Lake Rodney i will not be commanded.

yes, the young worlida replies ( though she wonders after if it was a rhetorical question ) with a quirk of her brows, a twitch of her ears; a coy smile tugging at the edges of her lips. show me, he says as praimfaya watches him square up. she doesn't go into it thinking she's going to lose ( because then she's already lost as her mother told her ) but she acknowledges that if nothing else this will prove beneficial to her. it's been a while since she's actually sparred with someone and perhaps there are tricks he could teach her; things that even blodreina hadn't known.

she draws nearer to him, tail flicking behind her, ears risen, frostbound gaze studying him; sizing him up. each dancer's step she tries to give the illusion that she would fight elegant instead of the brutal way her mother taught her. she comes from a line of commanders, from a line of maidens of myth. fighting gentle wasn't truly in her nature despite what her well-tempered tongue might suggest.

she knows that the size and experience gap between them would garner him all the advantages; so her tactician's mind works. deception, attempting to throw him off his guard enough to garner some good attacks would need to be her tactic. her muscles coil tight and doesn't let her eyes linger in one place for too long so he cannot judge where she ultimately aims to strike.

praimfaya lunges for his right, motion suggesting she's aiming for his right front leg before feigning left quickly, hoping to land a small strike to his left shoulder instead.