She can't properly block that next punch; she only partly manages to turn away from the kicks -- but she forces every bit of energy she can up, eyes flickering wildly, to try to make the experience of touching her as difficult as possible.
She's shouting, so hoarsely now it isn't all loud, something that hasn't been in common usage in eight hundred years and wasn't very polite then.
He won't get Andrew. He won't. He won't.
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