So, naturally, the corpse gives her just enough space to feel cocky, to breathe a little easier, before it swipes at her ankles, the quick flash of a metal blade in it's hand.

It starts to wrench itself upwards, armor twisted and dented but intact. It's the strange twist of the limbs within it that need to snap back into place when it pulls itself upwards, a strange, breathy little laugh echoing from inside the helmet.

Better think again, then.

Is that distant clicking in the background? Can't be. Must be the wind, too soft to hear distinctly.