As tempted as she is to lord her victory (as she sees it) over him, it's probably better to just take the thing, isn't it? So she gets ready, and it doesn't take long.
She's there, in the courtyard, poleaxe in hand, and she grins when she sees him. Can't stop herself. "M'lord." She pretends to flip the visor in a helm she isn't wearing.
Perhaps it is Barrow’s heckling. Perhaps it’s a product of Jone’s own handiwork in getting him here, rather than letting him cling dutifully to his own resolve. Whatever it is, there’s no formality this time— no warning. His blades are drawn as quick as a fired pistol, rushing in with a lowered lunge to try and snap aside the head of her poleaxe, his short sword lodged beneath the metal curvature at its front to keep her from effectively recovering without needing to play a variation of tug-of-war in exchange.
She is right about her own style. And this time, he has an idea.
The pommel of his longsword he aims for her wrist— the closest to him, attempting to hook it beneath her hold as he pulls her weapon towards him.
And Gabranth has the advantage. Not because of his armor or his training-- both superior-- but because Jone is distracted in the business of flipping Barrow off.
And then Gabranth has her poleaxe and her hand feels like it was hit by a druffalo. Jone yelps, but doesn't let go. Pain is pain, even if bleeding pain is better. Her grip tightens, strength rising.
A poleaxe is a long weapon, though, and that generally means reach. Occasionally, Jone's thought, it can also mean the shape of the fight changing. Instead of letting go or pulling back, Jone adjusts her grip, hands closer to the axe, closer to Gabranth's blade, entwining them tighter together. If he's going to try to steal her blade, she'll be a lodestone. It's all she can think of, through the pain and the surprise.
Later, she'll be impressed. He really did get her on the back foot.
In height, she holds advantage. In reach, in strength— for it is pain that spurs a rise in her power, and it is anger that fuels his— and he cannot permit himself that, unless he wishes to see Jone suffer.
Which he does not.
So this will be a matter of balance. Between what he grants her and what he withholds from her. And to that end he cedes to her pull— allows his heels to drag forward across slick earth until he’s well within her reach. Until he’s close enough that he can rush for the far more disreputable move of snapping his ankle behind her own in the midst of shifting balance, and slamming his plated hip against hers where she is unguarded.
If closeness is the realm she aims for, he’s going to make it unbearable.
She finds herself grinning, the wideness of it rending her face. It isn't the bloody-minded smile she finds on her face when the world has gone simple, all red with pain and the promise of it. No, if the world smells metallic, it is with steel and sweat; if she sees red, it's her hair and his cape. This is a facsimile of real battle, and that should itch at her, but instead she's left breathless with appreciation.
She's never been this close to him before.
Jone supposes she has a few options. She's not going to get strong enough to free herself at this rate. She could harm herself, bite her tongue and jab her hand into the sharpness of a blade, but this fight doesn't remind her of her battles fought in professional shame. Instead, she's reminded of the brawls of her youth, fought against men taller and stronger than her, frequently outmatched and outnumbered. She survived those with a different kind of strength.
Jone pulls at her poleaxe, tugging at it with all her great strength, maneuvering it so, when she lets it go, it will crash into Gabranth's helm. That is, unless he can stop his own answering strength and cancel the inertial.
Regardless, she leans herself back at the same time, intending to unbalance them in the process, hoping he'll fall forward. If he crashes her into the ground, it will be enough strength to do whatever she fucking wants.
He’s placed the whole of his wager against her balance: there isn’t time to spare for avoiding that blow where it lands— knocking aside his helmet with a resounding clatter as they collapse hard against the earth, his attention (despite the sting of clinging contact) fixed briefly on it while it rolls just out of grasp.
She’s bought him anger— bought him strength, however quick a rush of it— by way of that outcome alone, and it shows in the vicious curl of his lip. The way his nose wrinkles in an untamed scowl, so out of place on a face meant for promises of honor and kept vows. The edges of sharp teeth, the livid twist of his brow.
Only Barrow is here, that miserable assembly of ill-jointed bones, and perhaps because of that, he doesn’t care to waste time or leverage retrieving his helm: the damage has already been done.
His long blades’ pommel wedges itself against her ribs (a duller pressure— one of discomfort, more so than pain), his short blade wrenching against the cross of her axe body braced between like a drawn spring, unwilling to buckle further.
She has one weapon to his two, and if he bears himself into that, the misery of it might force something to give.
"Fuck!" It's not a cry of pain, though she feels something crack or fracture, probably a rib. That doesn't matter; healers can fix that. She wasn't trying to knock his helm off, and now her own anger rises to mix with the pain in her chest and her hand.
It's anger at herself, of course, but what greater motivation is there than that? She's never had any skill hitting the true targets of her rage, deserved or not. Barrow can attest to that.
Still, in that moment of crushing anger and pain, she's forgotten their audience. Pain and anger mix, one giving her power and the other, permission. With strength far greater than she had only a minute ago, she wrenches him off her, pushing him backward. Her poleaxe goes with him; she doesn't care for the finesse required to free it. She'll figure that out later. It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter.
Jone doesn't punch Gabranth in the face; she's too distracted by it. She aims her fist for the few inches of unarmored leather at his side. She gets in close, daring him to cut her, inviting him to take revenge.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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I mean only that I prefer to see you taking comfort in lighter companionship, rather than bloodied trial alone.
1/3.
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[She doubts it, but she doubts either of them would benefit from her comparing pot and kettle outright.]
I have mates, Gab. I only don't invite you drinking 'cos I reckon you'd rather hang yourself.
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Drinking is hardly a worthwhile practice.
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Speaking of, I did what you said. If you ever need to, I don't know, bathe or eat, me room's in the Templar tower. Fourth floor.
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Well, perhaps she can hear it, at least. The way his exhale runs as thin as spun thread.]
I will visit when I am inclined.
[Does that sound like petulance? It does, doesn’t it.]
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Let me know when you need another spar, like. Could always use some light companionship.
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Or replaced.
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Y'know, I wasn't in armor the first we fought, and I won.
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[Won, she says, as though it'd been a true contest of mettle without restraint.]
Were this even fractionally true, then it would be due to my own mercy, nothing more.
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1/2
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She's there, in the courtyard, poleaxe in hand, and she grins when she sees him. Can't stop herself. "M'lord." She pretends to flip the visor in a helm she isn't wearing.
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“You are a nuisance.” This much is true. Irrefutable fact, and as much a point of sentiment as it is contention within his own heart.
“I’ll not spare you a second thought this time.”
—That, however, is a lie.
“Should harm find you, it will be your own fault, and I'll take no blame for it.”
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"You know my fighting style is about getting harmed? Thought I went over this."
Still, she squares her feet, readying her stance for combat.
ignore me
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She is right about her own style. And this time, he has an idea.
The pommel of his longsword he aims for her wrist— the closest to him, attempting to hook it beneath her hold as he pulls her weapon towards him.
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And then Gabranth has her poleaxe and her hand feels like it was hit by a druffalo. Jone yelps, but doesn't let go. Pain is pain, even if bleeding pain is better. Her grip tightens, strength rising.
A poleaxe is a long weapon, though, and that generally means reach. Occasionally, Jone's thought, it can also mean the shape of the fight changing. Instead of letting go or pulling back, Jone adjusts her grip, hands closer to the axe, closer to Gabranth's blade, entwining them tighter together. If he's going to try to steal her blade, she'll be a lodestone. It's all she can think of, through the pain and the surprise.
Later, she'll be impressed. He really did get her on the back foot.
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Which he does not.
So this will be a matter of balance. Between what he grants her and what he withholds from her. And to that end he cedes to her pull— allows his heels to drag forward across slick earth until he’s well within her reach. Until he’s close enough that he can rush for the far more disreputable move of snapping his ankle behind her own in the midst of shifting balance, and slamming his plated hip against hers where she is unguarded.
If closeness is the realm she aims for, he’s going to make it unbearable.
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She's never been this close to him before.
Jone supposes she has a few options. She's not going to get strong enough to free herself at this rate. She could harm herself, bite her tongue and jab her hand into the sharpness of a blade, but this fight doesn't remind her of her battles fought in professional shame. Instead, she's reminded of the brawls of her youth, fought against men taller and stronger than her, frequently outmatched and outnumbered. She survived those with a different kind of strength.
Jone pulls at her poleaxe, tugging at it with all her great strength, maneuvering it so, when she lets it go, it will crash into Gabranth's helm. That is, unless he can stop his own answering strength and cancel the inertial.
Regardless, she leans herself back at the same time, intending to unbalance them in the process, hoping he'll fall forward. If he crashes her into the ground, it will be enough strength to do whatever she fucking wants.
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She’s bought him anger— bought him strength, however quick a rush of it— by way of that outcome alone, and it shows in the vicious curl of his lip. The way his nose wrinkles in an untamed scowl, so out of place on a face meant for promises of honor and kept vows. The edges of sharp teeth, the livid twist of his brow.
Only Barrow is here, that miserable assembly of ill-jointed bones, and perhaps because of that, he doesn’t care to waste time or leverage retrieving his helm: the damage has already been done.
His long blades’ pommel wedges itself against her ribs (a duller pressure— one of discomfort, more so than pain), his short blade wrenching against the cross of her axe body braced between like a drawn spring, unwilling to buckle further.
She has one weapon to his two, and if he bears himself into that, the misery of it might force something to give.
Or at the very least to shift.
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It's anger at herself, of course, but what greater motivation is there than that? She's never had any skill hitting the true targets of her rage, deserved or not. Barrow can attest to that.
Still, in that moment of crushing anger and pain, she's forgotten their audience. Pain and anger mix, one giving her power and the other, permission. With strength far greater than she had only a minute ago, she wrenches him off her, pushing him backward. Her poleaxe goes with him; she doesn't care for the finesse required to free it. She'll figure that out later. It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter.
Jone doesn't punch Gabranth in the face; she's too distracted by it. She aims her fist for the few inches of unarmored leather at his side. She gets in close, daring him to cut her, inviting him to take revenge.
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He's impressed, on various levels.
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