Her blood pounds along her body, and thums like a thousand running feet, marching in rapid synchronization. The air she breathes in is stale but tangy, like metal dipped in cold water. Both hands in front of her, wrapped around a sword, she doesn't watch her opponent's blades but rather, his eyes.
Fight.
The cry from the crowd goes up, spectators kept just out of reach by the iron bars of the cage. It's black around her, dark enough that she can't make them out beyond glimpses of pale skin and white teeth against wide-open, scream-birthing mouths. It doesn't matter. They're not who she needs to focus on.
Fight!
The bell rings, and she strikes forwards, steps into her opponent's personal space, fast and determined and vicious. The flat of his sword hits the side of her bed and clangs like her skull is empty and there is no cushioning flesh between the bone and the blade. She breathes in, a shocked gasp, then launches into another attack.
The bars hit her back, and she can feel hands on her, grabbing at her. She doesn't pay them any attention. Her world is narrowed to herself, her blade, her opponent and her opponent's blade.
Later, there'll be victory and bruises and a trophy.
That's not important. The result is nothing compared to the process.
For now, there's only the fight.
She glories in it -- lives in it, dances it, twists and bleeds for it.
Right, I know nothing about the fandom (or the gender of the person in your icon) so...
Her blood pounds along her body, and thums like a thousand running feet, marching in rapid synchronization. The air she breathes in is stale but tangy, like metal dipped in cold water. Both hands in front of her, wrapped around a sword, she doesn't watch her opponent's blades but rather, his eyes.
Fight.
The cry from the crowd goes up, spectators kept just out of reach by the iron bars of the cage. It's black around her, dark enough that she can't make them out beyond glimpses of pale skin and white teeth against wide-open, scream-birthing mouths. It doesn't matter. They're not who she needs to focus on.
Fight!
The bell rings, and she strikes forwards, steps into her opponent's personal space, fast and determined and vicious. The flat of his sword hits the side of her bed and clangs like her skull is empty and there is no cushioning flesh between the bone and the blade. She breathes in, a shocked gasp, then launches into another attack.
The bars hit her back, and she can feel hands on her, grabbing at her. She doesn't pay them any attention. Her world is narrowed to herself, her blade, her opponent and her opponent's blade.
Later, there'll be victory and bruises and a trophy.
That's not important. The result is nothing compared to the process.
For now, there's only the fight.
She glories in it -- lives in it, dances it, twists and bleeds for it.
And one day, she'll die for it.
There's no better way to die.