Hm. Linguistic complexities. Fascinating in most any context. Here, frustrating. Religious scripture, code of conduct. Not dense, not multilayered, but shallow and somehow nuanced. Open to interpretations? An entire ocean of them. Not. The one day. But... the year after? Cultural Assimilation, then. That was the argument. 

An Outsider's interpretation of outsiders. This conception would never survive prolonged contact with either of them. Solarel and herself, consummate outsiders both. Even to each other. Which is why... why they didn't speak, not hardly ever. A year was not enough. A lifetime would not be enough. 

And yet.

> a beautiful dream.
> that one might belong anywhere.
> the challenge of roses, demanding a battle.
> the whisper of prison-silks, crying friendship.
> red and white and pink and yellow.
> but I reject it.

"Power transfer holding at 97%. Battlefield conditions deemed appropriate, initiating Phase 3 testing of the Nine-Drive System. Close quarters adaptability and evasiveness training. Answer. The question. What is a warrior?"

He does not understand. Difficult to put into words how disappointing that is. For all that he thinks highly of Solarel he demonstrates not one whit of comprehension about what fighting her is like. He fears to expend his long range threat, so as not to be denied a fight where he has made himself strongest. A climb onto narrower and narrower peaks, more and more closed-minded definitions of power, a blade honed so sharp that it splits the river where it rests. But forging such a deadly blade, he renders it brittle.

Solarel would think nothing of vanishing from his range. If she slipped in close at all it would only be to detonate his payload. No dishonor in fighting dishonest, and no shame in preying upon a weakness. If she sank down to his level it would only be with some scheme or trick up her sleeves, and she would assuredly be lowering herself to meet his standards regardless. Changing her face in the name of love. 

But in an arena where the victory was more important than love? The greatest Imperial Knight would render his entire dream meaningless. She would tear him into pieces over the course of hours, Speaking Not but flirting with her thrusters and hoping he would change to meet her in the name of love. If he could not, he would be forgotten as quickly as the contents of last night's dinner.

Thank the Goddesses for that last blessing. The year after, huh? All that time to practice, and Mirror never figured out how to cook properly.

But she does advance forward. Into his zone and not away from it. Her tails rattle menacingly in the air above her shoulders as she twirls her trident and steps in to match it in a test of power against his spear. They clash and catch in lethal showers of plasma sparks and burning metal. His frame has the advantage in raw torque; hers in joint adjustment speed. It's the difference between speed that would be surprising to a less prepared mind that points primarily in a single direction, and power that only unlocks when it rolls off of and away from that strike.

They spar over several long minutes. His shield, her tails. His blows, where they land, stagger her stance and set her stumbling back. Her fingers dance across her keys and turn that stumble into a dancer's grace. She does not drop the Gods-Smiting Whip to a knee except to roll through the momentum of a thrust and scorch fresh burn marks into the bulwark of his towering shield. She does not lets its arms shudder or nearly give out from their connectors except to draw the kinetic energy up into her legs and vault again for an angle on his backup systems. 

"Ours will not be a battle for the ages, Heim Stockar. I am using you. Devouring you. I will turn you into new strength and then discard your memory. But. I... appreciate. Your hospitality. So I will burn with you, for a time. Harm me however you may."

A droplet of water, when struck, will scatter into many stronger droplets. In time these will find the river, and eventually thereafter the sea. Or, failing that, a puddle where they will wait with their brothers and sisters to be pulled up into the sky and crash back down as part of a mighty storm. It is never defeated. Pain converts to pain converts to pain, converts to pain. Converts to beauty, in the end. They mighty, savage roar of the water gives way to the peace of the reflecting pool. It gives a thousand creatures a home, it slakes the Fisher's thirst and provides for her her bounty. Love, Life, and Death all wear the same shimmering dress, net, veil.

The Gods-Smiting Whip lifts its trident up at a high angle across its body and plants both feet, waiting for a blow. Its featureless face seems almost at peace, as if Mirror's face could be imposed atop of it, her eyes closed and a small smile waiting to exchange power for power. When the death thrust comes, she will take it full on in payment for his voice.

Yes, she accepts his reasoning. The implications of it. That she belongs, even if she will not travel to this place called 'home'. 

This time, she lets the blow stagger her completely. His spear is fast. She needs it stopped so she can control it long enough to create her opening. She grabs at the shaft, and wrenches it free of her frame. Three tails: just enough. One zips toward the wound and embeds itself in the shredded armor to recomplete the power circuits and maintain full fluidity. It will function as a minor shield from here, and little more. 

One tail opens fire, full burst in the [i]Blast Wall's[/i] face. The beam scatters harmlessly off the brightly sparkling energy shield, but the point of the shot is not to cause direct damage. It blinds his sights and disorients the Zaldarian warrior enough to let Mirror lift his spear and bury the shaft halfway into the wall of a nearby structure. She kicks her mecha up into the air and stomps down on his weapon, ripping the wall away and sending whole sections of the building tumbling down around them. 

And in the middle of that storm, her final tail attaches to her left arm like a gauntlet. She twists into the ground, disappears behind a falling slab of stone, and leaps across the other side to a ferocious punch across the [i]Blast Wall's[/i] backside, opposite to where her beam landed. The fist connects, the shield ripples. The tail fires a shotgun like burst into the forcefield at the point of impact.

Layers upon layers? She need only strip them away. As a token... not of love, Heim Stockar, but respect, she will teach you the most sacred of her ways. 

[i]Always[/i] a layer of defense. [i]Never[/i] more than one. She will take, and take, and take, until your great shield is all that's left to fight with.

[Fight: [b]8[/b]. Mirror will inflict a condition and take away his inner layer of shielding]