How fit? An innocent question from a petulant whelp. Sabrina is no mere layabout, no average specimen! It is not doughy and churlish; rendered thus by decades of inactivity as powers sublime and unnatural bear the brunt of those everyday toils that ache and burn thusly. She is a sweltering abomination! Hideous and overgrown with swollen tendons and ligaments, a veritable nexus of pulsating musculature run rampant from a lifetime of psychic misuse and overexertion. Each supernatural thought requires a pittance of energy, each pittance is drawn from the body—the body hardens, it grows, it adapts! The woman Sabrina is no more, instead there is only this, this thing, this lumbering colossus of naked flesh and cords most tender! Exposed, shapeless, scintillating, tenacious, starving! It crushes as it crawls, it undulates weirdly in the black night! It is nameless now, it is awful and terrible, it is beautiful, it is wondrous, it is a miracle of excess strength gone renegade!
It is death!
