She lifted up the sword above her waist. It was heavy, and she was weak. The beast snarled and edged closer; she could see the steam from his breath and was afraid, but she had had enough and refused to retreat again. It roared in protest at her defiance but she stood her ground. 'Not this time', she spat at it. She stepped forward, raising the sword higher, daring it to make a move. Its ugliness filled the room; the stench of disease and lost hope. She became aware that the protective miasma that she had hoped would defend her this time, had been insufficient; mind over matter was all that she had on her side now. Her mentor had warned her that the protection was only possible, not probable, but she had nevertheless put her faith in it. She became aware of every muscle in her body, heavy and tense, and felt insignificant against this manevolent beast. It stared at her, its black thickness oozing with evil. In a moment of complete clarity and determination she lunged forward: 'leave me', she screamed, putting the full force of every concious hope behind her. The beast took a tentative step back, as if assessing whether the fight was worth it. It snarled, drooling black grease along its torso, turned and retreated. She knew it would be back, but she had triumphed and although weakened by its visit and left with a little less hope than before, she lowered the sword and sheathed it.
A crass metaphor perhaps but this is how I feel about the latest visit from MS.
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