The thing can bend and meld space-time indiscriminately; Illyria's enthusiasm for the fight dims in part as she fully conceptualizes this. In her age the streams of time and space were hers to command and displace. No other being was to hold that right, and yet this Pit-creatures wields its hold over its own translocation with ease. The injustice of it grates at her.

She has no further time to contemplate injustice, nor do anything but to brace herself for the blow whose thrust propels her shell in a stunted parabolic arc through the woods, skidding over leaves and scum and dirt until she can plant feet on the ground and reestablish her inertia. The whole of her shell aches, distantly. She will pay that no further attention than is necessary.

The Lucifer has this advantage. Spacial matter is its plaything here, and she will have to compensate.

She is still fast. Illyria closes the distance between her and her enemy, unfurling to strike at it. She will target her foe's shell, as it has shown that it can bleed like any other. Physicality. Substance. A violent fist that punches at its abdomen with enough force that would tear through an ordinary body, but meets thick and crackling resistance here.