It slams into her, the intangible force of projection that drives her backwards, rams her shell into a tree with the brutal, sickening crack of velocity striking against mass. The thickness of the tree splinters, its trunk groaning with the weight of the impact, and, broken, it crashes to the ground.

Illyria does not crash to the ground. She twists to land on her feet when the trunk halts her trajectory. Now that is a foreign sensation - pain, echoing and persistent. An ache. Unique, and different.

Beneath the stoicism she is swarming fury but she is also satisfaction. Excitement, were that a thing a God-King could feel. Here, now, is an unstoppable force to make battle with her immovable object. A challenge, truly.

Her shell smiles. Illyria does so enjoy her violence.

She flies at the thing, flinging one hand outward to project her own force, an indefinable surge of motion aimed at its shell's chest.