505/To Question or not to

To Question or not to
Date of Scene:	14 March 2020
Location:	Storage Facility off Hell's Kitchen
Synopsis:	A Dragon and a Tiger fight for the upper hand
Cast of Characters:	Vic Sage, Elektra Natchios

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Vic Sage has posed:
    Moonlight can be beautiful when it is awash across the water, or smooth surfaces. Can be a source of beauty when it catches glass or reflective surfaces. It can be a beauty appreciated despite the circumstances that give it the stage upon which to play. Such as in that instant, when the broken window of the New York Port Authority Storage Facility shattered inward, the fragments of glass tearing across the features of some of the more dangerous assassins available to organized crime. Faces of men with a grim past and even more dour prospects.
    Yet the tableau of moonlight and broken glass and spilled blood could not be called anything but beautiful in the way the light caught it.
    Within there was no time to appreciate it. The faceless man had come upon them in a blurred rush of movement. Landing through that window and then darting across the distance. At first the three gunmen were taken by surprise. The man that called the meeting hadn't shown up yet, they were to accept a contract to head up to Gotham. Word on the street was the Patrellis were arming up and this could be a good pay off. Word was even sent to some of the more prominent assassins in the city.
    But for now they were regretting their decision.
    A heavy fist cracked against a jaw even as the Question spun smoothly through a clean arc, the back of his heel smashing hard into the throat of the next man, then snapped back and down catching the pistol he was in the middle of drawing. Turning cleanly he moved to the other, brown gloved hand closing over the weapon in this last man's hand and then twisting the wrist sharply to the side with a resonant crack.
    Outside it was quiet. But at the least, the moon was still lovely.

Elektra Natchios has posed:
Moonlight.

Elektra has spent many a moon doing her gruesome work. For the Chaste, then for the Hand, caught in the war between those two organizations, following their whims. But for how much longer would that be so?

The assassins currently gathered here had made a mistake, they had gotten in her way. Tangled with the Hand. She had come across them in a previous foray through the city, even if they hadn't seen her, and now she was here to collect. Information? Or perhaps simply death. It comes a time when it all becomes a blur, not even moonlight capturing her attention anymore. But then there was the sound of fighting. A brow arching.

She was already inside the building, on the prowl on a quiet corner of the facility so it's but a question of taking a turn over a large storage container to approach in a rather nonchalant attitude, arms to her sides, barely visible in the light. She is dressed in her usual garb, the blacks and reds of her vest, the sash with the sais, the bracers with a few of her tools of the trade and that mask which covers the bottom half of her face. Her eyes seem amused, in study.

Maybe the moonlight tonight could be one to remember indeed.

Vic Sage has posed:
    There is the rush and shuffle of rapid movement, nothing foreign to her, she likely could tell how tall each man was, how quick they were moving, and then with the scrape of one heel and a short /whuf/ of sound coming from one and a single, 'Eisah!' murmured she can almost imagine the style one fighter is using.
    But then they came into view, that long silvery streak of light slashing across the hard contours of the man's coat. Outlining the faceless man in the brown fedora who now stands amidst the three fallen. There is an instant when one of the assassins, on the ground reeeeeaches slowly for the still slowly spinning firearm that was knocked out of his good hand, his left reaching and trying to get the weapon before he's noticed.
    Too late, however, as a shoe trods upon that wrist, causing another short sharp crackle and ending with the man there, that man with no face, kneeling in the dust and dirt of the storage facility floor... with motes floating in that beam of light.
    "Hannigan." The first word he speaks, still kneeling on the broken hitman's wrist, "Ellis. Age 37, Pisces. Didn't you learn your lesson all those years ago against the Vincinis?"
    He starts going through the man's pockets even as he slowly and almost casually kneels on the fallen man's neck. A technique she may be familiar with, jiu-jitsu? Perhaps with a small tweak as he holds that posture until the fallen man passes out. Though perhaps from the pain first then the oxygen deprivation.
    The man in the coat rises. Then his head turns slightly.
    And there she is, prowling forth, moving easily with that preternatural grace. If he had eyes they might well blink slowly. For now he stands there, a slip of paper in hand... and with that ripple of tension through his form she can tell he is fully aware of her.

Elektra Natchios has posed:
There is no stopping to Elektra when she has a mission in mind, an agenda. Tonight it was these three. But now that they are down her attention seems to be on the man that took them down. If it's indeed a man. That mask is different from what she is used to seeing, yet in a world full of heroes she isn't too surprised. When it seems the figure is aware of her she simply smirks under the mask, perhaps a good opponent then. Not that it stops her from continuing to approach in that nonchalant way, arms ambling back and forth.

"Criminals never do. That is why they are so predictable." the voice under the mask is muffled, yet quite feminine. "And Pisces.." she clicks her tongue, as if that was just a deadly combination.

Her hands reach behind her, drawing both her sais slowly as she continues her approach, one that does not seem she has any intent to stop, towards Question. She cants her head to the side lightly, "Which family do you work for?" she asks then, assuming perhaps.

Vic Sage has posed:
    Guarded, instantly. Those blades slide free and he turns his hips just enough to be in line with her. Not quite a defensive stance. Not yet, and if there had ever been a moment of doubt that he held about the beauty that moonlight can grant in a single instant, it is dispelled utterly when the silvery light positively slithers over those twin sais.
    His voice lifts, a touch eerie, resonant, and utterly calm as he murmurs, "I wouldn't be a part of any club that would have me as a member."
    The slip of paper is pocketed as he turns, then the gloved hands come up, fists ready head lowering slightly. The heel of his shoe scuffs slightly upon the hard wooden floor when he tells her.
    "I get the feeling we're going to have a disagreement."
    What is that style? The stance? The slight shift of hips and the fists only partially closed, leaving room to reach and grasp and turn. Perhaps she has seen it in the past from certain fighters in a particular League of warriors like her. Or perhaps elsewhere.

Elektra Natchios has posed:
"Is that so..? No friendly hero to come rescue you at the last instant then?" Elektra replies in that considering tone of hers, her dark eyes roaming over the man's form, the posture. Jiu-jutsu, but also something more. Clearly not simple martial arts. Hmmm, it does bring some memories. A dangerous style. "You are not a master, but you have a good teacher." yet by the way she says it she doesn't think it'd good enough for her, perhaps just that tinge of arrogance on someone that knows she's good and isn't afraid to say so. Or just her way to try put an adversary off-balance.

When she drops into her own stance though there is a resemblance in it too, if one would care to look for it. Oriental martial arts, the Hand, maybe even something more. A mix of many styles, along with those okinawan sais. "Only a feeling?" she retorts, her eyes following that paper when it gets pocketed.

There is a deadly gleam to her eyes now, studying, waiting for the man to move. Patient under that moonlight.

Vic Sage has posed:
    "The knives were a bit of a hint."
    But he focuses, and with her experience, her talent, she can /feel/ that subtle roil of his awareness, his skills as a fighter. Some old masters would cause such a thing 'chi', that power two artists of similar caliber perceive when facing each other. Other more practical individuals would just call it the hints of body language one gains after having faced so many skilled opponents. Yet if his is a growling swirling tiger, then she is the dragon that stands ready to devour even as they both take stance.
    There was still two men that needed searching, the building hadn't been covered. He still needed data. And she was in the way.
    "Last chance." He says, perhaps to her. Perhaps to himself. But then he is moving.
    A quick step, rushing forth, foot slicing across the ground to /smack/ into the revolver that had been there, sending it hurling toward her to try and strike and distract even as he continues the smooth movement, uncoiling into a swirling back kick that she would recognize as mawashi-geri, uttered with a sharp, "AIYAH!, a far strike seeking to connect and end this quickly.
    Little does he know.

Elektra Natchios has posed:
"Calling them knives is an insult, as you well know." Is the immediate retort, her head canting to the side in what is a rather amused expression, or at least the part that's visible on her eyes. Elektra clicks her tongue again, "But I will show you the difference nonetheless." being the generous soul that she is.

But it is indeed true that two martial artists, when they are good enough, can figure out a lot about each other. Those small motions of the muscles, the way a foot goes, or just how those shoulders are postured. It is all part of the whole. And something Elektra finds delight in, those that can challenge her.

But perhaps there she has the advantage. She is in no hurry to be anywhere, she is just here living the moment. Waiting for the attack to come.

Ah, one of those that like using the environment. Intelligent, but does he have that killer instinct? Something to find out. She pivots like a ballerina even as she rushes on towards the attack, fast as a snake. But not as fast as she'd be if that gun hadn't been tossed her way, not close enough to use those sais of hers.

She slides past the man's leg then lowers herself in an attempt of a leg swipe. Lightning quick. But certainly not impossible to dodge.

Vic Sage has posed:
    It was a twisting spin of one leg slicing up and around, rushing past her with the sharp snap of fabric even as she slipped by. It was all timed so perfectly, as if they had agreed beforehand, a casual observer could not be blamed for thinking as much. Then she is dropping low, the toe of her boot slicing along the ground seeking his ankle. Only for that ankle to lift into the air as he continues that gyre of motion, legs scissoring clear and landing with him facing the opposite way he started, once again snapping into line with her.
    She'll hear his breath held, then expelled with a short puff. A hint of exasperation in there for some reason. For an instant he steps back and to the side, as if there had been a momentary truce called that gave him time to pull off that coat and throw it to the ground harshly before he retakes his stance, recentering himself, focusing fully upon her.
    Somewhere above or beyond them the dragon and the tiger roil and roar as they entwine, each learning more of the other even as their claws flash and ready.
    He changes stance, style, dropping low with one foot extended in her direction, just the ball of his foot balanced there with his weight on the bent back leg. His hands are open and forward, Shaolin Crane? It is a curious look from a faceless man still wearing that hat and those gloves. Though without the coat she can see the white dress shirt that hugs the contours of his form. And, to be fair, he is built well. Strong, firmly muscled like a gymnast or swimmer, his body tenses as he makes ready. Then, once settled he gives a nod and gestures with one hand.
    "Alright, let's play."

Elektra Natchios has posed:
That leg swipe is lightning quick, seeking, her foot leaving a brushing kiss over the ground as it swipes just mere inches from where Vic's leg was. Her other foot pivots as if it was all a dance, the end of that spin finally bringing her to stand up again, Elektra in an opposite stance to Vic, facing him. She quirks a brow as if in acceptance of the man's skill. Passable enough, mayhaps she -will- have some fun tonight.

"Men are always -so- eager to finish." She comments when she notes that puff of exasperation That unspoken truce seems to be given, the dragon continuing it's swirl about the tiger, measuring how long it's claws can extend. She simply paces, giving him all the time he needs in that supreme confidence of hers, dark eyes taking note of that new stance. Very well. So he wants to get serious. She slides down into a posture of her own, knees slightly bent but with a change: Her hands move back and she slides the Sais away, back in her sash.

"Lets." Now empty-handed, but that's the whole measure of warning she gives. She springs forward, quickly, all her speed in it as she attempts to go through the man's reach to deliver pair of quick blows to his chest, palm first.

Vic Sage has posed:
    There is no illusion granted by the disappearance of those silvered blades. No edge of safety or hint of control granted the man that defies her. For with every step, every turn, every simple tensing of exquisitely controlled musculature the woman whispers of death to him. Only one other has ever struck this tone, resonated with him in such a way, placed him in such a precarious situation.
    Yet none of that is shown, even in that perfect stance he holds. The faceless man keeps his hands up, his focus fully leveled upon her. Slooooowly there is the soft crunch of the broken glass under his leather shoe, a small beadlet caught under his foot and scraping across the floor as they make ready.
    No pithy rejoinder is offered, no repartee for now...
    And then she is upon him. Behind him the moon catches their silhouettes, the silver light through the open window limning their forms as they come together. Those quick blows slash across the distance and she'll feel the jolt against his forearm as he slaps one to he side, then palm flat upon her wrist pushing it down. It is all rapid-fire, blurringly fast as he tries to kick forward to her leading shin, then bringing that same leg up with a knee seeking her extended arm.
    Quick, back and forth, flesh striking flesh. Rushed breaths shared.
    So close to Shaolin sticky hands training, with the so many strikes so quickly. Only with the strength of each blow it is not practice and could mean life or death in an instant.
    Then they both swirl and strike out in the same instant... only for their wrists to catch each other. Both holding the same stance, the back of his wrist against hers and his body is so tensed, as if trying to overpower her, to push through that block. It gives a single instant. A single moment of peace shared in the roiling clash of two warriors. Then she'll hear his voice again. Strained.
    "You remind me of someone."
    There's a beat as he takes a breath, bicep clenched and firm as he tries to hold against her.
    "Though..." Another breath.
    "She was better."

Elektra Natchios has posed:
This is something in which Elektra seems to revel in, this trade of blows, where just a simple mistake could mean death. A life tossed away to rot and be forgotten. She has delivered countless deaths, and been close to death numerous more. That much shows on that steel gaze when they enter their 'dance'. The first push to her wrist is returned by she slithering her hand around that strong arm of his, attempting to push it away to give her access to deliver a clean blow, followed by further exchanges. Palm to forearm, kick against protecting elbow. Knee finding her crossed arms which quickly return to exchanging a series of blurred blows with her opponent.

Her breathing has picked up now, faster, the steel on her eyes now darker. Focused on the kill, on prey.

But then they are pushing on each other, she perhaps not with the same pure strength as the muscled man, yet her posture just enough to make sure not all that strength can be applied while they are pushing on each other. The comment makes her mmm, a curious one? Yet she says. "If you are still breathing..." she says with just the briefest hints of strain to her voice, " ... then not as good as me."

But now when the fight resumes those jaws on the dragon seem to have opened, she moving faster now, intent on wanting to take the man down. Swipes, kicks, another rushed exchange of punches. Though something more seems to be on her mind now too, not just the fight.

Vic Sage has posed:
    That roiling energy between them is strong, powerful. Almost as if such great beings raged between them, invisible yet somehow felt. Rarely is he drawn to such heights, rarely forced to such level. The purity of his effort, his intent, a palpable thing as the two fighters test each other.
    The tiger's claws slash as his movements become wide, broad sweeping motions as he spins low, seeking to slash her guard to the side, leather-clad fingers curved to rend and tear as he slashes out and snaps with a short, "SEI!"
    Only for her to slip to the side, a single breath of distance parting them.
    The moment slows, such total awareness shared. The heat of their efforts, that slight tang of sweat in the air, the nearness of two powerful forms. He finds her eyes, the mask offering her nothing. Yet on some level he knows she can see him.
    Time rushes back. She had avoided his strike and then between them he can hear the dragon's roar as a flattened palm slashes past his defense. Her arm pushes his aside and /strikes/ soundly against the curve of his jaw. There is a short resonant _crack_ that is heard, and the subtle spatter of crimson. First blood is hers even as he whirls.
    A snapping backfist seeks to catch her in reprisal, perhaps to connect. Or perhaps to buy him a commodity that he now realizes he is running out of.
    Time.

Elektra Natchios has posed:
The exchange is an intense one. Those wide claws of the tiger close to slashing the dragon. But like a dragon she seems to move with an elegancy that should have little business to be present in a fight, a being that has lived for so long in the turmoil, in the middle of deadly battles that this is it's natural place. But yet Elektra notices those swipes rushing very close, knowing it would not do well to be hit, not having the same kind of resistance, reliant on her speed.

But just as they fight more and more it brings that insight of awareness, of openings that no normal eyes would see, only those like them. The true martial artists. She finds it in that space between beats, where there will be that opening and then she sets forth. Palm forward, hoping to be a knockout blow, set to the jaw. Not as deadly perhaps as she'd wish. But she has words to speak with this man still.

Then the crack. A win. So eager to finish her opponent was, but they should had bid their time correctly. She all but believes the man will fall after it though the whirl catches her by surprise, so intent she was on the attack, on that blow. It catches the side of her face, making her head snap to the side and some blood of her own splatter out inside her mask at the violence of the strike.

Does it stop her though? She is relentless enough that it won't, even if it does bring just the briefest of pauses from her before she renews her assault.

Vic Sage has posed:
    That pause is held, that moment lingering long. His breath comes deeper, the pounding of his heart sounding loud in his ears. He must focus, must maintain. The intensity rises. Perhaps aided by the scent of blood, the roiling power that swirls above, the Tiger bloodied and unbroken, fangs bared, claws darkened. The dragon endures, precise, deadly, and terrible in its beauty.
    A slight shake of his head is given as the inside of the mask darkens subtly. Perhaps trying to clear his vision, or the coppery tang of blood from his lips. Whoever this woman is, she will ever recognize him in the future. Simply from the way he stands, from these shared moments. So in that instant he makes the quick decision. His hand comes up and then slashes to the side as he frees himself of that mask, stern features revealed, dark brown eyes, a rivulet of blood trickling along the curve of his jaw. He shakes his head.
    The moment breaks, she moves forth, and he moves to meet her.
    It is a rush and now the tiger roars as he closes the distance then /runs/ up the side of one of the crates, gaining height as his leg snaps up and around, a whirling flying kick seeking to slash towards her head. Beautifully executed, yet showy, as if to let her know he is far from surrender.
    Too showy to land as she is able to slip past that strike, though when he lands he is ready. Short hard strikes, seeking to force her to maintain her guard, to try and push her back, to give her a moment of trepidation as he closes the distance. A thrusting straight punch toward her chin, then he spins and swirls an elbow seeking to strike into her side as he darts forth. Passing movement, wild and dangerous.
    And she can tell, he is gambling more and more. Forcing her to defend. And yet... leaving himself open.

Elektra Natchios has posed:
Finally the face is revealed. There is a lot that can be said about someone's face, or on someone that makes a question of always covering their features so fully. Curious. But Elektra doesn't slow down. There is only rising intensity now for she has been wounded and this won't stand. She roars under that mask of hers, dark eyes flashing as they catch the moonlight just right and she advances, foot up to meet that whirlwing flying kick and make each of them be pushed back and away from each other. It is followed by another flurry of kicks, meeting half-way against each other, no stopping on their motions, then the exchanged strikes with hands, wrists, elbows.

It all takes a toll though, and already her body is going through the first few stages of not recovering as faster, but enough to stay on the defensive, perhaps bidding her own time, recovering her strength in order to later deliver a counter to end the match. So she plays the game. A step back and her neck craning away from that straight punch to the chin. The elbow met by a rising knee. The wild motions returned with elegant defense. She notices the gamble, how she could strike but not yet. Not yet ...

Instead she watches his face more, studying those features. There's always a story to be told on those.

Vic Sage has posed:
    In one way they are closely matched, the way he can keep up with her, the way their bodies tire at roughly the same rate. But he must exert more, each punch, each strike, each precisely aimed kick. It steals more from him every time they lash out. Yet as she holds him off she can read those features. See the soulful brown eyes. The handsome curve to his strong jawline, marred by that strike that had torn the side of his mouth. There is a gauntness to him, a severity, and perhaps a sandy stubble on his cheeks similar to his pale yellowish hair.
    Yet now his eyes hold hers, and even as his breath grows heavier, he holds his fists up, ready and in defiance.
    They rejoin as he steps forward, quickly, a short snapping kick as his leg chambers, then uncoils with the blur of a whipcrack, seeking her shin then rechambering to lash out up at her hip. His fist smashes into the crate near her, shattering several of the slats as his movements become more wild. Another style change, slipping effortlessly into what would be considered Muay Thai as he attempts to force her guard up, higher...
    And then drops low as he attempts to rush in with a single step that skids upon the broken glass, diving for her waist and trying to take the fight to the ground.

Elektra Natchios has posed:
The study happens, the handsome features followed by a critical eye. And certainly they are an easy enough to her eye, and perhaps unexpectedly so. Still, no answer to her questions though, but mayhaps a story for another time. As for now she is here to win. She continues bidding her time, patient as only those who have truly mastered the art can be. A jump back, she bending backwards as her hands touch the ground and she backflips away from that seeking fist that smashes the crate, feet pointing up as if she was a ballerina during a dance and going through an intricate move, just before they touch the ground, ready.

Muay Thai is returned by she going into a similar stance, knee up. Arms extended to keep the distance. Yet that sudden stance shift isn't one she was exactly expecting. And if they had been evenly matched now, without one spending so much energy and the other bidding her time it would had worked. As it stands she is able to react, reflexively lowering herself and with a spin of her waist that Vic's fingers still brush through she evades, turning around with him and then kicking him down with that momentum, foot meeting the middle of his back.

And that was the opening, she moves like a serpent now instead of a dragon, seizing it, one leg extended to one side while a knee presses hard on Vic's back, to pin him there. Would she have the time to draw one of those Sais and drive it through him? Maybe. But instead it's her voice that is heard, unmuffled by the mask.

"Elektra."

Vic Sage has posed:
    The rush, the swirl of movement, as he tries to steal her balance from her, only to have her slip to the side. Almost as if she were ephemeral, ghostly. Yet when she is able to gain that position, her leg blurring up and then crashing down, she feels entirely too real.
    There is a blaze of pain, the burst of air exploding from his lungs as he hits the ground, one leg already sliding over the broken glass. A hand flattens trying to gain enough purchase to push himself back to his feet. Only then for him to feel her knee stabbing hard into the tight column of his spine. He freezes, for an artist such as herself, with him in this position, there are any number of ways she could end his life with or without the blade in hand.
    She can feel that roil of tension in him, the way his jaw closes and tightens. His hat had fallen away when she struck first. And now she can see the sandy hair, the way the firm muscles of his back clench and grow taut. Yet he holds.
    His head turns slightly, not quite able to see her, but that slithering wickedness of the dragon seems to be holding the tiger's neck in its jaws. For now.
    Then, his voice lifts, calm. Controlled. As he murmurs. "Charles."

Elektra Natchios has posed:
"Charles." Elektra seems to savor the name as she echoes it, the sound of her breathing loud in the otherwise empty room now, very close to having been the dragon snatched in the tiger's jaws instead of the other way around considering on how exhausted she feels. The pressure on that spine remains, unrelenting, at least for the moment, until she can gauge intention, or surrender perhaps. "It's always good to be civilized, wouldn't you agree? And now that niceties are out of the way, are you going to tell me what you were doing here?" there is a refined touch to her accent, exotic, not exactly american but at the same time as if she has been here for a long time.

That long leg of hers is visible to one side, elegant, stretched fully, keeping a basis to the pin. "Unless you'd prefer to continue fighting. I can indulge both." she whispers, full of deadly intention on her voice, leaning forward just so atop the man.

Vic Sage has posed:
    As she speaks he draws a deep breath. She can see the way it broadens his chest, can likely sense the way the man beneath her is judging the moment. Weighing this instant in time where so much hangs in the balance. His lips part, the tip of his tongue moistening them as if they had gone dry, even as his eyes follow that long line of her lithe muscular yet graceful leg. He turns his head away, nostrils flaring for an instant as he takes in another breath. But easier now, recovering his stamina, his wind.
    "There is something to be said about sharing civilized words." His voice is not as eerie as when behind the mask, his tone is deeper, more resonant. Even as his wondrous mind takes in the situation, takes in the palpable visceral feeling of her body upon his, that controlled lethality, that nearness.
    His eyes close as he tries to focus, and through it all as he tries to gather his thoughts, one thing intrudes upon them. Not the danger inherent in this instant. Not the wild possibility of death. Not even the pain in his side from where she struck. It is but one thing...
    Why does her scent seem so damn enticing?
    Banishing that thought he scowls, perhaps trying to recover as he murmurs, "Maybe later we can fight some more... for now." His jaw tenses, extending as he grinds his teeth slightly. Then he answers, "I am willing to accept you have won this bout." This one. And only this one. So far.

Elektra Natchios has posed:
"It does make the world go around." Elektra replies with unmasked amusement to her tone to the mention of civilized words, she continuing that unrelenting press, now using her weight to keep a better leverage on the man. But she knows it is not a position she will be able to hold for long, noting how he is already recovering some of his breath, getting more of his strength back.

Still, she remains leaned forward, the tip of that midnight-black hair visible, even if her face may not be just yet, "You are a very generous man, Charles. Willing to accept the loss." tone tinged with irony, a brief sigh escaping her lips and she shaking her head, "Even if still full of young fire." her tone continuing with that same deadliness, as if a wrong word could mean doom. Yet she hasn't drawn her Sais again so it probably means something.

Though the pressure on Vic's back relents somewhat.

Vic Sage has posed:
    The slight release of pressure is welcome, but he makes no mistake. He knows that it could return, accompanied by cold steel or the crack of the blade of her hand against his neck. And so this Charles does not move to try and take the bait, does not leap to the attack. Instead it is peace between them for now. Even as those dark locks come into view.
    Yet she can feel his breathing steady beneath her, can watch him so easily, openly from her superior position. She can see the single beadlet of sweat upon his brow slip along the handsome curve of his cheek, down to the hollow of his throat where it disappears. His tendons bunch in his jaw, but then he nods slowly, and a small laugh slips from him as he says two words to himself. "The cliff."
    Whatever it may mean, he does not elaborate as he then turns his head and says quietly, "Even in my current situation, I can appreciate the joy that is brought when matching against someone who truly tests you. So yes. I am filled with fire. Elektra." Her name said then, with some solemnity. As if it somehow giving voice to it somehow made her all the more real to him.

Elektra Natchios has posed:
"You do make it sound as if you have been tested just as well in the past." Elektra notes about the man's response, even as she seems pleased enough that there was no leap to attack. Just as she is always so prone to violence she has no patience for those who are not aware when a battle is over. Or perhaps simply postponed. "Maybe this other person you mentioned? Who was she." again she returns to what they spoke earlier, clearly in her arrogance she can not believe there'd be someone better than her. Or maybe she simply wishes to challenge this person, who knows?

Regardless, she seems to reach some kind of decision, shifting and then her knee is felt leaving the man, that long leg brought up and then she pushing herself to her feet, taking a few steps to the side. "You can get up." she tells him, folding her arms together.

Vic Sage has posed:
    The pressure leaves and once she is away those two steps needed to get clear, he pushes himself to his feet, rising with his back to her. Slowly he eases his head to the side, bending his back a little until there is a faint cartilaginous crackle and then he turns to face her, favoring his side slightly. He knows the bout was over, knows that she had shown mercy. In her way. She can likely see that recognition in his eyes as they meet hers.
    And for a moment his lips part when he espies her features. Eyes subtly dilate, small tells. Small signs that most might miss. A breath taken, held, then he tells her. "The Lady Shiva."
    The name hangs there between them. The Mistress of Assassins. Teacher of the League of the same. An artist who seeks other artists to destroy them, break them, reshape them.
    "I have trained with her in the past." Though assuredly there is more to the story. Much more. And, of course, leaving out the part about her being better than the dragon before him.
    But then there's a hint of humanity to the man as a smile appears. Just a shadow of one as he adds, "You do remind me of her, however." In many ways.

Elektra Natchios has posed:
Elektra has her chin slightly tilted up when Charles finally turns to present himself to her, a brow slightly arched and indeed those features of hers following along the refined tone of her voice. As if she was just at ease, or used to a gala event as she is to killing. There is no mistaking the deadliness on her eyes though, and on what she is capable of, barely any kind of restraint seen on those eyes. Yet this once she seems to have shown mercy. Or maybe it was curiosity, or even the challenge of the fight.

"Mmmmm." She murmurs at the name. A simple sound, but very telling, one of recognition. Assassins do tend to know the other's reputations, specially those that have climbed so far up, "For a moment I thought it would had been Talia." a smirk then, her eyes continuing to roam Vic's body. "You are not one of her assassins though. Nor do you have the look as if you were ever one."

The compliment does make the corner of her mouth twitch though, brief amusement. "In what ways? Do tell."

Vic Sage has posed:
    Slowly he leeeans forwards and partially kneels, to scoop his hat off the ground, dusting it with the brush of one gloved hand. His lips twisted up a little as if he were exerting a good amount of control to hide his expression. But she can likely see it in those deep greenish-brown eyes of his as he runs a finger along the brim. Perhaps it would be a smile if he gave it that life so needed.
    But instead, there in the dark with only the moon to accompany them, he turns back to her and meets her gaze. There is still that feeling, the tiger growling softly, even as the dragon's coils entwine. The danger is still there, the potential for blood and death so close upon the lips.
    His answer is given, "I don't belong to anyone." Though with her having won this bout she may disagree.
    It's when she asks her question that the smile finally appears as he looks away. Then back at her, eyes askance. It is an intense moment, a synergy between them as perhaps the potential for his fate to be decided hanging upon the edge of a knife.
    "You have a casual majesty to you, Elektra, that reminds me of her. The control. The way you move. It is as if everywhere you set foot, you rule that land and what you so choose to hold dominion over."
    A pause,
    "Better, perhaps, you ask me how you are different. For in that, I see it when I look in your eyes. The intensity is similar. Yes. But there is a wildness in your eyes."
    Silence there between them. Perhaps nothing further would be said. Until after three heartbeats he adds, "It is both the most dangerous part of you. And the most beautiful."

Elektra Natchios has posed:
Only Elektra's eyes follow Charles when he leans to pick up the hat, the rest of her fully still, prepared for combat if it comes. It seems to be her natural posture, always at the ready. Telling of how long she may have been doing this. Perhaps ever since she could walk or talk. Yet those words, of not belonging to anyone, bring just the briefest of shifts to her gaze. Jealousy there? A yearning to her? But she is quick to dismiss it, saying. "Everyone belongs to someone, no matter how much they may try otherwise. Or until they kill all that stands between them and their freedom." again that sizing up of the man with her dark eyes. "And you are no killer. Nor will you ever be." so quick to dismiss the killer instinct on Charles! But that may be a compliment as well.

"Even if you do like to dance on the razor's edge." Her own eyes dancing once the man finishes that last line, yet there is still that lingering feeling after the fight, the intensity that's read on every fiber of her body as well. The dance was indeed one she hadn't felt in a time.

Vic Sage has posed:
    "And you do not?" The man says even as he finishes straightening his hat. Fingertips lightly pinching the brim as if straightening a wrinkle. And then with no warning that hat is thrown at her.
    Just a single sharp motion, the rush of the chapeau sent her way and suddenly there is that feeling of a /roar/ between them as their chi surges, roars, shrieks in the sudden rise of intensity. But this... is somehow different, for their energy entwines, coiling close, swirling, as if the dragon already held the tiger in its coils, as if already the tiger had its fangs around the dragon's throat.
    She is ready, of course. Ready for that rushing leap across the distance. That whirling clean uncoiling of his muscular warrior's form as he snaps a leg up and out, forcing her to raise a block, only for him to spin back the other way with one hand held out sharply in what would be a back-fist only for him to find her there ready for him.
    And as quick as it started it stops. It holds. The tension there as they each feel the other, arm against arm, skin to skin. Limbs partly entwined with his other hand held back as if ready to rend. She can already see it. The way the fingers are spread, the angle. A throat strike that would likely be fatal.
    But he holds there, and instead watches those eyes of hers. As if to see what she will do.

Elektra Natchios has posed:
The answer to that never comes, at least not in words. Instead Elektra's leg extends up to kick the hat away in one swift motion and she is back to being a blur, meeting the attacks toe to toe, even if she is mostly on the defensive now, a dodge to one side, then blocking that back-fist, even as she takes a step back, then another, feet crunching over the broken glass.

Forearm against forearm though she can hold, again in that posture that makes it so the difference in their strength isn't as noticeable. But then their chi seems to line up briefly and they hold there. Her other hand is out of sight now, behind her. But it's mostly clear what she is holding, ready.

The angle of Charles's hand though, how it seems to be turned into a killing blow makes her instead of looking to defend she subtly turns her neck to reveal more of it's curve, an invitation to that killing blow. Perhaps to see if he will prove her wrong, even if she is certain he won't. It's not a killer instinct that she sees in those eyes, but something else.

Vic Sage has posed:
    The energy between them is strong, a charge, surging, feeling as if all it would take would be a single touch to set it off. It's not there in the way they stand, nor is it there in that open hand he holds back and is ready. She knows him. She read him for true. He is not a killer. Even as they hold their gaze on each other.
    His lips part as he draws a breath, holds it. There is defiance in his eyes. Against perhaps her oh too accurate read of him. Perhaps defying that growling whisper in the back of his mind. He seems to redouble his focus and that hand slices in closer to her neck, sharply as he murmurs a quick, 'Eesah.' A whispered controlled word.
    Even as she likely moves to put him closer to death. He cannot but help hold off. Now standing terribly close. For a time his entire world is that supple curve of her throat.
    And those damned eyes.

Elektra Natchios has posed:
For someone who has faced death as Elektra has she doesn't blink at that slice near to her neck. Knowing perhaps that the man's eyes do not reflect her own. They shine differently. Perhaps a better color than her own. "Do not try to be what you are not." she murmurs, her neck's curve moving along with the words that come out of her lips. A low whisper.

She brings her other hand forward again, without a Sai there. "Going down that path holds nothing you want to see." still, that energy remains between them, swirling in controlled defiance as each seems to test the other in their own way.

The closeness is very evident to her as well, the more tired breathing that they seem to share after their fight, or how there is that unmistakable meeting of eyes, her own dare in those.

Vic Sage has posed:
    She is death. There. The promise in her eyes. She is the dragon. Standing tall and powerful. She is danger and agony and pain and bliss all offered in that single moment. Perhaps it is another test. It is possible for he has seen such cruelty in some. A man held with only moments of life left, the potential of a future, then taken away at a whim by the woman who trained him.
    They may be still, there, under the light of that moon, now hazed over by cloud and shadow. Yet that feeling of their chi so entwined, so snarled and lashing and seeking to hold and to take is a palpable thing. The subtle shifts in light playing across her too too warm flesh. His own breath is held, their hearts beating steadily in time together.
    A man hangs from the side of a cliff, holding onto a small branch that offers him just moments of life before he falls, a great shadow above promising death if he climbs up. A strawberry there in view. Just a thing of such perfection and beauty, even as the man's life is about to end.
    What man would not wish that final taste before death?
    For that is the moment that his lips find hers. A soft touch, gentle, yet tinged with the blaze of passion shared when they sought the other's defeat. His lips part. And if this must be the end then let it be now.

Elektra Natchios has posed:
Some would say that the strawberry is but a distraction to what must be done. A giving in to death instead of a last taste of what life may be. Regardless, Elektra wouldn't judge any of those definitions, she knows what is to come, she knew it when she saw his face. She senses the man's approach but does not fight it. And when they meet in that entangled kiss she displays a ferociousness of her own, powerful, full of a deadly instinct. Not the type to give quarter or be gentle.

She takes her own step forward, her arms slipping past his own and capturing the man's shirt, keeping him there and close to her, letting her coils fold about him in a sharing of the moment, taking all she can in that brief moment they are aligned together.

Vic Sage has posed:
    There is no logic to it, no greater reason. Anyone else who had seen them match so viciously against each other would have been confounded as they seem to come together as one, arms entwined, bodies close, their kiss shared intense and wild with such abandon as if this was but an extension of the brawl from only moments before.
    Yet no observer could have felt that tension that surged between them.
    It is all intensity, shared breaths, heated lips, hands exploring and grasping. One upon her hip to hold her against him, the other brushing through the inky midnight of her hair.
    The kiss breaks a hundred times, only to be rejoined one hundred and one. There is such palpable primal abandon, such heat and passion, shared whispers of breath, a low growl that seems to come from him. For an instant he nips her lower lip, then his brow presses against hers, as if only able to hold himself up there by that small connection. Finally... he can breathe. Heavily. Deeply. His gaze lifts, hooded, as he looks for her eyes. As if seeking an answer, an explanation. It's a tipping point. It all depends on what passes now.

Elektra Natchios has posed:
They move together in that kind of dance that's reserved to those that play with death often in their lives. Living in the moment, twined, bodies together, the man's hand keeping her there, close. She lets out a brief snarl in response to the growl, emotions still riding high. She senses all that went through in their brief meet, the exchange of blows that is now expressed in a different, even if no less violent.

When the kiss ends she takes in a breath, looking up at the tall man. "Definitely not a killer." a smirk surging up to her lips. Not that she steps back though, continuing to watch Charles.

Vic Sage has posed:
    The rest of the world doesn't seem to matter in that instant. It doesn't matter with the glass shattered upon the ground, the information he had gained there, the fallen unconscious men with their broken limbs and ruined futures. Everything comes to just the two points between them. It is all in that shared intensity, warmth, that light crackle of attraction and desire. His mouth closes as she speaks those words and a puff of breath slips from him.
    A sound that could almost be a laugh.
    She'll feel that roil between them, the 'chi', the perception of the dangerous. The wild. His eyes hold hers. And so keyed in she can likely tell he is about to move even before he realizes he is going to do so.
    His hand comes up quickly, palm-strike thrust toward her jaw, pushed away as they slip back into that pattern. A quick three steps, palm-heel, low catch at her leg with his. Another flat punch toward her jaw and it turns her as she evades.
    Only for him to stop almost instantly with her wrist held in his, her arm lightly turned up behind her back, a hand upon her shoulder. Then his breath against the curve of her ear. Only a hint of hesitation, and then he touches his lips to the supple curve of her neck, stealing another kiss.

Elektra Natchios has posed:
Those dark eyes are watching, intent. Focused. Looking for a hint of surrender, that the man will yield. But when she feels that rising of the wild, the danger that comes with it she can't help but snort. She slides and moves in a brief exchange of blows, turning and twisting until her arm is held behind her.

Vulnerable? Perhaps. But it only makes her laugh. "Tigers never know when to give up." she murmurs, tone rich with amusement.

The kiss comes right at the time that the deadly sound of a Sai being brought out of it's resting place is heard. A small twist, uncaring about the safety of her held arm. Two quick stabbing blows from the side, an awkward enough attack from that angle but full of deadly intention. Attacks that would had hit vital points if they were not blocked and twisted away by Charles's vantage point right now.

Still, it seems the game continues, and getting deadlier by the minute.

Vic Sage has posed:
    A brief moment, hands settled low. Those blades before him, catching the glint of the little light that slips into the room through the broken window. Those intense blue eyes hold hers as she shifts stance, looking entirely more sleek and deadly with those weapons in hand. He draws focus, levels himself, makes ready. Their senses roil, the tiger and dragon still so carefully entwined. She may well sense what he intends to do before he does it.
    Which makes it no surprise when they likely move together as one.
    He darts in, moving quickly, evading the slashes of the blade, their silvery trails whispering close. There's a small flash of blood as one leaves a crimson trail across the flesh of his chest, then another appears upon the firm muscle of his thigh. He's able to press her back, with a series of kicks windmilling cleanly.
    The moment grows stronger, intensity rising as the dragon and tiger seem to lock between them, to freeze. They move together, and he twists to the side, avoiding a blade as he /leeeaps/ seeming to twist around the blade, around, under it, coming up with that open claw almost touching her throat...
    In the same instant her blade will find its place against the hollow of his.
    Suddenly the night is still.
    Suddenly they can hear each other's heartbeats.
    Suddenly the whisper and roil of tiger and dragon falls silent.
    And it leaves them there, with killing blows so close. But then his hand closes, perhaps as he feels the subtle pressure of steel. And that is when he surrenders. For there will be no more blows thrown. No further battle. As a tiger can only surrender when its surrender has truly been earned. Given in the quiet words.
    "I am yours."