Before she noticed Katrina's lunge miss, she danced backwards, stopping when her thoughts cleared. For the briefest of seconds she marvelled at how she still had her shoes. Nevertheless, she continued to step backwards, restarting her heartbeat and putting colour back into her skin. A silent declaration that they were done here. The word 'stalemate' rang in her head, much to her irritation. True, her pride had been injured by nothing but the knife -- in all other injuries they rather matched -- but she had been essentially matched by someone less than a third her age. It was infuriating. Drawing herself up to her full height, refusing to let the scent of her own blood effect the composure she had managed to piece back together, Elizaveta smiled again.
"Go play with the children in your own sandbox, sweetheart," she turned around and began to walk away -- more of an insult than a belief she would not stab her in the back. She had done that already. "And try not to throw so much sand next time." And now she was taking this moment of clarity to leave the pitiful fledgling and its fight behind her.
She was going to find some kind of arms dealer the moment she had the chance.