The power in her block was delicious, resounding in his arm. He'd not readily bet against her when it came to raw power, but if she was defending, then her strength wasn't a threat to him. Instead he savored the melody that shook his muscles and sinew, and used it to get a feel for the metal in her weapon. The closer he came to know her, the more intimate her weaknesses would be to him. At least he'd advanced on her. He was celebrating this in his eyes, reminding her when she pushed his arm to the side. He provided enough resistance that she wouldn't be able to bring her own sword back all to quickly, but wasn't hoping to stay her plan to leave him open.<br/><br/>He appreciated her participation in the subject he'd proposed. His eyes would appear to be on hers but his concentration was mostly in the peripherals, where her wings broadcasted her plans and her timing. What an unfortunate pair of tattle-tales. He should be weary of her using them as feigns. "I would give you their names." he offered as he invited her to do what she wanted. He'd started this, after all. Boots deeper in the sand, he was ready when she barreled forward. Rysalt waited for the tension in her arms before he lifted his own as though to strike her from above.<br/><br/>The nudity between his chainmail hemns was intentional. it wasn't like he hadn't considered the weakness in defense. And while he'd designed his shroud out of vanity, he knew what it could do for him. With his seemingly reflexive move to strike from high to low, his stomach would stand out even more as a target. Her sword sliced the air quickly, and would have slaughtered him. The transforming light again remade his sword, and the blade switched sides on the handle, which pointed it down, dull side of the blade resting against his side, to catch her cut.<br/><br/>If she chose to try and muscle, keeping the edge of her scimitar against his side in hopes of angling it in a way that might draw blood, he'd follow by turning his wrist to negate her efforts. If her attack had followed through, it would leave her open, with her sword out to the side. Either way, both his hands were fisted around the now high handle, and he brought it down to punch her in the face. He meant to send her back a few paces with that, but before she could stop, he'd reach out with one hand to catch her horns and bring her to him so he could crash his knee into her chest before letting go and finally take a defensive stance.<br/><br/>"But I think you'll know them soon." My friends from the capitol.<br/><br/>The trinkets he wore would have surprised her if she expected his punches and knee to be of human quality. He kept most of that back for the enjoyment of this fight, but almost any artifact for war worth its salt had some kind of enhancement to physical prowess, no matter how residual or marginal. He wouldn't mind if it caught her so off guard he could strike again with her sword lowered, but either way he'd come at her, fast. A deft swing for her throat. He expected her to block, and if her blade came up to do so, his own would liquefy upon impact, allowing him to pass her defense. The sword would harden again just in time to cut her windpipe. She could choose to move back if she had the reflexes for it. If she didn't he'd halt his strike, but still hold it to her.<br/><br/>Of course, it could all be avoided if she moved out of his strike-zone to begin.