[center][b]Vesta V. Oubera[/b]
[i]Round Two[/i][/center]

A wave of exclamation surfaced through the crowd as Vesta caught an explosion of energy from out of the corner of her eye, but she had no time to parse together what had actually occurred. She had to take down Oubera. The foe in front of her was acting as if, or perhaps actually incapable of, feeling any pain, whereas she could feel the aching bones in her nose and the throbbing pain in her knee. She knew exactly how much more strain she could take before she would be unable to fight any more; the man, however, probably wouldn't realize he had overexerted himself before it was too late. She could use that against him.

Shuffling forward, she feinted a strike towards his head with her scabbard before deftly drawing her blade with her left hand and slicing it towards the ligaments of one of his elbows. Her hands moved like a whirlwind. If he noticed her feint and used his mass to hold onto her blade again she would let go of her scabbard and tear at the back of his knee with her whittling knife; if he tried swinging his warhammer she would keep pushing closer and continue to slash at his joints. Either way, she was not planning on relenting her assault unless he found a way to force her back. Vesta knew that she wouldn't be able to move in on him with her bad knee much longer.

Even at Vesta's (admittedly slow) approach, Oubera held his ground and remained relaxed. So relaxed, in fact, that he pulled his cut hand from his weapon again, wiping it against the furs he wore in the time he had on her approach before drawing it back over to the weapon. As she began to swing his eyes narrowed, remaining locked on the hilt of her blade rather than the scabbard itself. Perhaps he was expecting the feint, or perhaps he was simply unconcerned with a blunt blow, but whatever the reason he was prepared for the strike from the blade.

He did not attempt to catch the blade again, nor did he attempt to swing with his warhammer to strike or block, at least not immediately. Instead, he did what Vesta simply couldn't, suddenly pushing off with both feet to leap forwards in a sudden bull rush. The gap was closed and he crashed into her with his right shoulder, easily sending the smaller woman up and then down off her feet, to the ground. Only then did the man swing with his weapon, bringing it up and then down in a massive two-handed blow that was aimed to crush through her head to the ground.

Her scabbard was dislodged from her hand as the mass of muscle crashed into her, but Vesta managed to keep her grip on her sword. She felt her knee more or less give away as she landed on the ground with a hard thud. She had no time to catch her breath, and as Oubera began to bring his hammer down she was had already rolled onto her side. As chunks of rock and dirt peppered the back of her skull, Vesta twisted her right arm back and locked it around the shaft of the warhammer. She knew the man was likely strong enough to break her hold, but hoped that it would serve as enough of a distraction to keep him from noticing the movement of her left hand as she quickly slashed at his ankles. 

She managed to slash one ankle with her attack, simply because the other was already moving. As soon as she had grabbed the warhammer Oubera had lashed out with a kick, and as the sharp metal of her blade cut into his flesh his heavy foot crashed into arm, a less than pleasant crack sounding out on the impact. With the slash he almost tumbled, the foot he kicked with coming down heavily to keep him from going down entirely. For the briefest of moments confusion flashed over his face, but it almost immediately passed as he instead reached out for her, grabbing her by the scruff of her neck to fling her away before he struggled to stand once again.

Vesta landed on the ground once again, twisting her body in such a way to avoid even more injury and to quickly allow herself to sweep up into a sitting position. There was no way she was going to be able to get up to her feet. Cursing under her breath and trying to ignore the pain, she let her sword fall to the ground with a clatter and slung her bow off of her body—she was extremely thankful the hard wood had not splintered during their scuffle. As Oubera struggled to stand, she unscrewed the cover on her quiver and quickly nocked and fired two arrows in quick succession at his center mass. If the man did not close the distance she would continue to try and turn him into a pin cushion; the second he began moving to her she would be ready to grab her sword, twist to mitigate whatever blow came her way, and thrust her weapon as deep into any flesh that she could find. 

Oubera brought both arms up in front of his chest as he turned his body, stopping just before he could completely stand. Both arrows found their mark in his arms, though he barely flinched. His hands moved, going to each arrow to break away the fletchings of them before he started to proceed forwards once again. Moving with a staggering sort of limp, the big man closed the distance as quickly as he could. He only came to a stop as he reached the point where he could use his warhammer, already lifting the heavy weapon to bring another swing down towards her once more.

As the man staggered towards her like a wounded ox, Vesta slung her bow back over her chest and grabbed her sword. Steadying herself with her right arm and left leg, she coiled back and sprung forward and to the side as the man smashed the hammer down into the ground once more. As she landed on her shoulder, she grabbed her sword with her strong arm and thrust with all of her speed and might at his good ankle with hopes of cutting him down like a tree. If it worked, she would roll herself into a position where she could use the man's size against him and have his weight drive him through her sword. 

Her blow was true, piercing through his ankle with ease. However, he still did not tumble. He swayed slightly, looking like he might go down at any moment before, suddenly, he slammed the warhammer down to prop himself up, keeping it standing only by leaning against it, gripping it tightly. Slowly, he looked down to his own legs, before to her with a rueful sort of smirk.

"Seems like the tables have turned, haven't they?"

Vesta twisted her body so that could sit, her sword drawn back and ready to strike out like a cobra. She glared at the man with a viscous intensity as he spoke, but she did not attack.

"They haven't," she said, her voice heavy with exhaustion. "If you surrender now, there is a woman in the Prince's entourage who can mend those injuries before it's too late. There's no shame in knowing when you're bested. Of course, the crowd would never accept that. I doubt anybody would pay for you to fight again, but an able-bodied retirement is better than a crippled one," she said, driving her blade into the ground and forcing her self up—silently hating her body for shaking under the strain of lifting her weight with one good leg. "Or I can kill you if you are unable to live with a bruised ego. Either way, you'd have lost to a crippled drunkard." 

"No, I just lost to a cripple. You definitely aren't drunk today." Oubera gave a laugh then, along with a smirk. "My ego won't bruise so easily from something like this. You fought well today, and I lost, for one reason or another. Well done." With that, he finally sunk to his knees, unable to support himself even with his weapon.