She disregards the discomfort with a spurt of irritation. Inconsequential. Pancakes cannot touch the creature, this much is clear. She orders her free from the radius of the emerging battle. This command is timely; with a clap of wings and a searing brightness, the principality makes tangible his form. A much more impressive foe. Illyria will relish the challenge. She has had so few opportunities for violence as of late, and even fewer that may yet be a match for her. Her true form is not accessible, shackled as she is to her shell, but she will prove unconquerable regardless.

"I will enjoy hurting you," she says, satisfaction creeping into her tone. The creature bears a sword, but Illyria requires no weaponry. "I will make trophies of your wings."

Wordless, soundless save the scream of two auras as they meet on their respective fields, she lunges, aiming one fist to drive it at the principality's face.