COURTESY CALL

She climbs, ascends like the Olympian she is. Virgil knows better than all that her physique is to be treasured about all else; muscle must be toned and strong, mortal casings to be perfected until the scarred woman is nothing but perfect. Usually she relies upon running to craft her physique, but today the woman has taken to climbing, limbs carrying her higher and higher. As she continues her climb it gets more and more treacherous, footing looser and looser. She does not fear; fear is for the mortal.
And yet, all it takes is one loose foot, and then gravity does the rest.

She tumbles quite a way, body nothing but a ragdoll against the forces of gravity and mountain alike. As her head slams down a few times she finds herself rather concussed, on the verge of drifting into unconsciousness. When the woman finally comes to rest she cannot move, her head is spinning. Eyes open and see shapes, and limbs twitch, but true movement is not possible in this moment. A sinking feeling hits her gut; she is vulnerable and exposed like this, her season having taken longer than it should to expire. She is at the mercy of fate, and Virgil knows more than any that fate is a bitch.