GT 2015 - MATCH 4 - Iona Varithim vs. Strike-Fist

The southern gate peaked open a crack, allowing a figure to pass through them. She was tall, with a noblewoman's demeanor and build. At first glance, the woman appeared unarmored, her upper body covered in a pearly tabbard which draped elegantly to her knees. As she approached, the outline of a cuirass beneath the fabric became more apparent, as did the curvature of her greaves, bracers, and pauldrons. In her right hand was a spear with a long blade: it would serve well as either a cutting or thrusting weapon. Her right hand held a shield emblazoned with a sigil of the Holy Flame, the surface polished so brightly that it reflected the sun's light across it's surface. At her belt was a series of vials encased in armored cartridges, along with a scabbard which held a basket hilted sabre.

Through her winged-helm her face remained emotionless, even after the man's outburst. A scoundrel? Or is it an act? It didn't matter.

She paid his antics no attention, she had bigger problems to worry about. Her mark might be in the stands already, watching the match. She approached Strikefist, walking until she was eight or so meters away from her opponent. With her spear she held the critical advantage of reach, but that advantage wouldn't persist if she allowed him to successfully close the distance. She entered a utilitarian fighting stance, tucking in her shield to cover the entirety of her left flank. If he was watching closely, he would notice her eyes were searching the crowds as she waited for the match the begin. Only as the bell signaled that the match had begun did her cold eyes revert back to the assassin.

"I'll take the steak, infidel."

More bawdiness. Jokes, jokes, jokes. Was this all a joke? She couldn't see any weapons on him, which only confirmed her suspicions. He is trying to disarm me. No man would expect to land a lethal blow on an opponent in full plate armor unless they were insane, super-humanly strong, or were armed. He looked mundane enough, thought to be safe....

Her left hand fell by just a few inches as it went to her belt. If she wasn't interrupted she would pull a tab on her thurible, releasing an entrapped ember which would light the incense within. The wind had thankfully calmed down, so soon a cloud of wispy light smoke would encase the woman. She would crouch into a striking stance, beginning to circle toward the man while he chattered.

He was armed though, he had to be. Was it in his sleeves? Throwing knives? The judges had been careful to forbid ranged weapons... but she couldn't be the only cheater, right? She approaches cautiously. When he moved, she would intercept. She spoke clearly, not an ounce of worry evident in her voice.

"Freedom enables the cultivation of sin, of the darkest depravities and fell magics. Degeneracy is the end result of freedom, just as divine order leads the way to purity of spirit and exaltation of virtue... and of humanity. But are we going to argue philosophy, or fight? I would be fine with either, but the crowd must be getting bored. Can't deny them their spectacle."

He wasn't the only one who could taunt. She needed him to move within her striking range, but not close enough to slip past her defenses. If his strength or speed were magically enhanced he would find his attributes diminished the moment he touched the smoke. She had, however, miscalculated on thing. While enshrouded in her cloud of smoke no magic could reach her, not even the magic which would prevent her death if she was "lethally" struck. The same was true of Strike-fist, should he dance within the nullification zone produced by her incense.

"Come on now, you were so eager to ravage me just a moment ago."

Two could play this game.

So, hidden weapons it was. So tiresome and boring . If he wouldn't throw the first attack, she would.

As the assassin fingered the mechanism of his blades, she would lunge, the blade or her winged spear darting forward in perfect rhythm with her forward lunge. Her shield arm turned a few degrees, placing a barrier between herself and the assassin. If she tried to punch at her his feeble fists would meet cold Sancturian steel. Blades would fare just as well: he would need to dart around her to close the gap, as her shield would make a frontal attack nearly impossible.

She aimed for his center of mass. Fancy disarms or strikes to the limbs would likely miss due to her opponent's agility. She would track his movements as she lunged, be it up, right, or left.

She struck like a coiled serpent.