Woefully Average

Gossamer rested near the beach under a large willow tree, her head flopped limply down on her forearms as she gazed out across the water. She'd shooed Ásta away, seeking solitude once again. She felt like a failure. She'd failed to cross the ice bridge, she'd failed to find her mother and her brother and even in the tournament she'd failed. While Gossamer managed to win one match she was knocked out of her second and she couldn't help but be dismayed. She'd trained so hard and thought herself a skilled fighter but after a series of losses she was starting to wonder if she was 'good' at anything. Average, maybe. Woefully average.