Maker. She has seldom felt her age so keenly as she does trying to dance about the strikes.
Diana’s clearly built of something else. Something different, inhuman (not the first Rifter to wear one such a guise, not the last). Her blows hammer out with a force still restrained, and all that Wren can think over and over is:
Thank fuck for magebane. Thank fuck that if they ever need to, they still own a way to put these people down.
May it never come to that. Wren is not so paranoid that she'll look past gentle intentions, nor so impractical as to ignore the woman’s potential. We can use this. We need to use this.
So they spar. She lasts longer than she ought to, perhaps, longer than is wise. Wren isn’t in the habit of bowing to injury, not for something so minor as this. So she lasts.
Not forever.
In the end, she’s too slow to meet a parry, feels her step slip. She knows she’s falling before there’s any time to correct the course. Her roll halts midway through its course, torn open by a splintering pain from her side and —
Yes. There go the ribs now. Now she knows for certain. Wren’s face drains white as she clamps a bracing hand to her side. A long pause before she rises to her knees, moves shakily to find her feet.
"Well-fought," She grits it — not sore at the loss, only. Well. Very literally. "I must. Concede."
When's the last time she's said that without steel at her throat?
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Diana’s clearly built of something else. Something different, inhuman (not the first Rifter to wear one such a guise, not the last). Her blows hammer out with a force still restrained, and all that Wren can think over and over is:
Thank fuck for magebane. Thank fuck that if they ever need to, they still own a way to put these people down.
May it never come to that. Wren is not so paranoid that she'll look past gentle intentions, nor so impractical as to ignore the woman’s potential. We can use this. We need to use this.
So they spar. She lasts longer than she ought to, perhaps, longer than is wise. Wren isn’t in the habit of bowing to injury, not for something so minor as this. So she lasts.
Not forever.
In the end, she’s too slow to meet a parry, feels her step slip. She knows she’s falling before there’s any time to correct the course. Her roll halts midway through its course, torn open by a splintering pain from her side and —
Yes. There go the ribs now. Now she knows for certain. Wren’s face drains white as she clamps a bracing hand to her side. A long pause before she rises to her knees, moves shakily to find her feet.
"Well-fought," She grits it — not sore at the loss, only. Well. Very literally. "I must. Concede."
When's the last time she's said that without steel at her throat?