rotted trunk. The whole thing collapses towards Bercilak, threatening to pin him under its searing mass! While he's down, she tries to take a sharp rock and physically jam it into his hand to force it to let go of his axe- then, if she can manage to wrest that from his grip, step onto the burning tree-trunk laid across his chest and swing his own weapon down into the middle of his skull. Her strength- though improbable for a human- is no match for his own, but her sheer murderous intent grants her blows an unearthly destructive power. "You're barely a thing."
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	It's a shame that only one of them here is having fun today--but the Green Knight is going to keep at it until he's had his fill, or until she forces the issue. The blackened willow, it once (for like, two seconds) lovely boughs now skeletonized fingers drooping in charred despair, is shoved over and broken against his body. Its weight causes him to stagger, and even as he shatters it with his free hand, the other is vulnerable. It's no mean feat to push that stone through his armor, but she does it, finding the tough synthetic weave to have more give than the thick plates of his gauntlet. The axe is massive. It is heavier and more unwieldy than it has any right to be, lending credence to the grace and precision with which he wields it. But her murderous intent sees her through, driving the weapon into his skull with a grisly noise. It's as if even his flesh is hardened, toughened, all the way down to the bone--but she nevertheless strikes true. The creature which staggers backwards stares at her with glee, each half of its face grinning independently of the other. Barely a thing, and glad to be it. Glad to find someone who sees the depth of his wild mania, when his passions are properly stoked. "Annnnnd thouuuu alsssss," struggles Bercilak, with his tongue and vocal chords split in two. Still with that rictus, asymmetrical rictus grin, the Green Knight, still with the axe buried in his skull, steadies his stance and leaps. Such is the size of the weapon's head that there is ample room to trap the Janitor's slender frame between the weapon's haft, and his bulky, thick armored form. This he attempts to do, with a precisely made landing, wrapping his arms around her like a frenzied green animal going for the throat. His grip is crushing, itself an attack of its own--but the real one comes when he bends over backwards, breaking his spine to suplex her head first into the beard of the axe which juts gruesomely from his chin.
The Janitor	"No," Jane Doe says, perfectly comfortable with allowing Bercilak to advance. It is an unnatural, self-assured steadiness; the chilly complacency of someone who long ago lost any visceral instinct for self-preservation. Though he could crush her bones in his grasp, she makes no effort to evade that lunging grab. It's as if she sees clearly what's going to unfold. The spine-cracking suplex into his own embedded blade is a work of art in violence, and it ought rightly to be the end of her. But as he falls backwards, she finds the excruciatingly precise sequence of moves that will avoid checkmate. Reorienting herself to take advantage of the shifting inertial frame and the limitations of his meaty limbs, she twists herself around in the lethal embrace to plant both of her feet against the long haft of the axe embedded in his skull. A piece of rubble lying on the floor acts as the fulcrum of the lever; the sturdy haft is the arm; the force is her descent fueled by Bercilak's own strength, and the other end of the lever is the monomolecular blade currently lined up to bisect him. She kicks downwards. The axe jars upwards, deeper into the flesh of his neck, into his chest, and possibly beyond. All of his force, and all of hers, is directed to splitting the Keeper vertically in half. "I'm nobody."
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	Barely a thing and a nobody met, in the decaying arteries of a dead civilization. The thing had issued a challenge: if the nobody wanted him to shut up, she should come and make him. Splitting him in half vertically with his own axe works quite well. It is a cumbersome, unwieldy weapon, but leverage has always served those without brute strength. With a grisly tearing sound and the screech of metal upon metal, Bercilak is cleaved wholly in twain, from his head all the way down. Even this does not appear to have killed him. But it did get the nobody something else which she wanted. The Green Knight's separate halves inch closer to each other, dragging a path in the dirt as billions of microscopic machines build superfluous sinews to tug the two halves back together. Those sinews disentegrate under precisely applied acids, proteins stored in each tiny worker for use in mending the damage done. He rises before his halves are even fully attached, an unsettling wobble in his upper body as he gets to his feet. That gleeful grin isn't there anymore--instead, it's a satisfied smile. How long has she earned his silence for? The axe is picked up, snatched from her grip if necessary. But it isn't leveled against her, or even swung into the ground. As flames lick their way to the very end of the island, the sky is orange with flames, black with the skeletons of dead trees, soot clinging to the stones of the Chapel. Bercilak gently taps the butt of the axe upon the scorced earth, as the last of his carnivorous plants dies in flame, waxen skin melting. A bed of flowers grows all around him, and he steps out of it. Spelled out with red roses in contrast against a thick carpet of grass are the words THOU OFERNED MINE SILENCE FOR THREE DAIS. If, after that time, she should hear him on the broadband and seek his silence, the nobody knows where to find the one who's barely a thing. She may take her leave without further attack. The Green Knight takes a deep breath of satisfaction. Then realizes with a frown the sheer scale of destruction the Janitor's fire caused. Everything has burned down. Oopsies.
The Janitor	Jane Doe twists to one side in one final dodge to avoid the spray of blood and gore from Bercilak being torn in half. She comes away spotless, albeit still with black scorches and flickering embers on her gray boilersuit. There's no impulse to brutalize Bercilak further as he heals, though she could- the idea of throwing both halves in different fires, burying them under rocks, and seeing how long it takes them to extricate themselves briefly flits across her mind, but doesn't hold real appeal. She's going to go hurt people who actually feel pain now instead. She starts to trample her way across the bed of flowers, but halts, turning to look at him with brief confusion. "What?" <B-anter> Note says, "For me, it's 'cuz I love it. Nothing else compares to that rush! ... but.... I get the feeling I'm not gonna like her reason." <B-anter> The Janitor says, "You weren't asked." <B-anter> Bercilak says, "I care not." <B-anter> Gilgamesh, bored, says, "I exist. The peak worth climbing is worth climbing whether you can get to the top or not. Climbing an impossible mountain is how you improve. Not that most of you understand that idea." <B-anter> Bercilak says, "Verily!" <B-anter> The Janitor says, with a perfect void of inflection: "Shut up." <B-anter> Bercilak says, "Come and make me, bicche." "I wasn't talking to you. I just came here to hurt people." And with that, she turns her back on the churl and begins to walk away. Only once she exits the temple does she hesitate and turn around- perhaps for some conciliatory parting words, an admiration of his might, or an apology for the damage caused? No, of course not. She kicks a wall and makes it collapse on top of him, burying him for one final time on her way out.