"What… are the terms for this match...?" Diarmuid breathed as he leveled his alternating emotions.
Across the flat surface of a sheeny, white-tiled battlefield, the Observer's green lips held a sanguine smile. It made the Irishman sink deep into dread.
"It's simple- to the death. Aim fer my Spirit Cores: Head or Heart. If I die, y'all win. I strike yer heart, and yer off to Hades." Trista stated blandly, then eyed the baffled woman. "Yer Detainer can only assist ya with magic. There is to be no healin' and I wont be targettin the girl."
These rules were absurd, and not in their favor. Obvious reasons were behind the "no healing" bit, but only magic to assist Diarmuid? He was to fight an Observer- a Divine Spirit whose very existence outclassed Gods and the like- with enhancement magic alone? Of course, Haley could tap into the illusion magic she wielded, but she and Diarmuid had another important use for that surprise factor.
This match was hell: it felt like they were meant to lose.
And what would happen to Trista if they won? How do you kill a soul? Haley stepped forward while her figure trembled vigorously. "B-But... what happens if you're struck down? Aren't you… a soul too?"
Trista hesitated momentarily in debate of answering that question. She went with a simple answer, as she unsheathed her slate sword at her hip. "I disappear fer good. My Spirit becomes dispersed energy. But it ain't gonna happen, even with the power locks." The pale woman winked.
Why? Why was this happening? Haley's thoughts were jumbled. All of the emotional bells she had buried were now exhumed like the dead. Trista would vanish... forever? Morally— that was unacceptable. How was any of this fair to either of them?
The fraught woman's glossy eyes transferred to Diarmuid, whose expression looked wounded. He too must be agonizing over what was at stake here. Yes- at first Trista was mildly provocative, but by the end of that day, Haley knew the Knight had come to respect her. She had thought the same, when the compliment was returned.
The woman had also taught Haley some great techniques. In their hours of training, Trista was down-to-earth, informative, and even fun.
Now they had to kill her?
And did the warrior even care that she had to forsake Diarmuid?
"What, y'all just gonna stand there, or am I to strike first? I'm giving ya a chance to win here. Once I go all out, there's no turnin' back," Trista called, snapping back both horror-struck combatants into the reality that this was indeed happening.
Their faces reflected such conflicted emotions; the Observer honestly felt for them. This was not a scene she wished to entertain either, but orders were orders. No matter her personal judgement: the chivalrous man was her unfortunate adversary, and she had to end It.
Sucks- it really does, Trista thought. When she had been informed who her opponents were, her moral compass had flickered. The screens provided insight on the Irish Spirit's character, as did her previous interaction with It. It was kind, and respectful… It definitely cared for that girl, who was far too sweet for this kinda place.
All melodramas aside, something about this Forsaken was off: and it was not the missing bits of the curse (which she remembered being much heavier the last time they'd met). The choice to have a seasoned warrior like herself come up against It was because they thought her power would be a more equal match for It than the rest. Even Ozzard had admitted that when they sparred, he sensed the thing wasn't quite the same as the rest.
The silver-haired woman shook her head, and some frizz clung to her cheek. Troublin', fer sure.
Diarmuid's hands clamped around the handles of Moralltach and Gae Dearg defensively. An opponent was an opponent, no matter how much he valued them. It still unnerved him.. Even during the pursuit of himself and Grainne, he'd never struck down his companions, nor his superiors.
Then there was the matter of the Lady, whom he unquestionably knew was in great turmoil. "Master, I know you have your reservations about this, as do I. What say you?"
"I…" Haley's heart felt like it was submerged in ten feet of water, and she had no time to resurface. If she chewed her lip any harder, she would have no mouth rim left.
Cerulean eyes darted between the two battle-posed warriors. One was covered by a gorgeous turtle-necked dress that was grey at the breast, with silver armor around her torso. The loose fabric ended above the woman's knees, exactly where the matching metal boots stopped. Her steely hair was tied back in a bun. The other wore a scraggy orange jumper that did nothing for his gorgeous physique.
Diarmuid's soul, or Trista's? Could she make that decision? Did she have the right to?
The woman (whose emotions now roiled in terrible flux) wrapped around Diarmuid's toned body from behind.
Whether or not she deserved the power didn't matter. Haley had made a promise, and it was not that soul's fault for the nigh-impossible challenge that lay before them. So a choice was made- no matter the consequences.
"I... will always choose you... so..." Haley's hands palpated his midriff in a firm, supportive squish. "You have to win!"
Diarmuid's peripheral vision registered his Master backing away from him after her pride-boosting hug and proclamation of devotion. With those few words, she tossed away her convictions, for his safety. It was maddening how powerful the affectivities swirling in his chest were because of it.
"Y'all got thirty seconds before—" Trista scolded, but Diarmuid raised his hand, palm up.
"Please allow me to offer you my gratitude for letting us come to grips with the stakes of this ordeal. With… much dissatisfaction, we are ready."
"Dissatisfaction eh? Interestin' choice of last words." Trista said, as she tried to disperse an awful feeling in her gut. These two weren't making her task any easier.
"Indeed. We do not wish to kill you, however..." Diarmuid's eyes drifted behind him to the woman who nodded in agreement, her stare glued to the floor as if it offered her solace. "I do not wish to end here."
He said the last in a rough whisper, returning all of his attention to the warrior before him. "For if I do: everything we have already done has been for naught. So I... apologize in advance for what I must do."
"Jeez… ya really do got heart. Too bad I will be gorgin' it out!"
The mad dash the woman made left little room for striking- instead, Diarmuid parried the long blade of her weapon with the length of his Gae Dearg. Sparks flew from the intensity of the first contact, and metal scraped against metal in a frenzy.
Diarmuid's left hand aimed to crack down on the back of the woman's neck until his abs screamed, and the walls of the box they were in cracked under his spine. If that was the power of her knee … the warrior now knew why she had dismissed him when they had first met.
Holy hell! Diar—! Do—Do I have to enhance you fully to take her on?! Haley shouted into Diarmuid's thoughts, eyes locked on to the Observer's deathly focused stare on her comrade.
Proceed halfway as I feel her out. We must not waste your magic so soon. Diarmuid managed to telepathically respond just as he leveled Moralltach with an incoming forward slash that made his bones tremble.
Such savage force behind a woman's strikes was unfathomable. To judge by her appearance, Trista only possessed a slight build and moderate tone to her biceps and thigh... but the weight of each downward slash felt like a hammer on his defensive rebuffs. It was exhilarating.
In another monstrous blow, the Knight's dual-wielding skills worked wonders, as Moraltach blocked a snipe for the legs, while Gae Dearg's aggressive slash just missed the edges of her curves. The jab required the woman to leap back. The mild opening allowed Diarmuid to stab his spear for her chest.
Despite his practiced reflexes, Trista seemingly winked out of existence. Air registered in a rush on the warrior's back end. A twirl on his ankles saved his spine from another earth-shattering burst.
The woman was not even breaking a sweat. Her movements were pure, disciplined elegance. Diarmuid knew he had to step up his game after the muscle-jarring knee slam, but her speed matched her brawn. It was as if he were up against a falcon. All her power came down like a meteor with talons.
The woman's usual daunting smile was replaced with placid determination. Her customary playful attitude was now all callous precision and stoic expertise; each blow crafted to be a fatal mark, or to create the space for one. It was absurd how she left no opening: she truly did mean to finish him.
Diarmuid exhaled a steadying breath, as the repetitive clang of their weapons ceased and they circled each other like wild animals out for each other's throats. Winning here required more than just enhancement magic and his own adroitness. So he studied her movements and calculated as many plots and ploys as his brain could muster.
Intent on removing herself from the open flooring of their battlefield, Haley brushed up against the sizzling barrier that nicked her skin. Her arm jerked in minor aggravation as she stepped forward.
Lower lip nestled under her top teeth, the brunette watched wordlessly as the two combatants went at it again after a brief respite. The movement of the two warriors were untraceable, except for the sparks that flew to signal the brutal power of their collisions.
Undeniably, the Detainer of Diarmuid was worried: for when the flooring underneath them erupted like a detonated bomb, the Irish Knight slid on his side as he miraculously dodged a long blade directed to his heart. On his feet in a blur, his crimson spear spun in a frenzy that deflected flurries of over- and under-handed slashes.
How is he supposed to do anything against that? Haley ruminated, when the first wound was inflicted by their antagonist. She winced when Diarmuid's garments and flesh peeled open like a banana underneath his pec.
The telekinetic's magic itched to heal the injury, but Diarmuid was on top of the woman like a panther. The opportunity for him to swing his sword's thick blade into the warrior's shoulder came about due to exposing a vulnerability. He's got some sort of plan, but what is it?
Mild surprise was swept under the rug like dust as Trista rode the low swipe from the Forsaken from Its side. The shoulder of the clever thing was punished by the nub of her sword's hilt, while his belly was hammered by the soles of her boots.
The gladiator was on Its hurtling figure like a cheetah closing in on injured prey. She wanted to end this mercifully, but her rival was exhibiting an interesting perception that required more tedious effort. Even as she lessened the distance before It could regain itself, Its weapons were preemptively crossed longways against Its person.
That long spear ricocheted with the parallel smack of weapons- Trista rolled her leg under feet that had just adjusted the orange tic tac back to upright. She was ready to stab the thing in the gut before Its own sword whizzed past her cheek.
Nonplussed, the woman thumbed the line that slit across her cheek. What in the Heavens ?
Diarmuid refused to let up, using the advantage of the Observer's mild shock to bombard the woman with Gae Dearg and his own, incredible speed. His thrusts of the spear were wild but her swordsmanship mastered it equally as well. Trista intercepted his lashes marvelously and slammed both their blades into the concrete.
Considering both hands of the Forsaken were locked tightly on the steel of Its spear, Trista's energy channeled to her right hand; she pulverized Its rib cage with a loud burst, while her left swung her weapon. The Forsaken buckled forward but parried her one-handed strike, forcing her to recoil.
"I gotta say," Trista began, flicking her aching right wrist, "Yer better than what I remember."
Diarmuid channeled oxygen to his burning lungs and fuming upper trunk. He masked the pain under a facade of nonchalance and discourse. He would take any time that was given to him to disregard the downfalls of this Underworld body.
"Indeed. Before- I was merely sparring. This battle, however, requires much more effort."
"Yer full of surprises, let me tell ya." Casually arching her left arm over her head, Trista let the smirk cross her features.
"Anyhow, guess I better go in even harder to finish this!"
How wonderful, that Trista's merciless barrage thus far has been considered restrained, the Knight acerbically reflected. If only his crushed bones agreed. He spied Moralltach in the rubble of the Arena; he rapidly calculated when best to retrieve it whilst also getting another bump-up from his Master's enhancement magic.
The Arena pulsated as Diarmuid inched forward to the Divine energy he felt engulfing Trista's medium form. Over her head appeared a golden bow and a single, matching arrow that she tautly pulled back against the thrumming string.
The Knight's entire body shuddered as her malevolence aimed for his heart. His mind's eye's ability to deduce a proper course of action against this weapon led him to believe it was inescapable.
Well, that is quite unnerving, the Knight prosaically thought as a spiritual wind flowed carelessly about. I still have ways to counter it.
Ending the Forsaken in this way would be the swiftest outcome. With the parameters of Trista's strength capped, even her Grace's Bow would be limited in its finality- but still, no Forsaken should be able to deter it long.
The Observer was impressed that the Diarmuid fellow cornered her in such a way. Never had she been struck before... alright, maybe once, but it had been puny.
The Forsaken charged: the warrior adjusted her angle, letting the arrow fly.
Diarmuid threw himself back onto the floor, narrowly avoiding the fledged projectile as he slid across the pavement and reunited with Moralltach. Immediately he swung it in a futile attempt to bat away the array of angelic weaponry.
Arrowheads sizzled against the blade of the Irishman's demonic sword and then blasted him with a pure energy that made his entire form burn as though he swam in a raging fire pit. Fortunately, his sword withstood the deific arsenal. It was a gamble he needed to take- or else that point would have made its mark.
Haley's arms crossed over each other to negate the effects of the devastating fulmination of supernatural munitions colliding.
Holy shit! What just— Haley began before Diarmuid quickly intercepted her thoughts.
Master, I need as much of your enhancement skill as possible. Will this make you tire? Diarmuid asked, as his eyes fell on the swirling wind of energy dispersed from a simple wave of Trista's right hand.
No, but strong level enhancements come in intervals, Diarmuid! If I give you it at full strength, it'll only last in bursts, unlike the mediocre ones. What is happening?! Haley asked frantically, her orbs caught on the Observer as she plucked another arrow out of thin air and readied it in her bow.
Nothing good, I am afraid. That bow is Angelic. I.. My body's Underworld form is unmatched to it. So I must be as powerful as need be.
Why?! Ugh! This is unfair! No one like you should be able to withstand it, then! Haley had had enough, and she raced in front of Diarmuid with her arms spread wide, blindsiding both combating warriors.
"Trista- PLEASE stop this !"
Trista's stance remained firm, and only the slight raise of her eyebrows showed any sort of emotion. "Ya realize yer standin' there does not impede me in any way, right?"
"Jesus, Trista! Didn't you tell me you were one of the nicer ones when we trained together?! That you were fair to the souls of the Underworld!?" A dark shine that overtook the look in Trista's jade colored eyes, but Haley couldn't care less.
"Wasn't it also you who told us that you weren't so terrible?!"
The recurve in the Observer's hands lowered. "Girl, if I wasn't bein' lenient, yer friend's body and heart would be skewered by now. And if It didn't have a chance, this bow would not be aimin' for it."
"But this—!" A heavy hand palmed her shoulder. Desperate crystal blue eyes evened with adamant honey ones.
"Trista is speaking truth, Lady Haley. If not, she would not even consider taking this moment to speak with you." Diarmuid said with mild irritation. "Do you not have faith in my capabilities?"
"What—! No, of course I do!" Haley sputtered as if she were injured by that question. "I just... With that bow and what it's meant to do…"
While Diarmuid understood her concern and was relieved she didn't question his abilities, interrupting their duel was reckless. They were both incredibly lucky Trista did not strike them both down where they stood. He shot the superior a glance and she nodded respectively in conjunction with his statement, of that he was certain.
"That is the element of danger we agreed to. It is her duty to our battle to use everything within her disposal as I am doing the same." The Knight stated, "You must retreat, and allow me to bring us victory."
"If I were you, I'd listen to yer Ferksaken and get outta the way before I lose my patience." The Observer called. The woman was fortunate her words were reflective of her leniency. Plus, If that girl kept yapping, she might inadvertently attract more trouble than Trista's battle methods.
Haley felt like a humiliated student being lectured for speaking out of turn in school. Swallowing her shame, she retreated to the humming barrier, and raised her face to meet her Knight's scolding stare. "I'm sorry."
Frustration cast aside, Diarmuid offered her a forgiving smile, then returned his full attention to the respected warrior. "Shall we continue?"
"Let me warn ya first: if that happens again, it'll be the end for both of ya." Trista admonished them with a hint of a scowl.
"Understood." The Knight huffed, as he adjusted his stance and weapons back into his palms. It was unfortunate his lady had interrupted the momentum he was going for- but it had given him time to think of a counter.
During his musings, the previously restrained arrow was liberated. With a surging power from Haley, Diarmuid lunged like a jackrabbit. The blessed trajectile blurred past him, and the Observer's expression wavered for just a second.
The bow was cast aside, dispersing like vapor into the atmosphere while Gae Dearg kissed the ground. With lightning speed, Diarmuid gave chase with a velocity that outranked the speed he held as a Servant.
Closing the gap between himself and the fleeing warrior was effortless. With increased momentum, Gae Dearg's length—coupled with the striking power of Moralltach—became obscured by the way the Observer skillfully countered. The gnawing sensation in his chest grew wilder, as his vigorous movements against Trista pushed limitations he fought to ignore.
As if reading his damned mind, Trista hurled more weight into her baffling movements as she mirrored the Irishman's past contrivances, purposely taking a blow level that balanced weight into his pulverized bones.
Haley bit back her scream. It was horrifying to just stand by and watch as he fought for his damn life out there. The private thoughts of Diarmuid reassured her and the confidence she had built in his strength reaffirmed this was all according to his plan. That would never take away how painful it was to watch as what would normally be irreversible damage to his body was exploited like that.
It was worse that the pain inflicted by Observers to his form was amplified…after surviving years of torture, she knew how horrible he must feel. It sucked immeasurably that this was how they had to win. Her heart threatened to torpedo out of her chest as he was rammed like a bull into the cement.
Hiding the wince in his clenched jaw, Diarmuid landed with a loud thud. Bones crunched under his opponent's foot, and air fought to flow under the woman's pressure. His entire sternum was reduced to bread crumbs that trickled about into his lungs.
The Knight bucked up his entire lower half, knocking the woman off balance just enough where the swivel of the crimson spear caught Trista clean through the plate protecting her torso.
"Yer—spear can pierce—armor?!" Trista spat. She ejected In a hurry, the spear being ripped from her insides as she freed herself from it, and she narrowly escaped the follow-up strike from the Forsaken's sword.
Diarmuid's intuition was correct: similar to his battle with Saber, this woman also strongly relied on magically-induced armor. His only grumble was that he hadn't anticipated a rock solid limb on his already mangled upper body.
The Knight heaved, desperate for oxygen in his burning chest. He just needed five more—
DIARMUID- THE ARROWS! Haley screeched into his consciousness.
Diarmuid whirled. A cyclone of pure demonic energy was created as Moralltach and Gae Dearg both sang against divine assailants.
Magic infused itself into Haley's Knight's physique once again as the frail woman was slapped to the ground by shock waves of swirling supernatural currents. It was as if gravity wanted Haley's vision to be of the crusty lines in the tiles after being struck by those two's detonation.
Through the pounding in her head, the telekinetic elevated her view of her Knight who survived the blast. As the gyrating atmosphere around Diarmuid evened out, Trista stalked toward him predatorily.
The Observer's ashen locks spilled from the clip, sending a frizzy mess down to her shoulder blades. The gash in her abdomen swelled, yet not a single of her steps seemed affected by the injuries. A light smile turned up her smeared green lips.
"I... am impressed, Fer—Diarmuid. Yer calibre, reflexes—and by the Angels—yer instincts are astoundin'," she said, as the man sank low to the ground in a crouch. "Fightin ya has been a damn pleasure and ya have my respect."
Diarmuid attempted a chuckle, but the sound was dry and wheezy due to his suffering thorax. "I—am honored—" he gasped, as he choked on his words. Even with the hiccups, this match proved to be the most fun thus far. The woman was honorable, and powerful, just as the stories proclaimed.
Trista's sandy eyes softened. "Well, time to finish ya," she said mournfully, as she swayed her head side to side. "Fer what it's worth hun- I'm truly sorry."
Diarmuid balanced himself upright on the handle of Moraltach as Trista's incursion seemed unavoidable. Seemed.
The Knight lifted his face with a prideful, jubilant smile. "Moralltach," he whispered, just as the woman closed in; magic filled every fiber of his being.
Like a speeding bullet, Diarmuid shot at his opponent with a blood-red and charcoal- colored sword. The two warriors collided: The Great Fury flurried strikes to snap the woman into the barrier that surrounded their battle ring.
"Iicckk!" Trista howled, as the electric current surged. Pockets of steam streamed from her limbs as she smacked down into the pavement. Palms flat, the Observer propped herself up, only to see that Diarmuid soared above her— his sword was granted two extra blades over his head and then he brought it down.
The Arena erupted like a volcano and spread debris like wildfire. Haley's mental grips were all that kept her in place, as she battled to withstand the tornado that was Diarmuid's sword. As she forced herself onto her feet and raked pebbles from her long, frazzled chestnut hair, she searched for the outcome of Diarmuid's ultimate maneuver.
Azure eyes widened when the results revealed themselves after a voice blared overhead. "Please...don't…" Haley whispered.
Surrounded by blighted slabs, Diarmuid's sword was snug in the flooring adjacent to Trista's beet-red face. The woman's clothes were shredded to pieces and revealed lacerated, pallid skin. She looked like paper that had been scissored by a careless child.
Diarmuid himself hovered over her. Moralltach was the only thing keeping him upright as an arrow was deeply impaled between his shoulders, piercing the center of his chest. His nerves were paralyzed by the celestial power.
With his tactics, the Knight enticed Trista to make the mistake of believing he was too winded to maintain the fight. He even faked a rasp or two to sell it. The Irishman knew for sure she was misled the moment she offered him her piece. While the roaring in his chest was insufferable, her restraint against him provided just enough opportunity to allow Moralltach to do its job...
Until an arrow skewered him from behind, and his trajectory suffered for it by mere centimetres. In his descent, she mouthed something and her Angelic Bow appeared. Its aura shielded the woman from the worst of Moralltach's devastating wounds.
Now, for the first time ever, Diarmuid was at a loss for what to do. His Master's boosts were limited; his body officially refused to budge, now that the arrow had burned through every ounce of his nerves. The woman below him barely held a breath, as her eyes fluttered open and closed.
Did the arrow that had missed his heart by a thread signal his loss?
The Knight swallowed when Trista's right hand palmed the left side of his pectorals. He'd seen an Observer strip a soul before by simply laying their hands flat against their own Spirit Cores in such a manner. He guessed he'd lost, then.
"Yer heart is poundin'," the woman said hoarsely, as she swayed her fingertips delicately from side-to-side and the Forsaken flinched under her touch. "Don't worry sweetheart… I won't stop it from beatin' today."
Trista let her hand smack to the ground. Even with all her defenses, the Irish warrior snuck past her for the victory, even if it didn't seem like it. Her physical form was pinned to the cobbles beneath them from their mangled collision. "Not gonna lie: I don't wanna disappear here... But go on- I can't grip my weapons, so I can't finish ya."
Bewildered by her comments and instruction, Diarmuid tried to flex his fingers, but every fibre of his body rejected him. "I—cannot move…" he stated with a raspy tone. "And I must— admit—your statement pains me..."
"Jeez… yer somethin'.. else.." Trista's trance slanted to the girl behind him.
The Panel could lift the rules in their favor, and allow the girl to take the finishing blow. However, something told the Observer that doing so would bend that logic Trista's way and have her yank Diarmuid's spirit, since her hand could move.
That stupid idea filled her with a shame she was not ready to entertain. Not when the damn thing wanted to show her mercy. "Guess... it's a draw?"
"Are... such things permitted?" Diarmuid pondered out loud; he hoped that after her proclamation, it would be a possibility. His inquiry was answered by a light that emitted from the Observer underneath his body.
Trista grimaced when her wounds stitched together marvelously beneath a spiritual magic. Around them, the barriers that trapped their battle to Arena disintegrated in a downward shimmer to reveal the silent, anticipating crowds. Great. More interruptions.
"It has been foretold that the Detainer may not heal their Forsaken, but nothing of the like for the Observer." The god of trickery and guile: Dolos' mischievous voice boomed in the Arena, "Finish him, Trista."
Trista's right hand curled around her sword's handle and dragged it with her as she stood. Her eyes were trained on the Forsaken frozen onto the hilt of his weapon. Poor thing's face seemed to honorably accept defeat. What a pain this is, fer sure .
Trista lifted her sword's length and swiped.
The shock painted across the Forsaken's face was admirable, as the arrow implanted in Its back dissolved, and the Observer sheathed her blade.
"The match was a draw . I ain't about y'all's dishonorable tactics. Try to remember that before interferin'." She turned her glance back to Diarmuid, who pushed himself upright, but paused at what she assumed was pain from his battered bones.
"Get to the healers, ya earned it."
"Is this... truly alright?" Diarmuid asked breathlessly, marked with anguish and confusion. Remarkably, their duel had ended with neither able to finish the other due to physical ailments… but the Gods clearly made the order that Trista was to harbor the win.
"Yea, our fight ended when we both couldn't continue, and cheatin' ain't my style." Trista's frustrated stare aligned with Athena's scrutiny. "I won't be humiliated by losin' my nobility."
"Preposterous! Just start your fight over!" Loki snarled, as his knuckles turned white from how hard he gripped the armrest.
"Well, if ya healed me, then ya gotta heal him, too. If we're restartin' the match and all." Trista winked at Loki's provoked features. The man really didn't wear anger magnanimously.
"Tch, they already fought," Cu Chulainn stated blandly, his curled fingers resting under his cheek. "No point in continuing."
"Then liquidate them damn both!" Loki snarled like a mad dog.
A Greek hero stretched in his chair and shrugged with nonchalance. He really didn't care either way- things just needed to get moving.
"We are wasting precious time. We might as well let the two warriors shake hands and go their separate ways~" the white-haired wizard chimed in with a cheeky grin.
"I grow bored of this deliberation: continuing it lacks entertainment. Just be gone with them already." The King of Heroes exhaled, as his golden garbs shimmered brightly.
Between the assembly of confused onlookers and the irritating bickering of Dolos, Loki, and the rest of the group, Athena had had just about enough. This was Loki's Tournament: however, the Observers temporarily obeyed her. If Trista wanted the match to cease, then so be it.
"Enough time is wasted. Let us move on," Athena stated boldly, whipping her locks over her shoulder.
Haley stifled a chuckle. If the Panel of bickering morons were paying any attention, then they would see their cogitation was of no use. The crowd themselves murmured inaudible discussions of the crazily unexpected events that had unfolded before them...
Because the moment Merlin began his little quip, the Saucy Lady had given her and Diarmuid a playful tongue, and strutted off the floor.
—
This fight was a pleasure to write. I am a bit iffy with Haley's, "interruption" but alas, it happened, and writing it out felt wrong somehow lol Anyway, I have newfound love for Trista.
And if there is any question on what just happened, rest assure, it shall be answered.
Either way, Diarmuid is a force to reckon with :P Hope you enjoyed the fight~!
Also, if this story went explicit? (However suggestive since FF seems to frown upon on it) would you readers mind? Let me know! If not, its fine, it can remain how I have it. :D (The scene does add a bit to the story, though)