SOLSTICE TOURNAMENT PRELIMS : Helen vs. Ivan

It was her first public appearance. The solitary combatant from the newly unveiled country of Zhadrah strode into the arena with confidence, but curiously, unarmed. Domhan Tir abhorred the use of guns and perhaps Helen could have cheated and brought one along with her--but alas, she had a place to go, after this, and as such didn't entirely desire her corpse to be heaved from the space. She knew she was at a distinct disadvantage, being from Zhadrah where she killed with guns, and knives--oh.

Not unarmed. Helen's hand dipped to her side, and a finger slid along the blade of a knife that hung there. It was short and sharp and red with blood that had stained the steel--rather, a red that had been stained upon it in the form of dye. A little thing that had been prepared for the tournament, specficially.

Helen's head inclined.

The blonde stared at the man ahead of her: muscle and sinew. Incredibly tough looking. And so Helen thought, for a moment, and her eyebrows furrowed, and she decided rather quickly on the best course of action. One foot slid back, and Helen braced herself, not even speaking. She didn't need to. This fight was...going to be a tough one.

Her goal wasn't to win.

That made it easier.

Her goal was to impress upon the spectators that Zhadrah was tough. And the ones who came from it would not give until there was no other option left. Helen sighed out quietly and waited, one hand dipping down to grasp the handle of her knife and draw it out, and there she took on a stance for combat's purpose. But she was going to wait.

She had to see him move. She had to see how he operated. But the desire for bloodlust was settling in quietly. It wouldn't do to wait too long at all.

The Gigas in the stands quietly, aware that their boss had something up her sleeve.

Helen was a little amused by her opponent. He...what, dipped his head and glared? Helen countered that with something potentially enraging: a laugh that pulled from her lips and a quirk of her head, a smirk across a smug face. "What the hell? Are you half-bull?" She cackled and crossed her arms, pretending, that she was relaxed. But those eyes settled on Ivan and took measure. He was a big guy, and he had a big sword. Helen knew she'd have to stay out of range of the sword, and so that was what she decided she would do. As she saw him move to close distance, Helen did the rather sensible thing and began to jog backwards, placing her back against the arena, preparing and giving herself time to react to his charge.

He came close and Helen began to duck down. As she charged forward she felt the whiff of his sword-cleaver-bigass fucking weapon and realized she'd really have to watch her ass--but she pushed from the wall and lunged forward, her knife out in an outstretched arm and jabbing fo--

--no, wait! Helen had merely pretended to push off the wall. Merely pretended. Because the blade took her across the chest, slicing, but she'd been far enough back to prevent being hit by the full blow of it. Helen's ducking down was instead to grab a handful of sand now that the man was within four feet of her, and she had then proceeded to rush forward with a hand raised back like it was going for a strike--

But Helen closed the range to 'close enough to be right in his face' and then proceeded to, instead, shove a handful of dirt into his eyes. Or attempt to. Once that was done, once she'd rubbed in the dirt or at least smeared it unpleasantly across his face as a distraction, her other hand jerked forward, the tip of her knife aimed to dig into his belly and cut upwards.

And Helen?

She moved it pretty quickly.

ACTIONS:

1-- Helen feigns a charge while taking a hit from the cleaver, uses it to grab a handful of dirt from the arena floor.
2-- Helen proceeds to use Ivan's charge against him and move to rub the dirt into his eyes.
3 -- Helen then uses her proximity to sweep her knife vertically from Ivan's belly up to his chest.