This was crazy. She knew it. Crazy didn't mean the two remaining swords on the roof-hers, a double-blade and her opponent's, a thin curved hookblade—hadn't spilled a lot of blood that day. Both blades looked almost pink in the light. She made brief eye contact with her uncle, who only smirked at her. She didn't want to admit the move gave her opponent the edge, but it had.
And they were off. Laila shied back as her opponent, all big and lean muscle, leapt catlike from the ledge, waving the hooked blade in figure eights multiple times before touching down on the roof again. Laila cracked a smile. This time, she made sure to make eye contact with her uncle. For a brief moment, she could see uncertainty in her opponent's eyes. She felt grateful for the advantage.
Advancing. Advancing. The man charged at her with the hooked blade upheld, going to his foreswing and following it with a backswing. Laila dodged the first and met the second with her double-blade. The weight of the thing sent her opponent's blade back, back, back…but not far enough to knock the blade free of his hands.
Striking. This arcing shot sliced the fabric of Laila's plastron at the midsection. It missed the flesh by perhaps a centimeter.
He staggered. Laila swung. Her double-blade missed, though not close enough to eat fabric. The opponent managed another smirk, this time at the spryness of his dodge. Laila had to admit it was impressive, but this time, the sight only made her angrier.
Swing. Swing. Swing. The first two missed badly, but the third, a backswing off the one before it, found flesh. The heavy double-blades ate through her opponent as easily as air. The fighter dropped to a knee, tried to stand, and dropped again. Laila walked over with her blades as her opponent still struggled to get up. A low-pitched scream echoed through the air as Laila sliced her blades downward, finishing him off, bloodthirsty smirk on her face.