Eyes blink up out of the trance, crimson and violet and burgundy, clear and bright. Cold hands pull back from warm ones, forming into a fist raised up and then slashed horizontally outwards at eye level. The challenge sign of Zaldar.

[i]"Earn it."[/i]

It is a simple matter of honour. She has defeated this girl - in the contest of gods no less. She should, by custom, be her captive. To concede to her rhythm would dishonour the judgement of the gods. To submit to the defeated would be an act of madness.

She is awake now, eyes blinking bright and radiating a faint challenging glow. She can feel heat spreading out through her muscles. Ready to dance, fight, mate. To grab her opponent and begin the confrontation right here on this table. She can feel the challenge sitting against the base of her neck, focusing her attention like thunder on the horizon or the machine ping of a new contact on her DRADIS.

She doesn't have a plan behind the challenge. Does not have an alternative vision for the evening. Her mind is jumbled with equations and pattern-heat. She simply knows she cannot surrender. If she is to beg she must be made to beg.