And just like that, a star - a legend - have fallen. A flicker of weakness where his magic fails him, one that Yvonne capitalized as she sliced through the half-formed protection like hot knife through butter. The relic blade of the Rosenving remained as sharp as the day it left the forge, cleanly taking off the arm that was raised to block. A blow to the head immediately followed up, with only the barest bit of awareness to hold back lest she pulverized his entire face.

There she stood, breathing heavily, the red receding as she gazed down on the broken form of the old knight. A triumphant moment soured by a resurfacing memory. Of a greying man with gnarled, trembling hands and wobbly legs, who find little comfort in doing nothing at all. His lips dry, face withered, with liver spots mottling his head...

...and still enough skill to slay men a third his age in a single flourish.

[i]"I realized a long time ago that, when you become someone of my reputation, any route to death is going to be a disappointing one. They'll write it in the books how someone below my stature slew the great swordmaster. It's hogwash. If you want the truth I'll tell ya. I fear what I know is coming. That my body will betray me in the last moments. With time at its side, my body is what is going to kill me. The knee will lock, the grip will loosen, the shoulder will weaken. For all my speed and instinct it was time that has crept upon me, slow and steady, with no heat nor cold to give it away, it simply was and is and will be. I always thought I'd be bested by another swordsman. Someone of talent. But I suppose I was too good for that."[/i]

Yvonne blinked, the red rapidly receding from her sight, and the ache started to made themselves known. Her gaze fell on her sword-arm, shaking in barely perceptible tremor, before shifting to the sorry sight of Jonas Delving sprawled before her. It's always a cycle, wasn't it? And one day, she too will be on the receiving end of all this.

[b][color=#a4161a]"...time to sleep, old man."[/color][/b]

She stepped on his remaining good hand, pressing down her knee on the armored form of his chest. Her sword find its way to the ground, rivulets of crimson barely perceptible in the dark of the night, her freed hand going to the artery at the side of his neck. She applied pressure, firmly and carefully, not relenting until she choke the consciousness out of the old man.

Afterward, perhaps she should see to his bleeding stump.