[b]Tsane![/b]

Books. She loved books. She was so glad that she read all those books. She couldn't imagine how confused people who didn't read books must be right now. She wished she could go and read some more books instead of doing what she was about to do -

- But not entirely. Because what she was about to do was reveal her brand new offensive spell that she'd refined for years but not gotten to use in anger yet. The conditions were perfect; the backdrop was open, there was no wind, minimal humidity, clear and present danger of unknown typology, a crowd of witnesses. She'd had time to do all the precasting and all of her markers had been fresh and she'd even managed to get a purple one with a glitter effect which, according to the theories of Beautification of Violence, should add a meaningful boost to her damage output. She stood up, raised her arm, the colours surged inside her -

And something leapt into the way. She had to do an emergency halt by drawing a line of black across her index finger, blocking the mana cascade. [i]Damn it, not again![/i]

[b]Injimo![/b]

The stakes of any situation were what you allowed them to be.

To someone else this would be a moment for uncertainty, defense, information gathering. Figuring out who the opponent was, what their agenda was, the reach of their weapon and their measure as a duelist. This would be a dialogue with her opponent, one which required her to be on the back foot until the chance to reverse presented itself. That's how Heron might have fought here. 

But Injimo wasn't fighting the opponent in front of her.

She smashes the initial attack aside and that's the last of the respect she pays to her opponent. One hand tears her handmaiden's dress open - sorry Rurik - revealing her short sun-yellow strapless dress, traced through with curls of soft white wool. The white pattern looked like a network of fractures, matching with the tracery of fine white lines all along her exposed olive dark thighs, her knees and shins, her elbows and hands. Each scar was a mark of pride - a time when Heron had been forced to hurt her in order to stop her. A single line of blue hair, dyed amidst the black, falls down across her left eye. Her muscles emanate heat, the lines of sweat confessions that even in the midst of this festival she'd been doing pull-ups in secret. Not a moment to be wasted, every scrap of value to be extracted from every battle.

The offensive begins with a lioness' roar, overhead two-handed strikes with the spear while advancing. She fought like a workout, combinations in sets of eight, each technique feeling like it took everything out of her - everything but the next technique. She was already so far behind she could not afford to hold back even a little.

Anyone she lost to would be one more person standing between her and Heron. She could not fall further behind. Everybody back up, she wanted this.

[Fight! 8!
- Create an opportunity for Civelia
- Seize a superior position]