Instead, she looked up at a large iron placard set into the stone wall above where the portcullis rose. Though she'd never really learned how to properly read, she knew enough to recognize that a single word was inscribed on the plate. For a moment, she wondered at it, before looking over to one of the guards. "May I ask..." She pointed towards the placard.
"It's the name of this gate: 'Ansgorii'." He replied dryly.
Leita looked back up at the plate. Ansgorii. The name of one of the mythological gates that lead into, and out of, Sheoul, the underworld of the damned. She had to admit, it was fitting enough. "Does that mean the one on the other end is 'Ceribos'?" She asked, feeling emboldened by the guard's willingness to answer her.
"You know your lore." He said with a small nod. "As the scripture goes 'all may easily pass though the dark gates that leads into the valley of the shadow, but hard is the path back the other way'."
Leita looked down at her sword. "I came up the path once already, ser." She said quietly. To the guard's curiosity, she then knelt down and untied the laces of her shoes, shedding them and the socks beneath. Tossing them aside, she stood back up, looking over to him. "I was barefoot last time, so maybe I can follow the tracks I left before."
The guard gave her a somewhat confused expression, but was robbed of any chance to comment further by the sounds of the crowds beyond roaring at the victory won out in the arena. The iron portcullis came rumbling upwards as a small group of men rushed out to retrieve the defeated gladiator. A moment later, they returned with a battered and bloody, but still breathing, gladiator supported between them. Leita could see his wounds were messy, but survivable. His real pain was in the look of loss on his face, in knowing he'd failed and disappointed his owner. She imagined that most gladiators were given similar 'motivation' to what Mistress Marlowe had given her. Promises of reward for success and punishments for failure.
Leita was bidden to wait another moment while a couple more attendants cleared some further debris from the arena floor, then she was ushered out of Ansgorii and into her own personal 'valley of the shadow'. As she walked out, she closed her eyes, letting the feel of the sand passing between her toes center her. She knew it was probably stupid of her to have removed her shoes, but it somehow felt more right this way. Hopefully, this time, she wouldn't nearly break a toe.
The sound of the crowds above washed over her, a din of jubilant anticipation and greed to see more blood. It still sounded unseemly to her, a grim lust for carnage that spoke of the deepest, darkest, desires of people. However, a part of her felt a little energized by it as well. She imagined the Baroness, sitting in her little box, looking down on her, seeing her alive and healthy, not just surviving, but fighting back.
She found herself honestly hoping that horrible woman was seething.
She opened her eyes and turned to face the large crest of Caruenos, raising her sword upwards in salute to the symbol, performing it more properly now, having asked Colja how to do so earlier in the week. Surprisingly, she'd not been too far off the first time, merely a matter of general semantics. In fact, Colja had said there wasn't an actual 'official' salute, just a general idea of how one should show respect. The display garnered a small swell of cheers from above, but it was immediately surmounted by a much larger swell as the other combatant exited the far gate.
Like Leita, he wore light armor, but his seemed more properly fitted and more individualized. Possibly his was armor he'd 'earned', but there was little question that the sword he carried wasn't one given to him by the arena. A beautiful weapon, long and slim, it was apparently so polished that it appeared to be almost shimmering. He carried the blade in one hand, his other wrist baring a small shield buckled to it. The shield appeared to be the only item of his that looked to be something provided by the arena, bearing plenty of scores and gouges across its tarnished surface.
She watched him with a measure of wariness as he strode across the expanse between them, unsure if he too would take a moment to salute the emblem of the Battlebringer or launch immediately to the fight. She hoped her own stance suggested that she would allow his own show of respects, should he wish to give them, but didn't want to be caught off-guard. He seemed to take her in a moment, then with his own measure of wariness, raised his magnificent weapon to the crest, showing honor, before settling into a ready stance.
Falling into her own, Leita dug her bare toes into the sand, letting the moment before the storm center her. Her opponent's focused eyes seem to bore into her, a sardonic grin teasing at the corners of his mouth. Perhaps he assumed that, small as she appeared, that she would prove to be little challenge, or maybe he simply knew himself to be far better than her. Either way, Leita resolved to put everything she had into this, to prove to herself that she did belong on these sands and not on her knees, scrubbing a floor.
The first move was hers, lashing out with her sword experimentally, needing to see how he reacted, hoping it would give her insight on his level of ability. His arm with the small shield moved into place to block the blow with such speed that it surprised her. Even more, the shield seemed to deflect the blow before her sword even touched it. Even the sound of the collision seemed off somehow.
However, she had no time to puzzle those things, as his counterattack came with the same blinding, near-impossible, speed. She didn't even have time to properly set her shield against the swing, the impact of the blow nearly ripping it off her arm. Had it not been strapped there, she was sure she'd not have managed to keep a grip on it, as the power behind the hit was just as unbelievable as the speed with which it had been made.
To her shock, she realized that the blade had sliced off a piece of the shield as cleanly as if it had been made of paper. To her bewilderment, the wood where it had been cloven was blackened, as though scorched. Had he pressed the attack, her loss would have been immediate, Leita so off-balance and surprised that she was left utterly flat-footed against him. However, as though he'd only meant to demonstrate his ability, he moved back from her, his grin growing deeper, like a satisfied cat who had a tiny mouse cornered.
Leita forced herself to recover, to put aside all question of how or why, just focus on the fight. Clearing her mind, she came towards him again, blade leading, expecting the lightening-like response of his buckler interceding the blow. Again, he responded with an equally fast counter-attack, and again he sliced away a piece of her shield as effortlessly as a heated knife cutting through butter. And she was certain now that his sword was indeed heated, somehow, to the level of a blazing furnace, as the cut was again scorched along its length.
She could also feel the heat of it as it passed close to her arm, feeling it even through the thick leather of her sleeve. She couldn't understand how it was so hot, but she didn't bother to try. Instead, she let his own arrogance cost him. Like before, his strike had been meant only to toy with her, meaning to sheer away another section of her shield with his blade that cut through so effectively that it offered almost no resistance as she kept the shield moving forward, stepping forward and to the side.
It connected satisfyingly into his chest, Leita putting her weight and strength into the slam. Though it did send him staggering backwards, it had strangely felt like she'd connected not with a person, but a stone statue. She saw him laughing as he caught himself from stumbling, looking a little impressed, but mostly unhurt by the hit. At worst, it had winded him a little. He instantly resettled himself, spinning the sword around in his hand, its edge leaving a slight wake of wavering heat.
"That was a mistake, my dear." He drawled. "I was going to play a little more before I started really hurting you."
Leita felt a cold tickle go down her spine, seeing how unphased he appeared by her solid hit with the shield. It was as if his chest had been protected by thick steel instead of simply leather. She began to get the impression that she'd just done the equivalent of disturbing a hornet's nest. Suddenly, his unexpected speed and strength, the impossibly hot edge of his weapon, crashed in on her that she was dealing something far more than just a simply well-skilled opponent. There was something more at work here, something that she couldn't wrap her head around. Had she understood just what she was facing, perhaps she might have ceded defeat right there, hoping to save herself whatever tortures this man was capable of.
In her ignorance, she instead once again pushed away all questions of how and took these things as just what was. Facets of her opponent she'd need to overcome or counter. Or use against him.
Before he could launch his own assault, Leita drove straight towards him, making a series of quick swings with her sword, trying to force him on the defense. As before, his incredibly fast speed and reflexes kept his little shield always in the way, her weapon never truly hitting the shield itself, but some unyielding force in front of it. In front, she noticed, and further out than the actual diameter of the buckler. Twice, her sword met that force when it should have gone over or under the physical object.
When her offensive momentum played itself out, his began, blade coming at her too fast, too hard. In seconds, her shield was completely gone, carved into pieces. Though she managed to otherwise avoid many of his attacks, two found their mark, cutting through her armor just as easily as her shield. Neither hit was deep or serious, but both were brutally painful, the burning edge searing her flesh around the wounds.
She could see that he relished the pain she experienced, seemed more satisfied by his minor, but agonizing, hits than if he'd struck deeply. He was wanting her to hurt, not go down. The point was pain. He wanted her to suffer. Just like the Baroness had wanted her to suffer.
Leita let that thought give her focus, grant her resolve to put away the pain and try to sharpen her determination to a razor's edge. She came at him again with another flurry of strikes, expecting none of them to connect, knowing his shield would catch each and every one of them. As before, he effortlessly deflected her assault until it played itself out, then immediately launched his response.
Without a shield, she put all her attention to evasion, trying to keep the sword from hitting her. His inhuman speed made dodging seem almost impossible, but she found herself managing to avoid most of his attacks, noticing something about the way that he attacked. He managed to leave more than a couple painful cuts, the blade's heat making each one excruciating.
However, she felt certain that what she noticed was correct. Silently, she said a word of deep gratitude to the Aljin who had drilled her so heavily, making her always so focused on her every movement. She believed that may well be what would save her now.
Rolling around an incoming thrust, she brought her sword back to bare and once again put him on the defensive, his shield seeming to block her attacks almost as though it were independent of him. She pushed the offensive only for a few moments, letting him believe that she was tiring from the effort of trying to fight him. She let him see her momentum falter, knowing he would waste no time in re-engaging his own assault.
Only, this time, his blinding flurry failed to hit her with a single swing. Despite his speed, she managed to dodge every attack; despite his strength, she was able to easily parry what she couldn't evade. He continued to press the offense, cutting at her with even more effort into speed and power, but with every moment she seemed to become harder to hit, seemed to have an even easier time fending away his sword with her own. As he came at her, she practically danced around him, a look of utter shock consuming his previous expression of arrogance.
Hours upon hours of learning her footwork and trying to perform her martial movements in every possible variation had left Leita almost hyper-aware of the patterns and routines of an attack. Having to learn how to alter her motion every time Colja had her rearrange the pattern of maneuvers had required her to know the various motions leading in and out of every strike as intimately as her own body.
Whatever it was that allowed her opponent to be so fast and strong wasn't his natural state, making it alien to his own natural coordination. His body was faster than his own mind, stronger than he was able to fully control. Due to that, he was having to compensate by executing his attacks and maneuvers purely by the muscle memory of long practiced moves. It allowed him to perform his attacks without having to think them through, but that also meant he performed each move exactly the same way.
Every thrust was like the last, every swing made identically. He performed the same series of strokes over and again, relying only on the engrained rhythm of the motions. What had made them difficult had been only the speed with which they'd come, but now Leita could foretell each move, could predict where she needed to move to in order to stay ahead of every attack.
And most of all, his actual talent for combat was mediocre, at best. His footwork was sloppy, his swordplay uninspired. The faster he tried to move and the more effort he put into his attack, the easier it was to read his intentions, to know where he would go next. Leita may be slower and weaker, but she had control and she had the ability to adapt and improvise.
