[Training] makes me that much stronger

WESSEX out of the night that covers me A different, new sort of taste floods her mouth; not fire, not life, not earth - but something that drew her closer to the Gods. The Gods which reviled her, burned her, and would turn her to ash and dust if they could. She almost snarls into Are's neck, but holds on, because there’s a light in the orgasmic bliss that whisks that anger away, something that transforms when it hits her systems, something that says She might be a little closer. Wessex hums, sighs, and pulls away from the big man. His mind may be reeling from the unusual encounter, but hers is not. She pushes him away, fairly certain his reaction wouldn’t be welcoming. An arm lifts to wipe her mouth, a little dribble of blood smearing across the ever-tan flesh. His blood. The blood she took from him. Wessex watches, almost taunting him. What was he going to do about it? black as the pit from pole to pole i thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul

Are

Weakness, what little edge he had had felt dulled but replaced with a fury ignited by the transgression. A step beyond what line had been drawn in the sand, a breach of some sort of mutual respect he had imagined had existed. Eyes alit with a rage he hadn't felt in ages flitted towards the little pile of belongings he had left behind, and the bushel of javelins stood enough off to the side to not get in the way for the supposedly friendly wrestling match.

A better man had would've known his limits, accepting defeat and bidding a hasty retreat, but in that very moment he wasn't. Instead of a hero knowing better than to be a stubborn fool he was a very angry cobbler. A few wobbling steps to find his footing again before almost snarling and tossing all his heft towards Wessex, hoping to... Well, what exactly wasn't very clear, but at least it made him feel better in the moment.

WESSEX out of the night that covers me Are has the same flaw Wessex does (and he’d probably fucking hate knowing they are even an ounce alike), he doesn’t always know when to give up. Something in the warrior admires his pluck and determination, and something in the realist rolls her eyes hard at it. She’s happy to continue, but the guy isn’t in great shape, now is he? Wessex easily sidesteps the cobbler, sighing at little as she does. By no means does she want to knock him out again. So she dances away, kind of hoping that he’ll be like a puppy and wear himself out enough to drop on his own or wander off. She can keep going like this for hours if need be - the only danger is if she’s caught, and by the looks of it, even with the rage that fuels him, he probably won’t be able to catch her unless Are maneuvers her into some sort of trap. Which is always possible. Possible, but not entirely probable Or she could just… leave. black as the pit from pole to pole i thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul

Are

He wanted to scream, to let slip a mighty warcry worthy of one knocking on the gates of the great hall as he hurled himself haphazardly at the shadow of the long gone Wessex. Every swipe, punch, and grapple, menacing nothing but thin air. Always hitting their intended mark just as the enemy danced away, appearing a foot and an inch from where he aimed. Exerting every ounce of force only yielded ever more frustrating and wide misses, and as the power reserves dwindled Are had to come to a realization that stubbornness would only get him so far.

A moments respite, to catch one's breath and regroup. Fighting without a head was something he knew would be punished, once by a few good smacks with a sword flat and now with the humiliation of running about like a headless chicken. Fight to one's strengths. Strength in Are's case, what little he had over the lightning fast non-human. An idea took shape, desperate as it might've been, it was better than nothing.

With a good wind-up he threw his heft sluggishly towards his opponent, but as he approached what he had come to know as the point his attack was rendered useless he pushed all his might into steering his force the other way. Not where she was, but where she would end up. In theory, at least.

WESSEX out of the night that covers me All she can do is hope he’ss learned something about himself (I mean, she hoped he might have enjoyed the blissful bite, but that’s asking someone to enjoy an assault, and we all know that’s fucking ludicrous). She waits a bit while he takes a rest, crouching down to give him a ‘you give up yet?’ kind of look. Which he ignores. Or isn’t ready to give up yet. Either way, it’s no skin off her nose to keep going. She remains in a slightly higher crouching position, leaning from side to side on the balls of her feet, hands positioned in front of her to stave off a frontal attack. She dodges left when it seems like he’s going to go right, but then finds him far closer than she ever intended to let him get. There’s a slight snarl in her gaze and a breathy hiss as Wessex yanks herself back, landing flat on her ass, but also out of range of those tree-trunk arms. With a shake of her head, the blonde fighter gets up, dusting the dirt from her clothes. “Enough,” she says. “You’ll kill yourself like this.” black as the pit from pole to pole i thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul

Are

Almost, so close he could almost feel the cold skin whiz by. So close he knew just another inch would had meant a fox trap snapping shut with bone crushing force. Callused hands clamping down and not letting go until a victor emerged. Callused hands left grasping thin air and realizing the expected resistance was nowhere to be found, a fact that resonated through his body as he felt the balance shift a hair too far forward.

Accompanying the light thud of Wessex taking a tumble soon came a mighty crash as Are ate dirt with the force of all the explosive force he had let loose for a taste of victory. In it's stead came the chalky taste of the dry ground and warm iron seeping from his nose down over his dusty frown. A groan and a sigh as he got up on his knees, fighting through the stars to again throw himself recklessly into hopeless combat.

Hopeless.

Just as the realization set in it was only further cemented by mockery. Or that was at least what the exhausted, bleeding cobbler saw it as. A cocksure foe that could keep going all night long, while leaving Are a whimpering mess begging any god listening for just an ounce more of whatever kept him going. Stubbornness only got you so far, and in that case it got him close enough and it earned him a trip dirtwards. As he rose he realized the futility of it all. He would, as a matter of fact, only manage to get himself killed.

The bitter taste of defeat was far worse than the dirt and blood he spat out as he walked away from a chance to prove himself against the enemy. Even managing to keep himself from from spitting out some brash statement as he gathered his things and left Wessex with only one last hate-filled look before disappearing back the way he came. A better man slinking away.