-
She facilitated the death of the skeleton efficiently. Her attack connected with the bony undead, propelling it towards Izvilvin and the drow did the rest with the clinical precision that Rheawien recognized. The dark elf’s movement was swift despite his multiple injuries, his sai piercing the bald skull of the annoying sack of bones and shutting it up for good. And it was about damn time, the half-elf thought. The skeleton has gone from comedian to a nuisance in a hurry and its demise drew out a smirk on her stern visage. The only thing that would’ve been able to turn her smirk into a full smile was that it perished by her hand, but Rheawien knew that the Cell was too chaotic, too treacherous. And in such environments she knew better then to count the teeth of a gifted horse. It was one less obstacle to the ultimate goal.
The next one seemed both the toughest and the easiest one to beat. Izvilvin was fatigued, injured and hanging by a thread and dispatching him would be a peanut manner for somebody like her. But at the same time, the drow was somebody that a part of her didn’t want to attack. It was a sentimental part, an emotional segment of her psyche that still clung to that one night of unhinged passion in the desert realm of Salvar. He was her ally then, her friend, her savior and ultimately her lover. There was an inerasable bond between them, fortified by the intimacy and all the words that were spoken. Granted, most of those words were incomprehensible jabber to the both of them, but the manner in which they were spoken was something that had a deeper meaning. Something that made her offer a renewal of the alliance at the beginning of the bedlam of the cage. Could she put a seal on the withdrawal of that offer?
The crowd whistled and clapped and roared, seeing the opportunity for a clean and easy kill. There was no wind passing through the mesh walls to chase away the smell of blood and sweat that the gladiators spilled already. Rheawien’s eyes were locked on Izvilvin, her body tranquil. It was time to answer the question that she asked herself from the second she saw the familiar dark-skinned face as one of the combatants. The face that smiled and confirmed the alliance. And the face that followed another. Frowning gaze of the half-elf was diverted sideways, towards the bitch that fought (Zerith, her mind recollected the name of the halberd wielder) fiercely. Was she prettier then Rhea? Was she a better lover? Was she worth more then a half-elf nobody that moved from town to town in search for... for something other then the monotony of the everyday life?
Yes, apparently she was. Apparently some bonds only grazed the heart while the others pierced it. Rheawien’s grip around her katana tightened, her eyes furious once she turned them back to Izvilvin. He would pay. He would pay, and once she saw life slipping from those lilac eyes of his – well, eye after her whiplash – and his body fell to the ground, she would proceed to do the same with his mute mistress. Rhea’s hand returned the katana to the sheath on her back and pulled out a dagger from her belt. This was personal and the kill would have to follow the same principle; up-close and personal. She approached the drow slowly, femininity effaced from her gait of an angered warrior.
“Izvilvin!” she shouted, her browns like embers, burning a hole in his face. “This is what you get for sitting on two chairs.”
Rheawien’s muscles worked in perfect sync, providing her body with ample speed as she came at the dark elf. Her messy ponytail was like a banner, following her every step with a minute delay. Her dagger was held low, coming from below her waist in a trust that was bound to gut the drow in one immaculate slice. And as she came close enough to smell the sweat on his skin, Rhea knew the answer to the question her mind and her conscience posed.
-
((OOC: I am unsure if the grabbing of Witchblade's dagger would count as bunnying. In case it qualifies, the move was permitted by Witchblade.))
The battle between the Zerith and his opponent was getting better with each passing second. With each moment pumping more adrenaline into the halberdier, he came to the decision that this woman was the greatest fighter he had crossed. Forget Marcus, that bastard wouldn’t have lasted in here and neither would any of his men. Even that bastard, Bryce. He was worse that Marcus, hardly a match when compared to this woman.
Zerith had gotten his hopes up. They died the moment the stitched-lipped female brought her arm up and put a halt to his attack. His arm slammed into her and he felt the sharp pain as a spike drove into his arm. He clentched his teeth and growled, he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of hearing him yell in pain. Her arm wrapped around his while he dropped both of his weapons to the floor. Then he suddenly felt her push upwards on her elbow, possibly in an attempt to disable his good arm. Even as he tried to push back, to maintain use of his sword arm, it would only be a matter of time until more pain rushed through his body. Thankfully she changed her mind and instead punched him in the gut, pulled him back up by his hair and slammed her forehead into his. It didn’t end there either, she had the momentum and she knew it. Her next blow was intended to be the last.
Her other boot produced another blade and she attempted to drive it straight into his chest. Unfortunately she let him go in the process and while his head felt like it was splitting and more pain filled his arm, he could still hold himself. His eyes opened to see her leg fly through the air and in response, he willed his arms to move. Both hands grabbed hold of her shin and stopped what would have been the deathblow. His grip then tightened and he pulled her forward and spun around her so that he would be facing her back. Just as she was when she started this fight.
As he spun, he eyes settled on something on her back and he immediately reached for it. His hand grasped the handle to a dagger and drew it out as he passed by her. To his surprise, the blade was covered in a black liquid. “What the hell is this?” he asked himself, but then it dawned upon him.
“Canen, Canen has black blood,” He said to himself. He remembered that from when the two worked together in Scara Brae. A shapeshifter wounded him and the black liquid was flowing down his stomach. Not only that, but there was something else Zerith remembered about Nocturnain blood. Something that was indeed quite useful.
He switched the dagger to his left hand and drew his longsword with his right. Then he advanced and attacked, his longsword coming in with a horizontal slash for an attempt at a major blow to her side. Her dagger came afterwards in a thrust for her midsection but a wound to the leg would also suffice. It didn’t matter where it struck, either way the damage would meet the same end.
-
A bit of a laugh escaped the Drow's lips as Rheawien began to make her way toward him. It was the only way he could think to express what was happening, for defending himself from the woman had been the last thing he'd thought to worry about in the beginning of the battle. What a fool he'd been.
He knew what was coming, knew that in order to fight his coming fate, he'd need to strike at her as hard as he could, to feign weakness and counter strong, taking her out with a single strike. It was the only conceivable way he could survive the coming conflict and move on. Fighting by Witchblade's side, perhaps it'd be possible to beat the others, and then somehow overcome her when it came down to the end.
His damaged eye had swollen and was throbbing. The pain was unbelievable, but Izvilvin simply did not have the time to dwell on it. There was no use in dealing with wounds already sustained, not in this hell.
The woman sped up, calling his name and rambling something incomprehensible to his sharp ears. Izvilvin stood straight, preparing for the worst. Rheawien's hand flashed for his gut, cutting through the air like a beacon of his end. He could sense the horrible fingers of death closing in on him, grasping and pulling to bring him under.
Yet he fought against it, reaching forth to grab the warrior woman's arm, a hand on her triceps and a hand on her forearm, halting the knife a mere inch from the soft flesh of his belly. It took every ounce of strength in the graceful elf's arms to stop the assault, but he had done it. Despite the pain, he pushed her arm back just a bit, preparing to throw the limb away from his body, draw a sai and go for Rheawien's throat.
But he couldn't. The thought of striking at her, of drawing blood from the woman he'd known to be so gentle and strong, the very essence of what he'd always thought a woman should be, repulsed him. She had shown herself to be noble and good while they traveled in Fallien, where the sun shone across her white hair as it did his. So many more common characteristics of the two had shined even brighter on that day.
His eye was looking into hers, back and forth between the two windows to her heart. His expression was sad, disappointed, and so very final. She had been his only lover, the one companion he'd gotten to know in that intimate and trusting way.
Izvilvin pulled her into him, driving the dagger into his stomach as her hand held it. The cold metal felt odd and foreign in his flesh. Pain rushed over him. The Drow wanted to scream but it got caught somewhere in his throat.
The crowd cheered, a true example of their ignorance toward Izvilvin and Rheawien's past. They simply did not understand the significance of what was happening. Thankfully, the Drow did not hear them, though he did manage to lift his eye to the woman again. He managed one final glimpse at her beautiful face before he fell, lifeless, to the floor.
If the crowd was cheering before, they were now in an uproar. The Drow had finally fallen under the weight of his numerous wounds, the most recent of which had done so much more emotional damage than physical.
It was the death of a warrior, but that was not all. His belief in friendship and love had died along with his body. If a friendship could be disposed of in favor of something as shallow as the glory of battle, what use was it? It was the abrupt end of a bond that was once stronger than steel, and the wounding of a spirit once filled with the love of life.
Izvilvin lay dead at the edge of the cell, in so many more ways than one.
-
Her kick backfired and it ended up with the human to her back, his disgusting hands touching her weapons and removing them from their sheathes. She couldn’t believe the nerve he had to do such a thing, those were hers and he had defiled them with his touch! Snarling, Witch used her telekinesis to draw her staff back towards her and spun around the moment the cool metal touched her fingers. She blocked the attack to her side, the sound of metal clashing ringing through the arena. And when the human tried to stab her with her own weapon, Witch narrowed her eyes on his and grabbed for his wrist, not completely in time, the tip of her Mythril dagger pierced her own flesh.
Using her own brute strength, she drew back the dagger from her skin, forcing his arm back then attempted to snap his wrist in half.
“Let’s see a halberdier fight with only one hand!”
And it was right then at that precise moment that Witch felt Izvlvin’s life begin to slip away. She’d been keeping an eye on her injured ally, she’d thought he could handle his own, she thought he’d be all right, she thought she might not care that much when he died but she’d thought wrong! If she’d gone to protect him instead of attack the human she could have done something. But she hadn’t and as his energy faded and his life slipped through his fingers it felt like a part of her on the inside was dying and she didn’t even know why.
Was it because he was her only ally? Was it because of how he’d helped her in Salvar, or because of how similar they could be at times? She didn’t know, she didn’t understand, all she did know was that allies had come and gone before in her life and none of them hurt as much as this. She was going soft, but right now she didn’t care.
“Izvilvin!!!”
He didn’t answer her back, how could he? He probably didn’t even hear it before he died, she didn’t know, she just didn’t know.
“Izvilvin!” She cried the name out like it was torn from her throat, like the stitching in her lips was tearing into her flesh, but she didn’t care.
She pushed the human away from her and turned towards her ally just in time to watch him fall to the cage floor dead. There was no life in his eyes—or eye really—and no spark of energy left in his body. Logically she knew he would be revived after the battle was over with, but she wasn’t thinking logically right now, all she was thinking about was that, that stupid elf bitch had killed Izvilvin!
Speeding towards the woman, Witch dropped her staff and grabbed her both her sai, each sheathed at the side of her boots. Coming at the elf woman from behind, Witch made a move to thrust both of her sais into the woman’s back. Then she pulled them out and attempted to round house kick her in the side of the head, driving that titanium blade in her boot into the woman’s skull and then into her brain. She’d have this bitch lying dead on the ground in a million pieces once she was through with her.
-
Izvilvin intercepted her strike deftly, once again displaying his dexterity, wrapping his dark fingers around her pale hand. Even though obviously enfeebled, the drow succeeded in holding her at bay, opposing her with what little energy he could muster. But the very last fragment of his life wasn’t used to counter her, wasn’t even used as a last-ditch defense. Instead the dark-elf looked her in the eyes, looked her without anger, without a tinge of hatred in his beautiful lilac eyes, and pulled her sword hand into his own belly. Rheawien, who killed many a man in her life, was never disgusted by the sound of metal piercing the flesh, but for some reason she found it sickening today. Perhaps it was because even now, when he was drifting away and losing his life to the blood loss, her victim looked up at her with amicable eyes. And she realized that that eye wasn’t the eye of a traitor.
The crowd was elated, her gutting move sending them into bewildered ecstasy and she wished she couldn’t hear them. She wished that she wasn’t in this cage anymore, that she could rewind the time and return to those seconds right after the speech of Mister Kinnity. Because Rhea knew now that Izvilvin didn’t betray her. The only traitor within this Cell had messy white hair and blood on her pale hands.
“Izvilvin...” she uttered in a whisper, her gaze locked on the bloody cadaver that stood at her feet. The lilac eye was still open, but now it looked through her and into oblivion. Rheawien felt like crying. How could she be so wrong?
“IZVILVIN!”
Then again, maybe she wasn’t. The black-haired wench - whose presence provoked Rhea’s jealousy and doubts - was bawling the name of the drow through her stitched lips. In less then a second she was in a flat-out sprint towards the half-elf, desperate to save what passed beyond the point of no salvation. She wielded the weapons similar to Izvilvin’s. All of that combined gave a rather clear result to Rheawien. She wasn’t wrong in her initial estimate. The bitch was allied with the dark elf, otherwise she wouldn’t act so desperately and vengefully. This in turn resulted in transformation on Rhea’s face, her dumbfounded visage changing into a satisfied smirk. She loved when she was right. And now she would show to herself, to the stitch-lipped whore and to all present who dominated this Cell.
The witch moved with significant speed, but she was careless enough to announce her attack by shouting the name of her deceased beau. This left Rheawien ample time to prepare and by the time the two sais were jabbed at her back, she was on the move. Luckily for her, Izvilvin backtracked towards the wall just before she sent him to meet his maker, so the steel mesh stood a little over a pace from her current position. The half-elf decided to make use of it. Two fleet steps took her to the vertical obstacle, the third one making her leap directly at it and push against it. This propelled her body in a somersault above her attacker, making her land behind her back.
“Backstabbing bitch! I’ll send you to meet your pathetic lover.” Rhea growled, not countering immediately despite her significant strategic advantage. Instead she pulled out both her katana and her longsword from the scabbards on her back before taking a deep breath. And even as she inhaled, she tapped into her inner might once again, only this time it wasn’t used to amplify the sturdiness of her blade. Instead it doubled her speed, elevating her reflexes and perception to an inhumane level. The environment around her seemed more inert somehow, as if it was moving at half speed. In reality, it was Rheawien that moved at twice her usual fleetness.
Rhea’s legs sent her body in a dash that most on the bleachers saw almost in a blur, making her scud towards the left flank of her foe, but several steps before clashing with the woman, the half-elf changed her trajectory abruptly. Her left blade came down on the right thigh of the witchy woman hard, powerful enough to give Rheawien enough momentum to complete the spin and bring her left blade in a backhanded slash across her curvy breasts. She would put this woman to rest right next to her man.
-
She was fast, faster than any of the others in the cell that Witch had fought so far. She hadn’t been expecting this but with her eyes she was able to follow the movements of the elf, she just didn’t know if she’d be able to react in time. The blade came singing towards her leg before Witch could do anything, her anger having blinded her to the fact that maybe this opponent was stronger than her, that maybe this opponent was faster than her, but she didn’t care. This opponent had killed Izvilvin and for some reason it hurt! For some fucking reason she could feel the pain of that!
The blade cut through the material of her khaki’s and into her flesh, ripping and tearing into vein and skin alike and producing her odd coloured blood in the process. Jumping back from the second attack Witch was able to avoid the tearing of flesh, however her shirt was ripped open in the process. Metal slicing through and ripping material and since there wasn’t much of a shirt covering her to begin with, Witch was left rather exposed, not that she cared. She’d never been one for modesty anyway and she was in the middle of a battle right now, the fact that the crowd could see her breasts didn’t bother her.
“He’s not my lover, you stupid, fucking, bitch!”
Thread ripped flesh and flesh healed as the taste of blood swamped her mouth. It was vile, she hated that taste, even with her half vampire genes, whatever they did to her they didn’t bring any kind of longing to drink the blood of anything.
The crowd was going crazy by this time. Death did that to humans, they loved to watch it, they loved the struggle and the eventual defeat. They were far more twisted creatures then she was and she hated that she was dancing for their very enjoyment but the crowd was behind her. Their noise no longer filled her ears; their screams no longer gave her headaches. She tuned it all out and focused on one person, the elf bitch who’d killed Izvilvin.
Witch used her wings, the appendages flapping loudly in the cage keeping her off the floor and off her leg. Though to anyone who had to stand on a wounded leg it would be a nuisance to her it was nothing more than a throbbing annoyance. She didn’t need to stand, she could fly. The wound would heal, but not before this battle was done, but the blood wound stop flowing from it. Charging towards her enemy and cutting through the few feet separating them, Witch thrust her sai towards the woman’s thigh, repaying her for the wound in kind, then attempted to slash the bitch across the face. Using the momentum, Witch continued to spin in a circle, coming back around to her enemy in an attempt to kick her in the gut with the flat side of her sole.
-
The stitched-lipped woman was full of surprises. Not to mention the fact that she seemed to constantly reveal new ones was quite frustrating. Somehow she summoned her staff to her hands and managed to knock away Trithdursil like how a teacher knocks away the sword of a student. She even managed to prevent her dagger from doing the maximum amount of damage it could do.
Her strength was amazing and although it took a lot of effort, she managed to pull his arm back and get the dagger out of her skin. What was worse was sicken snap as his left wrist broke. Even then, he clentched his teeth and let a loud, long groan escape his lips. He was at her mercy now, she had him right in front of her and open for a killing blow. But for some strange reason she stopped and pushed him away. Like he wasn’t a threat to her anymore.
The woman was too busy charging towards Rheawien to watch a smile form on Zerith’s face. Although she didn’t realize it, she’d soon know why. He had done exactly what he had intended to do and she would suffer the consequences. It wouldn’t be long until her vision become blurred and she felt dizzy. Then she would feel the nausea sink in along with the vomiting. The thought that all of that was thanks to Canen made Zerith’s smile widen.
Nocturnian blood was toxic afterall. Zerith remember that much, considering he managed to poison the shapeshifter in Scara Brae with the same stuff. Of course Zerith also had to that the woman as well, seeing as how she provided him with the weapon. Now the he was left alone while the two woman went at it. The halberdier took a few moments to sheath his dagger and pick up his sword with his right hand. His left hand hung lifelessly and with a broken wrist, there was no way he would want to try to use his halberd. Lucky for him he still knew how to wield a sword.
Once he was standing straight again he looked to see how the two woman were doing. Much to his surprise and to the delight of most men in the audience, one pair of breasts were in plain sight for all to see. As for Rheawien, she was fully clothed and really went at the other woman with all she had. However now Zerith was faced with a decision. Which one would he go after?
After some consideration, the final decision was that his next target was Rheawien. Although neither of them knew it, she was the major threat out of the two of them. The simple fact that the other was poisoned made that clear. Although the stitched-lipped one did break his wrist as was responsible for the pain that filled his arms and head. Rhea was still more dangerous to Zerith that she was now.
Gripping onto his sword tightly the swordsman rushed towards Rheawien. Part of him felt terrible for having to do this. She had followed him and fought beside him when not many would. For the brief time they shared Zerith felt like she actually put his faith in him. Yet now here they were, fighting for supremacy in a steel cage. Here the past didn’t matter, only the present did. As Rheawien came within reach of his blade he knew what he’d do with the past. He sliced downwards upon the half-elf’s back while the other woman attacked from her front. All the while he was intending on sending Rheawien to the antifirmament, just as he was sending the past there with this first attack.
As for the topless woman, he’d team up with her. Together they would kill the half-elf and then the poison would claim the life of the other. She’s pass away in Zerith’s arm in their moment of victory. It was perfect, almost poetic.
-
Both of her attacks connected and Rheawien couldn’t say which one gladdened her more. The first one was more efficient, more deadly, ripping through the thigh muscle and drawing out a squirt of blood. The second one failed to match the first in damage, but the result was certainly more eye-pleasing. Rhea’s katana ripped through the woman’s clothes as if they were made out of paper, exposing her ample breasts to all who had the fortune to be close enough to notice. Rheawien was more then close enough and with her accelerated metabolism she had more then enough time to observe the revealed chest. Her sexual affinities kicked in inadvertently, they way they always did in the oddest times imaginable, and she couldn’t help but pause her movement and stare at the exposed soft flesh of the woman. The last time she saw a pair of naked breasts that weren’t her own was with Sarah, and that encounter with the infamous Lavinian seemed centuries ago. More then enough time for her lust to accumulate and surface at this peculiar instance.
She paid for the pleasure of staring in blood though. The now topless female used her wings to put some distance between them, just enough for her to gain momentum and come at Rheawien in a blistering flyby. And before the half-elf even got a chance to react, the bitch managed to slice through her left thigh with one of her weapons. The pain or muscle being torn apart was mesmerizing, but ultimately lifesaving as well. Because the affliction made her take a knee and this in turn saved her from what was bound to be a lethal follow-up that now merely grazed her ponytail. The combination of the pulsing ache, the warm crimson ooze that crawled down her leather pants and one seriously pissed off witch was more then enough to break the enchantment that the woman’s bosom created. Rheawien's perception was back and so was her battle awareness, noting the hasty sound of footsteps behind her back and another blistering strike from the winged female.
“Left. Roll. Now!” Rhea’s mind instructed and her body followed, throwing itself over the aching leg and out of the way of what seemed like a double strike. Because Zerith – her old pal and trusty ally – turned on her, attacking her from behind. But given Rheawien’s hasty dodge, his blade was now on course to clash with the leg of the winged woman. If fortune smiled on her, the warrior could even clip off the bitch’s foot, but that was not an outcome that Rhea counted on. She knew that this battle wouldn’t be won by dumb luck. Pushing herself up with her right leg after her rolling motion was done, the white-haired woman spun her twin blades in a fluid motion before she steadied herself again. The wound in her leg hurt like a bitch and it thwarted her movements just enough to cancel out the speed burst she got from her technique. Still, even at her regular pace, Rheawien was significantly faster then the majority of fighters.
“A nice backstab for old times sakes, huh Zerith?” she spoke, her face now locked in a cocky smirk. “So much about the so called honor you supposedly practice. Not that it matters. You’re going down with the witch.”
Rhea didn’t attack immediately though. The crowd wasn’t an unwelcome sight to her anymore, but something that fed her fury, their cheers inspiring her to prove her dominance over the rest. Her right hand rose high in the air, saluting the audience and the bloodthirsty beast in the stands returned the favor, their hooting overruling every other sound. She knew that they didn’t care if she won or lost as long as there was death on the cage floor and there was blood flowing by the gallons. And that was something she could provide for them.
First she had to take care of the bitch and her aerial abilities though. Having her opponent sweeping down on her like a hawk put her in a great disadvantage and with the blood loss, she couldn’t play cat and mouse for long. For this purpose Rheawien flung her longsword at the woman, but once again, even as the projectile left her hands, her telekinetic powers grabbed a hold of it. Instead of a usual straight-lined trajectory, the blade zig-zagged, changed elevation, making it utterly unpredictable. And then, when the blade was less then two paces from colliding with the black-haired female, it turned at a sharp angle, circling around the woman with blistering speed. Once the maneuver – completely controlled by Rhea’s telekinesis – was done, the spinning longsword sliced at the wings like a circular saw.
Zerith wasn’t forgotten either. Even as her unorthodox throw was done, Rheawien charged at her old acquaintance with her katana held low at her flank. The titanium weapon came from below, falling just short of the man’s flesh but at just the right time to bounce his sword upwards if he were to block it. With this movement done, she brought her blade down at what she hoped would be the undefended base of Zerith’s neck. There was no holding back in her movements, no reserve towards the man she fought alongside with. And the crowd loved it.
-
As Rhea jumped out of the way, Witch was greeted with the face and blade of the human she’d been attacking earlier. Apparently her new opponent was now on a crash course to becoming her new ally in this fight, or seemingly he had been trying until the elf had moved out of the way and now he was about to slice her leg open. With a swift motion, Witch blocked his sword with her sai, metal scraping and the blade sliding into that small area where the two prongs could trap it.
The human wasn’t her concern though, the elf was. So Witch moved away from him and towards the elf bitch in time to see her launch some kind of projectile towards her and she watched in amazement as that projectile shot itself in all different directions.
“She must be controlling it through telekinesis!”
Witch had that ability too, but she’d never used it in such a way, she didn’t even know if she could and now was not a time to experiment with such things. Using her telepathy, Witch broke into the mind of the elf woman trying to figure out what she was trying to do. Her eyes kept focus on the blade, it’s dancing motions bringing it closer and closer to her and it only took seconds for Witchblade to learn what the elf was up to.
Her eyes narrowed as she watched the blade spin around behind her. There was only one thing she could do to save her wings to use them again in this fight, and that would be to disperse them now. With that in mind, Witchblade’s wings began to shred themselves with no pain to herself. Within less than a few seconds there was nothing left of them and she fell to the ground, the elf’s cutting sword missing her wings and scrapping against the skin on her back, leaving nothing more than a few superficial and annoying wounds. Landing on her injured leg though sent her straight to the ground on her hands and knees. She’d forgotten about it for a moment and the pain that ripped through her leg was crippling for the brief second her weight was on it.
And right there, as the half-ling began to push herself up from the floor of the cage it hit her. Her vision began to blur a little bit, a throbbing pain began to form in her skull and if she had a stomach to feel sick with, she felt sick with it right now. At first she thought it was blood loss, the wound to her leg and stomach had been too much for her to handle but then she realized that it couldn’t be that. They’d bled, but not that much and blood loss had never made her feel like this before, it had to be…poison.
Witch had never been poisoned before and she didn’t know what her healing abilities could do to it, if anything. Would the poison kill her like a normal person? Would she be able to fight it off? Could she still fight herself? She wasn’t really too sure about that last one, though she could look passed the pain, that was nothing new to her, her vision was horrible. She was seeing in pairs, no wait threes and even then those three were blurred. Though the middle one would have to be the right target her depth of perception must be off.
Cursing her luck, Witch stumbled back towards the wall of the cage, her back resting against the cool steel, her breathing shallow and hard. She needed a break for a few seconds, just enough time to see if her body could get this poison under control. If she couldn’t, well, she really only had one course of action then, didn’t she?
-
Damnit, he had forgotten just how skilled Rheawien was. It seemed like it was such a long time ago since they had fought together. But that was then and this was now. Now he was going to deal damage to the other woman, his hopefully ally. Luck was still on his side though, or perhaps one of the Thayne was smiling down on him. Either way, he was never pleased to see an attack miss until now. When a simple swift motion she knocked his blade away and when back to Rhea.
But before either one of the two could attack, Rheawien beat them to it. First she went for the topless, stitched-lipped woman and then for the halberdier. Her katana came in low towards his side. But the trajectory changed the moment Zerith moved his sword in an attempt to block. Instead, the fine titanium blade shifted and hit his longsword away, leaving him open. Her sword moved once more, this time downward. Some eyes of the audience watched it’s decent an cheered, encouraging their champion to take another life and shed even more blood.
There wasn’t any way to block the blade, so instead the fighter would avoid it. His shifted his to his left and rolled, hearing the katana slice harmless through the air as it finished it’s decent. He couldn’t breathe a sigh of relief yet though, he needed to back away from the half-elf first. Scrambling to his feet, Zerith did just that. Though even when he managed to create a gap between the two of them, his eyes never left her. He was too afraid she’d try to do something if he didn’t keep her as the centre of his attention
“Backstab?” Zerith repeated, “We were never allies in this Rheawien”. He circled around her, stopping between his opponent and his ally. “If I remember correctly, a certain someone told me heroes don’t exist. They definitely don’t here Rheawien. This is just a cell of chaos and bloodshed, perfect for those like us find our sense of belonging when we shed blood and take lives.”
He gestured to their surroundings, “Let’s face it. Although I hate to admit it, I enjoy every moment of being here. The crowd cheering every time you deliver a blow is like a aphrodisiac. The pain that fills our body only adds to the rage and adrenaline we feel. As for honor, you have no idea what real honor is. The people watching us don't have a clue either, yet that doesn't seem to stop them from enjoying every minute this.”
Smiling, he raised his sword and some of the spectators cheered. “Just think, all these people will be cheering for you the moment I force your life to leave your body. Then you’ll travel to the Antifirmament, where I’m sure Ganitorax will be waiting to greet you.”
He’d bring the fight up a notch, giving it the status it deserved as one of the final clashes in the match. The halberdier willed his body to surface his inner strength, doubling his strength and increasing his agility as well. He rushed forwards towards the white-haired woman, his longsword trailing behind him as he closed the gap he created. As he came with reach of Trithdursil, he sidestepped to his right and spun to his left. He swung his blade horizontally at her chest, eagerly awaiting to watch he pierce her skin and break a rib or two.