Iolanthe believed she could lift herself in heavy armour fast enough to avoid Sigurd's forward momentum. She had been training endlessly in her armour, to the point where she no longer felt truly encumbered by most of it. A toga protected her skin from the cold touch of her bronze cuirass, it conformed to her body, as did the simple plates strapped to her wrists and shins. Her shield was easily adjusted by movements of her legs alone, and her deft footwork was tireless. She didn't wear her armour, she breathed through it. The results of her training showed in her immensely muscular legs. Even as powerful as they were, the veins protruded still, showing how much effort the Greek hoplite put in to hasting her next movements, for she knew her life depended on it.

Milliseconds passed, and Iolanthe's adrenaline still hadn't run out. She was mid-stride, her upper body contorting rapidly, her shield swung wildly behind her at an impressive speed, Sigurd was strong. At this point, the moment of unveiling, the point Sigurd's sword was no longer hidden, and dark eyes locked on to it immediately. He adjusted the tip quickly, regardless of the force his weapon had taken, and she knew it's path would lead to the delicate of her throat. His aim was true, but his luck was off. What came next, she couldn't have done without him! The momentum of her swung arm shifted her stance so swiftly, that she would face him with her right shoulder before the weapon's tip dared defile her. She needn't even fully stand sideways for her hoplon pauldron to protect her from this fatal blow, though she tried to, its formidable width extended a foot outwards past her breast, and curved perfectly to protect from such a strike as Sigurd's. Though to make this happen, obviously Iolanthe needed to put her entire effort in to continuously twisting her upper body, allowing the momentum of her left arm's path to guide her, whilst further pulling her right shoulder closer in front of her, and limbo-leaning back. Iolanthe's right arm extended behind her to a point where she'd no longer be able to properly bend or retract retract it, this was due to the pressure of her weapon being locked against Sigurd's legs whilst her shoulder leaned in; A dangerous move for her, and she was glad that her opponent did not attempt to bat away her lance earlier.

Once a syzygy was formed out of the alignment of Iolanthe's shoulder hoplon, head, and far hoplon, she would feel the pressure of Sigurd's sword stab in to her armoured pauldron once more, this time since it's path and force were strong, it'd likely pierce through the first layer of bronze etching, which was not as sturdy as his sword. Beyond the bronze was a solid plate of steel which might dent, however it should hold considering its formidable bulk, its slippery rounded slope, and the fact the woman shouldering it was continuously backing away.

As Iolanthe's left foot planted swiftly behind her, she did not tally for anything, she continued to use the momentum of her left arm's flailing to pivot upon her right foot until her wide shoulder pauldron came in to block. Where Sigurd's sword would end up next, she did not wish to find out too soon. Her head turtled and tilted away in case the sword slid up her shoulder and endangered her cap, a just-in-case measure, however the force would be too lost to fully pierce her steel helmet. The moment her toes on that right foot grounded, she pushed off of that leg as well, hoping to pace herself as far away from her hulking adversary as humanly possible. In all her days, never had a man in armour outsped her on foot, she hoped this wouldn't be the day one finally had. Once she'd regain grounding of her right foot, the left would pull back, she would continuously do this until Sigurd realized how fast she was.

Backpedaling was not only a means for Iolanthe to reposition herself in to a better suited standpoint, it was also the only way for her to pull out her lance from an otherwise sticky situation. The final kick-off of her right foot would be the last second of pain Sigurd might feel from Hyperion's super hot blade, before a full six feet of air split the two fighters from one another. It might make a final slicing wound on the exit, since in her arm's stressful position, she would be forced to press the blade as tightly as she could against his heel, but there was otherwise no other form of momentum, making it a weak attack. Any scratch mattered, so she hoped, for now her tactic would be realized. She wanted to wound her opponent's legs so he could never close her gap a second time, the rest of the fight she'd likely spend comfortably distanced from her enemy, wearing him down with strikes and stabs while eluding the shorter range of his weapon. Although the tactic was smart, it was incredibly risky, and nearly cost Iolanthe a hand and a head. She prayed to Hyperion, [i]was it worth it?[/i] Whilst readying herself for a finale.