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Mavuika knows not that ice could burn this badly.
Cold burn. They say.
She touched the ice-encrusted scar, and moaned in pain. Even with thousands of battle scars and wounds, this one hurts like hell.
In front, Capitano is hunching. He spoke no words, no sound. Yet from his movements, shoulders rise and fall and the slightly trembling frame, clutching the magma-burn slash wound on his waist, it's clear as day he is in pain.
She chuckles, small victory.
But no Natlanian, much less their Archon, would stop at such mere victories.
She sucked her breath, "Not so infallible eh ? How would you impose your rule upon Natlan, then ? l”
The dark mask bore a hole into her. If he isn't fired up from all this fight, her remark sure will.
"Your plan hasn't fare well either, as well as you." He mumbled, but with voice loud enough for her to hear. He stood upright, his sword stabbed to the ground as his support. "And I'm merely establishing what by all accounts should've been my right."
She scoffed, "The Gnosis ?"
"Indeed"
So it wasn't for the Tsaritsa after all ? “You’re talking nonsense. Did I hit your brain too hard ?”
His hand, previously freezing the magma-burn with his cryo power, whether with medical reasoning or just to ease the searing pain, now daring enough to sheathe his sword once again.
"Let me remind you of your own words, if you may. 'People like us let our blades do the talking'
Cryo power oozing with dark strength, winter on its most glorious, dreadful day. Frozen night on its zenith. Yeah, that's what she caught.
"Throwing a punch is the most well-known communication method that every human knows, yes." Now it's her turn to recuperate, and rise. "But it doesn't mean it's the most effective, or most welcome."
The Sun is hot, sweltering light in its peak. The cold biting on her wound slowly melted by the heat’s splendor.
Her hair burns once again to remind her of her inherited power.
So did the vapor of ice grew stronger. Coolness radiating the air. And a slash, striking its first attack after the brief impasse.
That seemingly endless abyss of his mask hole kept glaring at her, as he nearing down. If she kept staring, maybe she'll notice a stray expression betraying his composure, one of disappointment, and sorrow.
But she knew it not.
She gripped the handle of her claymore, the power overflowing the inside its phlosgitonic forge, channeling her jurisdiction over fire.
The heat and frost clashing in the air, temperature shock reverberating through the arena, shrapnels of heated dust and ice flying around. The battle continues, with no clear winner in sight.