Maris lay on the ground, a broken, bloodied shell of the powerful Saint she once was. Her body barely moved, except for the shallow, ragged breaths that came in gasps, each one sending fresh waves of agony through her shattered ribs. Both her arms were twisted at unnatural angles, the bones clearly broken and protruding under the skin in jagged, horrific shapes. Her once graceful hands now hung limply, useless.
Her face was unrecognizable. Her lips were swollen and split, bleeding profusely, and her nose had been shattered completely, flattened against her bruised, swollen face. One of her eyes was gone—nothing but an empty, blood-filled socket remained, where once her light blue eyes had shone with power and beauty. Her remaining eye was nearly swollen shut, barely able to open, surrounded by dark bruises that covered half her face.
