There was one who did not tarry like the others. He who passed through the shrine without a word, the knapsack on his back filled with supplies, his expression sombre yet determined. His visage was one of a warrior from the frigid Northlands. Fur and iron, steel and stone, these things adorned his tall, powerful frame. He was a man like any other on a glance. Yet an arm made of stone was no ordinary thing, it marked him as Sigurd Stoneheart, bearer of the Stone Curse and survivor of the Way of the Warrior. In that stony grip he clutched a round shield draped in the hide of a Dragon, his slaying of such a fearsome beast the cause for his renown. At his side the tools of his trade, sword and axes, weapons of war and death. Sigurd had survived three years of conflict since leaving the Liason’s tournament with naught but his life as a reward. Now perhaps he would earn his comeuppance. Or now perhaps he would meet his end.

Steeling himself for war, the helmed warrior stepped over familiar terrain. Snow trod underfoot and the wind whistled shrilly, no doubt freezing the less well equipped for the cold to the bone. To Sigurd, this place was not so different from home. He moved assuredly, and so reached the first point of crossing a while before his fated opponent. Familiar now with the destined nature of combat in such a place, perhaps grown more cynical in his days since the Tournament, Sigurd secured an advantage with little doubt he would fight. He may talk, he may not, and such would depend on that which rose to meet him.

Having reached the windswept cliffs, his feet carried him swiftly half-way across the area, standing between two rocks that blocked a clear view of the entire arena. He did not draw then, but waited to see who would face him. His rugged face frowned, muddy-blonde hair trapped beneath iron and faint whiskers bristling in the cold. With a slight shrug his armour shifted, never quite comfortable, but a re-assuring weight none-the-less. Piercing blue eyes shone from beneath his dreadful horned helm, eyes which spoke of death.

Common sense was a powerful ally, and with it did Iolanthe trek the black mountain. She did not know how the conclusion came to her, but did not shrug such superstitions off, the knowledge that a battle would occur here on this day. It was never spoken aloud that the mountain's scape was a tournament of bloodshed, but it's history, drenched in death, hinted to nothing else. People died trekking up the mountain, and never did a group attempt the climb and come back side by side.

Iolanthe held her spear backwards and used it as a crutch to climb up the mountain, for the path she chose was not the beaten trail. She had some mountain climbing experience behind her, such as the time she visited the Oracle on mount Olympus. This black mountain was nothing like Olympus, however... it was very much alive, and the path became ever the more treacherous as Iolanthe navigated it. Eventually, the mountain's maw would deny her the advantage she sought, in her attempt to reach the peak without making contact with the other warriors. Bloodlust wasn't her thing, but it'd be forced upon her here. Tremors shook her off the side of the mountain she attempted to climb, until the path her eyes scouted out was no more. Sliding down a suddenly diagonal slope, she found herself in a narrow chasm.

"So the gods have spoken..." Iolanthe uttered under her breath, while turning her head down the pathway newly created. With her blessed sight, she could see far ahead, through the narrow route, a man stood in wait, a good eighty feet ahead in the only available open space she could spot for miles. Her hands carried the will of her devotion, and so she was willing to play the puppet in this game, she'd progress onwards with an unflinching courage, until she too became visible in the eyes of her designated enemy; From this standoff, each warrior could gauge one another.

The man standing before Iolanthe was scouted earlier, however his hurried unfaltering pace gave the hoplite little time to properly examine him. At first glance, he looked a bit rugged, like the many Germanic barbarians to the north; Iolanthe had some experience fighting off these heathens for the Romans. At second glance, the man seemed a slight bit taller than the average barbarian, his helmet was pretty unique, and the patterns woven in to his leather armour differed as well. Iolanthe's mind acted fast, and her eyes faster, at this distance she could scope in to his very pores, or lack thereof on his left arm, the colour of his eyes and hair, what scars were visible, and what weaknesses might be estimated based on those scars. A sigh escaped Iolanthe's lips, what a fine specimen of a man, he was obviously an incredibly skilled warrior, and a tad handsome to boot. Hopefully he had milked life's splendors to the fullest already, else Iolanthe would not enjoy killing a champion with no heir.

Hyperion wheeled about once in Iolanthe's hand, which outstretched with her arm so that the spear's tip pointed towards the northerner, whose name now became a thing of interest. "You who seeks the treasure of gods, state your name, and what reason compels you to climb this mountain!" Iolanthe loudly commanded, letting her voice echo across the mountain ledge. With honour, however, she wouldn't make such a demand without some mutual exchange. "I am Iolanthe Adastraia, champion of Hyperion! I seek the treasure to show my devotion to the solar, and bring liberation to my people! If I judge your resolve as impure, you will be shown no mercy! However... prove otherwise, and perhaps we can arrange for an honourable battle!" Iolanthe's eyes closed thusly, and her arm twisted to the side, pointing her spear instead towards the mountainous wall to her right. "Either way, by the sadism of the gods, the key to this wall is likely hidden in our blood... they seek a glorious performance! So then... Shall we give them what they desire?" Iolanthe finished her speech, and hoped it was not too much... or worse, if the Northerner couldn't speak or decipher the common tongue!

A standstill would last until the Viking warrior spoke his mind. Iolanthe knew she might die here... and if she did, she'd wish it by the hands of only the most honourable of champions. She had several coins strapped to her waist, which she would place upon her opponents eyelids, but only the ones who fought a respectable duel. She had enough extra to pay Chiron's fare if she were to fail.

For but a moment, Sigurd cursed the machinations of the gods. It seemed he was destined to be made a murderer of women once again by the necessities of tournament. He would never be comfortable with the slaying of the fairer sex, perhaps due to some archaic nobility or for personal reasons he never disclosed. Regardless, it would seem another would meet his blade before long, he did not relish the thought. Standing tall and silent he watched the spear-woman trudge through the gate and into the point of crossing that was to be their arena, and for one of them, their grave.

His own observations were made quickly and without ceremony. Spear, shield and armour with a pretty face. No easy contest awaited him. With a resigned air he shrugged his shoulder causing his knapsack to drape down into his arm. He thrust it aside, dropping it beside the rock to his right, and looked up as the woman began to speak. Perhaps by some divination of the Mountain and the desires of the gods themselves, her tongue seemed decipherable to his ears. He allowed her the speech, remembering a time when he himself asked such questions on entering a tournament, the similarities struck him and an odd feeling of familiarity unsettled him. When all fell silent he looked on for a moment, fixing her with eyes that seemed weary before their time. Finally, when it seemed unlikely he would reply, his lips parted.

“I am Sigurd Stoneheart. I climb this mountain for my own reasons, but I will tell you that I seek one who has the power to undo a great injustice and save many lives. I believe your cause is also just, steel yourself and may your gods grant you entry to their halls if you fall.” Sigurd knew this contest was fated, destined even. Blood had to be shed as once more violence the most primitive of tools would serve as the decider. It was a dark circle, one which only death could release him from or so he had thought. Now he had tasted death, it had not served its purpose.

Sigurd drew his longsword from his left hip with his right hand, the steel breaking free of its sheath with a leathery rasp. Facing his foe he stood with his left side and foot forward, his shield held half a foot from his body angled away from him and providing cover for his front. His longsword he held low facing his soon to be opponent, a little behind his shield. Between the two of them, off to his right, was a crevice in the cliff-edge that likely offered a swift death on the ground far below. He waited to see how she would approach, or if she would.

A sound exhale echoed over sharp black rocks. Iolanthe's focus steadied on the warrior before her, who barred her path to the mountain's peak. Her wish was granted, the opponent both honourable, and worthy to be her adversary. The look on his face was easily recognized, it was one among three she most commonly witnessed on the battlefield. Often enough, her gender deterred many an enemy, either they doubted her skillset, or simply disdained the idea of killing a woman; it was too common an issue for Iolanthe to pity. Iolanthe assumed her opponent would not make the first move, many men did not, against the auburn haired beauty, she'd have to break the meta.

"Here I come, Sigurd Stoneheart!" Iolanthe yelled, before ending the idle state her legs were in.

A slow and steady pace, one foot after the other, Iolanthe paced around the two stalagmites in her way, and diagonally positioned herself at a vantage point towards Sigurd's left side. She wanted her back to the wall, in case she finally found an opponent who could break her stance, falling down the mountain's side seemed too unpleasant. Alike the dance of a wolf, Iolanthe circled in and closed the gap slowly, whilst never taking her eye off the northerner. At all times she kept Hyperion aimed directly at her enemy's heart, whilst her arm kept tucked close to her waist. She approached at a suspenseful pace, any onlookers might wonder when one of the two fighters might burst forth with violent energy. Iolanthe's pacing stopped when she was only eight feet away from her enemy, and she'd exhale once, whilst glaring in to his eyes. What kind of ideas was he thinking? What part of her body was he focusing on? How much would he rely on instinct? All valuable questions she'd need answered right now. He had many different steel weapons at his disposal, so Iolanthe pulled her shield hand closer to the gladius at the left side of her hip and gripped the pommel tight, this action would be hidden from sight due to the bulky size of her gilded hoplon shield.

The blinding glare of her fiery spear would make it difficult to track with the naked eye, and Iolanthe abused this advantage more often then not when the sun shone brightly. With one final step forward, she'd eliminate the gap between Hyperion and her enemy, by making a powerful stab at Sigurd's chest. She leaned her right side in with the attack, empowering it and making full use of the spear's five foot blade, which was more than enough to pierce right through leather. Although she motioned a full all-in, her strength was half feigned, she had full control over her weapon's movement, and was instinctively expecting her opponent to deflect it and close in. She wanted to avoid having her weapon maneuvered around so easily, and so her first attack would be a means of testing her opponent's reactions.

Hard blue eyes watched the approach, a subtle shifting in footwork to follow the changing line was all that came in response from the Northman. His left side was covered from further encroachment by the rock just three feet over, so further action was unnecessary as he awaited her opening gambit. Sigurd was playing his cards close to his chest, revealing little as only one who had reached the age where experience and energy balanced could do so. His sword very slowly edged forward as his stance grew tenser, predicting what was to come. With an impressive, but manageable, speed the Spearwoman lunged forward. Indeed, her lance was oddly difficult to track as it exhibited qualities of heated metal in a forge, but Sigurd was watching her body not the point of the spear. Everything he needed to know was revealed to him by the position of her arm, shoulder and feet.

His curiosity was arisen immediately by the target for her attack. Seeing a shield, most spearmen would strike for the head or the legs. Had Sigurd’s shield been just ordinary wood, his foe may have just made a grievous error. However, it was anything but ordinary. Draped in the scaly magical hide of a dragon, it repelled the encroaching spear-head in short order, magic and all. The spear-head shot off a little way past his left side, barely effecting the Northman. He instinctively blocked off the line with his shield, preventing her quickly adjusting and cutting him as she retracted the weapon. He could have closed immediately, but even with the disadvantage of reach, only fools rush in.

What his foe could have read from his defence would be questionable. She had struck at the strongest point in Sigurd’s defence and so his reaction had been minor at best. Perhaps she planned to capitalise on the Northman’s inaction in some way? Sigurd was not perturbed, a fight such as this could be decided on a single mistake and he could already guess what it would be and when it would come.

Much information would be gathered from a simple strike. Iolanthe had never encountered a dragon in her homeland, there were different monsters under her belt of expertise, and thus she did not recognize the texture of her enemy's shield. Through trial and error, she discovered her enemy's strongest point of defence in her very first strike. Although she aimed for his chest, at the side of his shield closest to his weapon arm, she'd also learn that he was indeed proficient on guard. It would've taken half the time to deflect her sword to his right, angling it between them both, which she would've capitalized on, instead he made the correct move of making sure that weapon stayed locked to his shield.

One might think only fools rush in, but how else was the front line recognized for its bravery? Iolanthe lived in a time where wisdom and foolishness were hard to differentiate, the wise argued they knew nothing, and the confidence of a fool could lead armies. Sure, Iolanthe would not blindly go in, she had no weakness yet to capitalize on, but she had some tried and true tricks to breaking down an enemy's guard. She'd have made an incredible archer, if Hyperion hadn't chosen her for the front line.

Like any Greek, Iolanthe beckoned the clinch, and by stepping forward once more with her left foot, she'd begin to close more of the gap between herself and Sigurd. After having her spear deflected, she'd showcase how swiftly she could swing her blade, by retracting her arm once, re-adjusting the weapon's aim low, and pointing the tip between her foes legs. When heated up, Hyperion as heavy a weapon should be, with that kind of length, but even so, one good stab could shishkabob three men. In the same motion as unsheathing her gladius with the blade pointing downwards, she'd spring forth, whilst awakening her left arm from its dormant state, punching outwards with the sharp edge of her hoplon shield. She aimed at Sigurd's torso again, this time closer to his right shoulder, which she kept in focus at all times, for the pauldron's shadow would reveal where his sword traveled, after having been cut off by the shield bash. She had little worries related to that sword, as long as she could keep it on the outskirts of her hoplon. By the time Iolanthe got close enough for such an audacious attack, her spear would've already found its way between her foes legs, since the weapon's length was something difficult to manage around, even in such close-quarters combat. Sigurd would feel a warmth nearing his crotch unlike any a woman before Iolanthe dared thrust against him; if he did not deflect the spear or dodge backwards, he'd risk having his thigh artery sliced open, or his groin castrated and cauterized.

With a single step, she brought ruin upon herself.

Sigurd moved in sync, the distance between them closed to four feet as she closed on the swordsman and rendered her own lance useless, caught on the same line as Sigurd’s shield behind him, unable to be retracted far enough to strike him in his new position. He stepped forward and leftward on his left foot, right dragging behind, not much distance gained. His sword, hovering ready for the lunge, burst forth, at first aiming for the gap in her shields on her right side. However, Sigurd could take advantage of an opening in record time, and his enemy had unconsciously granted him a massive one. The shield strapped to her left forearm could not provide her cover as she drew a blade from her left hip, and in Sigurd’s new position the opening made itself apparent to his keen eye. The steel longsword hurtled forward in a killing strike destined for her heart.

Her shield may perhaps still menace him, but not before his steel served its purpose.

Did Sigurd assume he'd be able to pierce through both Iolanthe's shield, and her cuirass in one strike? The order in which she made her attack was peculiar, but important. She had first retracted her spear from its full length, and swiftly so giving a two foot draw back in order to re-adjust its trajectory, roughly the length of her arm which had fully extended at first. Her guard was at its peak the minute she lead with her left foot, for her hoplon already covered half of her body whilst tucked to her waist, raising it upwards in a drawing motion only further protected her chest, leaving a small gap above the shield to keep an eye on the movements of Sigurd's shoulders and eyes. From the angle she stood, a basic stabbing motion could easily be dodged, however she had already committed to her attack, and quickly adjusted the angle of her strike the minute her eyes traced Sigurd's sidestep. Her gladius weighed barely anything, and she had already prepared unsheathing it from the beginning of the match, drawing it and punching existed as the same motion, and thus aiming for Sigurd's sword arm in the first place would turn favorably.

A loud clash of steel echoed across the battlefield, as the edge of Iolanthe's shield instead struck the strong fuller of Sigurd's blade before it could reach his shoulder adjusted, and before his stab could graze her breast. Depending on how strong he was, he might be able to hold her hoplon in place and keep the clinch steady, however making a heart-seeker stab, and assuming his first strike to be his last, meant there was a large sum of kinetic force in his attack which would be redirected towards her shoulder pauldron instead. The tip grazed over her pauldron, and the blade scratched the delicate bronze portrait welded over the reinforced steel. Had Sigurd been any weaker a man, his sword would've bounced back at him, ending the fight right then and there.

Many assumed that once they breached past the end of a spear or lance, the weapon would be rendered obsolete, for Iolanthe, such commonplace tactics did not work. The entire side of the spear was a blade, thus making clinch-combat not entirely hopeless for the girl. Although her weapon was at first deflected, she made sure to retract it away from Sigurd's strange scaly shield, which she estimated to be about the same size as her hoplon. Unless the Viking dared bend over to try and reflect the repositioning of Hyperion, it would indeed weasel its way under the shield as Iolanthe intended, dragging along the rugged rock as it did so, and eventually finding its way to Sigurd's unarmoured legs, the greatest weakness found in his defense thus far. She had no option to stab, and could only reach his heel if attempting to avoid another deflected attack, so she'd only have enough room to try and trip him with the blade-edge of her lance, a sweeping slash. Hyperion may not have caught him between the legs as intended, and he still had a chance to block the attack if he slammed his shield downwards, however given the failure of his first attack, and the likelihood he'd be thrust backwards in the process, Iolanthe had great confidence in the success of her spear's attack.

Whilst many warriors relied on strength, dexterity, or instinct, Iolanthe's greatest power was her perception, and her brainpower. She'd prove here the unflinching resolve of a woman, and her own ability to multitask in the heat of a battle. Given the blessings of Hyperion, it was child's play for her to pull off such complex maneuvers during split-second combat.

His eyes brightened momentarily as he saw the incoming deflection of his sword. It was good to be fighting a competent foe once again. There wasn’t time to think, nor be worried by his blade glancing off tough armour. He was still within striking range, and so long as that held true his onslaught would be unceasing. The turning of his blade had inconvenienced him, but he was a strong man, trained with the sword. He did not falter, and his grip remained steady as he carried out the only natural transition considering his situation.

Sigurd manipulated his blade back a short distance by lifting his hand and then brought it down into a vicious cut. His left foot moved away from his foe as his right took the lead, turning his body into the move and further confounding his opponent’s attempts to utilize her spear. He had not outright stopped her attack, just slowed it as such that his own sword would menace her first. His target was of course her unarmoured right forearm, encumbered by the lengthy weapon and exposed as she manipulated the lance its options for evasion were limited. His strike was intended to slip over the pauldron and down to its intended target if she attempted to use it in her defence by cutting at an angle, aided by his swords position after the shield parry.

Sigurd was taking advantage of the gap of around three feet between them, perfect range for his longsword but both too far and too close for his opponent’s weapons. Naturally, to launch such an assault Sigurd moved his shield back, but on launching the strike it followed forward with every intent of furthering the onslaught.

Split seconds were all Iolanthe had to work with, they were more than enough, her guard was fluid and could adapt to the situation instantaneously. Had Sigurd been looking past the visor of Iolanthe's legionnaire helm, he'd bare witness to how swiftly the hoplite's eyes worked. Bouncing from point to point, her pupils shot down once, then to each side of her foe, before rolling upwards to track the sudden movements of that longsword. Every action made was entered in to her mind's database, and instantly she reacted, throughout the entire skirmish, from the first clash of steel, to the last.

As Sigurd's arm swung high, Iolanthe needn't retract or stop the attack made by her spear-arm, instead she'd simply continue with the original plan. As the Viking's hand raised, even if but half a foot, it would give Iolanthe enough time to reposition her left handed hoplon right beneath the man's elbow, as intended from the beginning. To do this, she'd have to duck slightly, whilst twisting her arm so that the shield's central fuss point faced the sky, she'd continue her original punching motion upwards from below the fuller, and deny Sigurd's arm the momentum and path it needed to deal damage. In fact, as long as Iolanthe continued pushing her shield at different angles towards his chest at arm-pit level, it would be utterly impossible for him to use his sword whatsoever. This entire action required Iolanthe continue pivoting her right leg behind her left, so that once again, she fully lead with her hoplon. She leaned back a bit, to give the side of her shield closest to her head room to thrust up, and would begin ducking under her shield afterwards. What Sigurd didn't know now was the threat her gladius posed to his ribcage or bicep, if he attempted to pull his arm around the shield's far side, or if Iolanthe finished pushing it against his chest.

Hyperion's full length made it easy to make powerful and dangerous attacks whilst being held behind the wielder, Iolanthe never allowed her arm to be stricken, pivoting and continuously blocking protected herself whilst maintaining her offense. Even after the pivot, Hyperion's drawn length would be enough to strike at Sigurd's leg, and he made no effort to properly protect himself. With his shield behind him, nothing stood between Iolanthe's lance, and Sigurd's lower torso. The sweeping slash grew ever closer to those leather boots, but the minute that dragonhide shield stopped serving its purpose, Iolanth twisted her hand so that her gleaming blade's side snuck between Sigurd's shifting legs, and she brought it up with enough force to sever the thigh artery of his right leg, whilst simultaneously stabbing the blade forward to ensure the attack did not falter, it should've already struck him at this point, given its prior swing

Iolanthe was expecting a loud clang off her hoplon shield, but instead felt a strange sting in her arm. Her opponent was much faster than her, even from her ducked dodged position, the tip of his spear was long enough to engrave a single line in her bracer, whilst her hand pushed forward with her stab. Blood would trickle out from the wound, but Iolanthe still felt her fingertips, meaning her block was enough to at least stop Sigurd from severing the arm, or stopping her own attack. The end result, a somewhat sacrificial attack, Iolanthe continued to watch as her blade inched ever closer between her enemy's legs, she'd wind up trading blood for blood.

The blade slapped ineffectually against Sigurd’s left foot as his own strike landed. He wasn’t paying it much attention, as many years of war had taught him there was little to fear from a long weapon at close range. However, he was dismayed by the lack of effect his blade had, such strikes had always done far more damage in the past. Perhaps his foe had armour of some unnatural density or quality, it was not beyond the realms of possibility.

His sword strike did have one inevitable advantage, the blade knocked his opponent’s arm as her own strike landed, and weakening what paltry momentum it had. Unfortunately for the Northman the blade did have an unnatural quality of sorts, it was superheated. The effect may have been direr had Sigurd’s stone arm not been at hand barely a meter away from the blade itself, dampening it with its own passive aura that had a disruptive effect upon magic targeting Sigurd. Instead, the blade cut through his leather boots by merit of its high temperature and began to burn his skin, causing a slight graze before his foe’s hand was knocked by the longsword and her own pivot dragged the weapon out of line.

Ignoring the slight pain of the burn, albeit with surprise he had been marked at all, Sigurd continued his offensive. His foe had risen her shield up and offered him an easy target to strike at her body, and he was not one to turn down an obvious advantage. His left foot sank back a bit, consequently escaping further impediment from the bladed edge, but his stance was otherwise suitable for his follow up. He twisted his upper body rightward, swinging his shield but more importantly drawing his longsword in a vicious diagnol in a dangerous low cut. The effect was to draw his upper torso back and away from the shield while his blade slipped easily underneath, driving forth in a powerful strike to the upper part of his foe’s right leg. The fact that his blade was already low and in a suitable position from the attack on her arm made the strike a quick and effective follow-up exploiting her shield being out of position.

Thud, thud, thud ~ Iolanthe could hear her heart beating fast within her chest, her adrenaline was kicking in. Her iris's, like chestnuts rolling, followed the steel sword as it began to sweep beneath her shield. Time began to slow down, but only in her mind, it was all a side effect of neurotransmitters between her heart and brain. Sigurd likely felt the same sensation in battle, the thrill of do or die.

That sword had to be stopped at all costs, and Iolanthe didn't need to think hard on how to do so, her body was already lowering, she need only let her right leg buckle, and she'd save her exposed lower thigh. Her greave hit the dust, as she knelt before her opponent briefly. The double-plated armoured skirt would catch the tip of Sigurd's sneaky blade, and its loose form would absorb what little momentum swung her way. There was no gap in-between the skirt and her cuirass, so she would take no damage to her stomach if the sword slid further up.

In tandem with the change of stance, Iolanthe saw an opportunity arrive in the splitting of that second. At this time, the tip of her gladius would be pointing outwards, revealed by a glimmer under the sun sticking out from the far side of her hoplon, it pointed straight at Sigurd's neck. The weight of her shield and sword would suddenly stop and come crashing down on the northman's hand at an angle where the blade-point would meet his wrist before he could fully finish drawing his sword out from the shield's shadow. Although Iolanthe had been struggling to outspeed her opponent thus far, she had the advantage of gravity on her side here, making the falling weight of her hoplon extremely dangerous, and quick, without having to put much shoulder muscle in to the maneuver. Regardless of if the gladius stabbed him or not, he was slashing towards the shield, the two steels were bound to clash, and if the longsword were to redirect and dig in to the ground before being drawn back, it might bend.

All the while, Iolanthe's right hand could not hold idle whilst the rest of her body was fighting so hard to survive, she had to kill or incapacitate her opponent to win, and the clenched fist that held Hyperion quivered impatiently unable to wait out that moment. Trickles of blood tarnished bronze, but her veins were saved, she'd fight through the pain. She needn't put to much mental effort in to it, rather instinct took over the second her lance pierced Sigurd's guard. Iolanthe began saw-hacking at his legs almost wildly, whilst transitioning in to her new defensive stance. He could not escape her weapon's range with ease, so she angled her wrist so that the spear's tip began pointing upwards oh so slightly mid-swing, endangering his knees with the next strike, and if unsuccessful, and he backed up more, the length of her blade and its angle would instead begin to saw at his thighs. All Iolanthe had to do was slowly continue to sweep Hyperion towards him, pressuring the burn against Sigurd's legs whilst jabbing her hand in and out from the outside of her shield. Her new stance was a stable one, thus the next series of saw thrusts would be more powerful than the first.

Swing and clunk, surprising or perhaps not. Sigurd knew that fighting an opponent in heavy armour could often be a difficult task. His longsword glanced off heavy armour, the rebound and subsequent carrying of his arm off to his right clearing him from the sphere of influence of the swiftly descending shield. The point of his longsword jarred slightly as the shield made contact, but not significantly as there was a lot of give in his wrist and the weapon itself. Meanwhile, as he had expected the real threat of his attack had gone unnoticed, his own shield swinging into position. He pushed forward with his left foot to close on her, deciding finally to take the fight to its final stage. As he did so his shield came swinging in towards her own at a slight angle, likely to slam into the edge of her own shield with concussive force, the iron edge taking the brunt of the blow. There was only one inevitable outcome when his great stone arm was involved, her own defence would fail, pushing the shield out and away from covering her. As he pushed the shield away his own would twist in his hand, presenting the flat in a shield bind to the back of her shield and across her arm that would prevent further action. It was possible that his shield may slide behind hers instead, in which case the blow could break her arm or hand instead, however in her kneeling position Sigurd had launched the strike so that simply pulling away from it would be too slow.

Once in this risky situation with his opponent’s left side presumably bound up on the outside line, his right arm would be simultaneously drawing his sword back past his hip, preparing for a final blow. Fortunately pushing closer to his foe in this fashion would make manipulating her spear more difficult, the edge may begin to burn through his tougher armour such as the iron shin plates, but no immediate wound was suffered on his advance.

Sparks sprinkled upon the floor, as metal chafed metal. Iolanthe watched the steel sword slide to the ground, and slip out of view and in to the eclipse of her shield. Her desperate measure of defense was a testament to her skill adorning armour, its success proved her footwork competent, yet she would be forced to dance longer. A sweat drop would trickle down from her temple, she'd taste it by the time she rose back to her feet.

Iolanthe was a sitting duck in her current position, she knew this would be the case even before she bent, and did not plan on kneeling like a peasant for long. Once Sigurd's sword was out of view, its threat renewed, however she could estimate a path; He was drawing it to his right, and so she began to shift her hoplon leftwards, after it bounced off of the Northman's impressively durable sword. As her frontal guard opened slightly, she both felt and noticed her opponent's approach. He was tall enough to tower over her, so his next attack wouldn't go completely unnoticed; As well, she felt her spear pressured back slightly, while his shadow loomed closer. The signs were all there, he wanted to tussle! Normally a Greek would accept this challenge immediately, however Iolanthe always preferred to just watch the other Olympian heroes wrestle... usually in the nude.

Whilst her upper torso continued twisting leftwards, Iolanthe's left leg sprung from its bent position, using her impressive calve muscles to propel herself backwards, and slightly off to her right. During her body's trajectory, her right leg would unbend to its full extent all at once, keeping stationary until her left leg fully slid backwards in to a solid position behind her. Afterwards, she would have attempted to progress with her right, however a change in plans denied her the right to continue leading with her left for now.

During the transition of her stance, Iolanthe was given too small a gap in time between falling and rising back up to fully dodge her opponent's follow-up. However, as strong as Sigurd was, with his swing meant to break Iolanthe's guard, he would find himself overextending his arm a knife's length before indeed, as he intended, the two warrior's shields would clash loudly. The force of his punch, exerted through the edge of his shield, struck low on Iolanthe's hoplon as she rose, and threw it a short distance back. Iolanthe was lucky in a sense, for she did not know the capacity and strength of Sigurd's left arm until now; had she tried to resist, her shield would be crippled, and her wrist likely fractured. Instead, in a metaphoric sense, Sigurd was attempting to kick down a swinging door. Iolanthe's left arm swung back, leaving her chest exposed briefly. She did not resist the attack, but embraced it, and with a twist of her stomach and all above it, she let her left shoulder flow far away from her opponent, releasing the kinetic force of his attack in to the air. For a second, she would be unable to block with her left arm, however a delay in that arm's defence was a better trade-off than letting him have her shield or wrist.

Sigurd might be surprised that his opponent wasn't knocked back down, or the fact that her balance seemed completely unaffected. This was one of Iolanthe's unique traits. She knew instantly here that she could not overpower her opponent, but like many other giants she had fought, she would have to use Sigurd's strength against him.

The first of Iolanthe's stabs sliced against her opponent's ankle, and she'd hope for minimal damage in the form of a secondary slice as Hyperion made its way out. Iolanthe's right arm was outstretched past her hip by the end of her transition, fully extended; She could not draw her arm back quickly whilst dashing backwards, else it would counteract the defensive measures she put in play. This left her with only a few primarily risky offensive options. Given that her new placement would be a bit off to Sigurd's left, she'd both distance herself from the immediate threat that was his longsword, and swing her lance-sword's fuller under his stone arm. In its current position, Hyperion might seem idle of use, however it's gimmick might shine through the dark. As the blade's angle adjusted, it slid closer to Sigurd's heel tendon, a likely unarmoured area. She tried her best to keep the weapon pressed against his boots, knowing it'd pay off in time. The metal plates would gradually melt, flowing in to open wounds, an extreme and persistent pain would follow, the kind that numbed and disabled many a great fighter. Iolanthe's tactic was beginning to unravel.

On an ending note, Iolanthe would begin sliding her right leg further back, in an attempt to keep herself diagonal of Sigurd, to his left. In a moment's notice, if that longsword returned, or the northman followed up with a shield bash, Iolanthe would be prepared to call upon her famous legwork once more.

Now the follow up, did she think she could lift herself in armour so quickly as to avoid Sigurd’s forward momentum? Not a chance. The point of his longsword was fitting into place to the left of his shield as it made heavy contact with Iolanthe’s hoplon, depriving her of her precious guard. His right foot shot forward as her left leg tried to propel itself backwards, his foot dropping down, and without any upsets, just in time to catch his enemy’s own. It was almost childish to try to trample on someone’s foot in battle, but it could also be of extreme usefulness. With her momentum dragging her backwards, the sudden pressure clamping her foot to the ground as the Northman utilized his weight could easily unbalance her, at worst she may retrieve her foot and slip away, but it had cost the Northman nothing and would slow her regardless.

With her foot likely trapped momentarily and his longsword in position, Sigurd turned his shield to complete the bind, trapping her left arm on the outside line and getting his own shield out the way. As he did so she was simultaneously rising as she struggled to regain the distance between them that she should have secured earlier before Sigurd had moved in. Finally, after some speedy manoeuvring his sword was in position to strike as she had almost reached her full height. The threat would be evident by then, the point of the blade showing as the flat clung underneath Sigurd’s stone forearm. Using the smoothness and general hardiness of said arm to his advantage, it would be simplistic to stabilise a powerful thrust at a very specific target.

The thrust came quickly as her guard failed her and left her momentarily exposed. Naturally in throwing herself backwards her head had shifted somewhat, exposing the vulnerable flesh of her throat. That and her face were perhaps the only two viable targets on her turtle like body, and Sigurd knew this was his best opportunity to strike at them. As he stepped in his longsword shot under his left arm, his arms momentarily crossing as the blade launched forward to claim its price in blood. His strike was true, his target the throat dead-centre, striking at a slight upwards angle that could see it impale through the neck or even the lower part of Iolanthe’s face.

Once again Sigurd carried himself forward, momentarily pulling himself from the menace of the fiery weapon at his side. Another burned graze had appeared on his left leg just above his foot, almost unnoticed, as if he had brushed against a fiery stove. However, Iolanthe had perhaps made a mistake in relying on magic alone, as a more subtle examination would have realised something about Sigurd was weakening the effects of her weapon upon him, granting him extra time to finish the fight.

Iolanthe believed she could lift herself in heavy armour fast enough to avoid Sigurd's forward momentum. She had been training endlessly in her armour, to the point where she no longer felt truly encumbered by most of it. A toga protected her skin from the cold touch of her bronze cuirass, it conformed to her body, as did the simple plates strapped to her wrists and shins. Her shield was easily adjusted by movements of her legs alone, and her deft footwork was tireless. She didn't wear her armour, she breathed through it. The results of her training showed in her immensely muscular legs. Even as powerful as they were, the veins protruded still, showing how much effort the Greek hoplite put in to hasting her next movements, for she knew her life depended on it.

Milliseconds passed, and Iolanthe's adrenaline still hadn't run out. She was mid-stride, her upper body contorting rapidly, her shield swung wildly behind her at an impressive speed, Sigurd was strong. At this point, the moment of unveiling, the point Sigurd's sword was no longer hidden, and dark eyes locked on to it immediately. He adjusted the tip quickly, regardless of the force his weapon had taken, and she knew it's path would lead to the delicate of her throat. His aim was true, but his luck was off. What came next, she couldn't have done without him! The momentum of her swung arm shifted her stance so swiftly, that she would face him with her right shoulder before the weapon's tip dared defile her. She needn't even fully stand sideways for her hoplon pauldron to protect her from this fatal blow, though she tried to, its formidable width extended a foot outwards past her breast, and curved perfectly to protect from such a strike as Sigurd's. Though to make this happen, obviously Iolanthe needed to put her entire effort in to continuously twisting her upper body, allowing the momentum of her left arm's path to guide her, whilst further pulling her right shoulder closer in front of her, and limbo-leaning back. Iolanthe's right arm extended behind her to a point where she'd no longer be able to properly bend or retract retract it, this was due to the pressure of her weapon being locked against Sigurd's legs whilst her shoulder leaned in; A dangerous move for her, and she was glad that her opponent did not attempt to bat away her lance earlier.

Once a syzygy was formed out of the alignment of Iolanthe's shoulder hoplon, head, and far hoplon, she would feel the pressure of Sigurd's sword stab in to her armoured pauldron once more, this time since it's path and force were strong, it'd likely pierce through the first layer of bronze etching, which was not as sturdy as his sword. Beyond the bronze was a solid plate of steel which might dent, however it should hold considering its formidable bulk, its slippery rounded slope, and the fact the woman shouldering it was continuously backing away.

As Iolanthe's left foot planted swiftly behind her, she did not tally for anything, she continued to use the momentum of her left arm's flailing to pivot upon her right foot until her wide shoulder pauldron came in to block. Where Sigurd's sword would end up next, she did not wish to find out too soon. Her head turtled and tilted away in case the sword slid up her shoulder and endangered her cap, a just-in-case measure, however the force would be too lost to fully pierce her steel helmet. The moment her toes on that right foot grounded, she pushed off of that leg as well, hoping to pace herself as far away from her hulking adversary as humanly possible. In all her days, never had a man in armour outsped her on foot, she hoped this wouldn't be the day one finally had. Once she'd regain grounding of her right foot, the left would pull back, she would continuously do this until Sigurd realized how fast she was.

Backpedaling was not only a means for Iolanthe to reposition herself in to a better suited standpoint, it was also the only way for her to pull out her lance from an otherwise sticky situation. The final kick-off of her right foot would be the last second of pain Sigurd might feel from Hyperion's super hot blade, before a full six feet of air split the two fighters from one another. It might make a final slicing wound on the exit, since in her arm's stressful position, she would be forced to press the blade as tightly as she could against his heel, but there was otherwise no other form of momentum, making it a weak attack. Any scratch mattered, so she hoped, for now her tactic would be realized. She wanted to wound her opponent's legs so he could never close her gap a second time, the rest of the fight she'd likely spend comfortably distanced from her enemy, wearing him down with strikes and stabs while eluding the shorter range of his weapon. Although the tactic was smart, it was incredibly risky, and nearly cost Iolanthe a hand and a head. She prayed to Hyperion, was it worth it? Whilst readying herself for a finale.

The moment his foot fell upon compact snow and rock rather than his foe’s foot he realised his enemy was inhumanly fast. There wasn't a whole lot he could do to compensate as he launched his thrust and his opponent turned almost ninety degrees in the time it took him to step forward. However he could re-direct the point somewhat to react to changing circumstances. With his left arm above his right it was simplistic to tense his stone arm and stretch rightward while twisting his body in the same fashion, with the consequence of knocking his own thrust off-target. Or rather, it would have been off target had his opponent not span so significantly. The point of his longsword jerked rightward at the last possible moment, just catching the pauldron and glancing off without penetrating, its only eventual destination his opponent’s head. With her precautionary movements the blade was only likely to cut past the right side of her face rather than impaling her throat, but it could be debilitating none-the-less depending on how the sharp edge interacted with her exposed flesh.

Meanwhile, the movement of his left arm would not be wasted, as he stepped forward and right with his left leg to close the distance his enemy strived to create and avoid the menace of her burning lance. His only real advantage was the snow and rocky ground underfoot, which experience and northern-equipment gave him something of a homefield advantage trudging through. With his blade menacing her face the shield in his left hand twisted and faced the sky, his wrist straightening it. After completing his thrust, whatever the effect, he would draw his longsword back with the intent of drag-cutting the Greek’s neck, and his round shield would be prepared to swing round when he thought it best, each of his steps keeping pace with her own retreat, though only just despite the fact that he was moving forward and his opponent backwards over fairly uneven ground.

Sigurd had one clear advantage, even should both his longsword cuts fail, his foe had to make ground between them before she could use her weapon effectively. However, she could not see behind herself, and the rocky cliff-side would soon halt her progress. With adrenaline pumping neither of the small burns on Sigurd’s left leg had really debilitated him in any way, much like the longsword cut to Iolanthe’s right arm had not prevented her from manipulating her heavy lance. His pursuit may be unnecessary if his redirected thrust cut across her face and blinded her or otherwise debilitated her, but assuming the worst the Northman could not afford to surrender the advantage of close proximity.