[Shit— Just the slightest motion, recoil or a flinch back from the affliction, maybe both; the wood gives way regardless. Planks collapse into a flash and technicolor smoke, perhaps tipping off little sparkshows in their wake. Caitlyn is left, gangly and undignified, hooked in a tangle of branches.

[Why does she even still wear this accursed cloak? She could be grateful that the detritus snagged fabric and not her person, thick patchwork wound around an arm to keep her suspended. The sight is not unlike that of a single-stringed marionette, but if a rifle was all but glued to the (free, at least) right hand.

[“Manners.” Kill her.

[The demon’s voice isn't far, either. Any hope of cover blown to bits, and the ground just a hair too far to risk dropping, Caitlyn seethes.

[The least she can do is glare, still defiant, and try her unlevel best to maneuver the gun back towards anything resembling stability.]