Wood met flesh as Margaret's swift strike connected directly with the side of her foe's arm, but it mattered little. The blow had been weak, controlled; a test of reactions on her part. As her one-eyed opponent adjusted to the strike, stepping back out of her reach and massaging his now sore limb, he spoke again; a fact that was in itself not surprising. The factor that did, however, was that her assassin counterpart had spoken in clear, perfect Tradespeak, presumably sounding insulted that she would use a nonlethal weapon against him in what was assumed to be a duel to the death. It amused the young woman somewhat that this "Arden" character could be caught off-guard so, and if further ingrained her growing thought that he was indeed not part of the Organization after all; if he were, there wouldn't be such quips from the man's lips, for they taught that everything, from the tiniest grain of sand to the very air around them, was a deadly weapon in the hands of one whom knew how to harness them. The smallest quirk of her amusement pulled at the left side of her thin mouth, where the small scar that ran across them stretched like a white maggot along the cherry pink of those lips, before falling into silent dispassion again as Arden took her silence appropriately and continued his aggressive advance forward; this time pausing for the briefest period of time before launching into a forward leap that was a mere blur in the limited darkness around them.
Using the moonlight above and the burning of the campfire that had been set up nearby, Margaret once again entered combat with her foe. His approach this time had been far from the cautious advance she'd noted earlier; taking his short blade in both hands, the assassin's muscles rippled like a beast's before his mouth opened and let out a vocalized roar of gluttonous hunger; his single exposed eye gleaming like a vicious dog's in the low light. She was astounded by the sheer ferocity of the attack, but didn't dare let her surprise show; instead, she adjusted, as she always had. Light on her feet and swift of hand, she instinctively dodged the first two strikes he aimed; both of which were feints, she noted with some disgust. He was swift as well, and from what she could note so far he was as experienced a swordsman as she was; if only in a different style. Both of their single exposed eyes met, liquid quick-silver connected with vibrant crimson, before her foe paused briefly in his offensive; just long enough for Margaret to hear the whisper of leather in the distance.
In the shadows.
She made no attempt to warn her one-eyed foe; instincts born from survival took over once again, and she flowed like an ebony bird from her dodges of the assassin's feints away from the duel temporarily, stepping off and to the man's right side as he lunged forth like a tiger leaping upon its prey. His blade met little but air, the deadly edge of his sword briefly slicing along cloth as it tore into the fabric at her right breast, but the man's weapon cut straight through instead of catching upon the cloth and she could feel the rush of cold, night air at the pit of her arm. She paid no attention to it; instead, she continued to spin upon the balls of her feet, bringing her sheathed sword cane around in a lightning-quick horizontal swing at her prey's exposed midsection, and just as she pushed the button that would release the cyper sheath off of her razor-sharp katana she could hear the whistle of a swift projectile heading their way; presumably a rock, from the sound of it.
A combined strike, from the distance and from close up. Margaret's single eye held little compassion for the unfortunate assassin, whom was now trapped in the coincidental strike from both ends. For her, this Arden fellow was simply another victim to her cause, and he would have to perform yet another one of those strange bardic tricks from earlier in order to escape this combination of steel and stone. In which case, she was prepared; in yet her other hand she held her stiletto by the blade, ready to throw at a single moment's notice. Then, she would take care of the treacherous shadowmancer in the distance, hiding appropriately from their dance of blades within the defense of his arcane magics. They would not help him for long, however; as the throb in her left eye grew deeper, she recalled she had not yet unveiled her greatest secret.
At this rate, she would remain the victor yet; a fact that she yielded to with cold certainty.
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