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As Luen took a few long, deep breaths to calm herself and focus on the now, a boy appeared in front of her, standing languidly on the other side of the arena. She gave a muffled sound of surprise: this was the boy that had been standing next to her, the one that also had white hair. Elidthianis Hawke...she thought she knew the name from a book she'd read once, but she couldn't quite place which book it had been, nor nail down exactly in what context she'd heart the name. So, despite the whispers from the crowds, the surprise that Luen expressed was quite different.

She stared at him across the arena. His vivid, brilliant blue eyes were set off by his hair, much like her own crimson ones, and though his skin wasn't as white as her own, it was certainly pale to some extent. She blinked a few times in confusion and her mouth opened to say something before she was cut off by him speaking instead, and saying something that only made her more confused:

[color=69D7CC]"I suppose you're my dance partner? You don't look like much."[/color]

She couldn't help but give a surprised [i]"[color=D0D4E5]Eh?[/color]"[/i]

 Of all the comments on her appearance she'd thought would be made, that was the [i]least[/i] in line with whatever she'd expected. She looked [i]weird[/i]. As little time as she'd spent outside of her house, all the rumors that had gotten back to her were more than enough to make sure she knew that inviolable truth. So why was he acting like nothing was wrong with her, in any way? She blinked a few times, trying to jigsaw that into her worldview, before she was reminded that she should probably respond to him; it was only polite, and just as before, she felt an immediate sort of kinship with him. What she wanted to ask was why he was so...un-hated. 

But by the whispers in the crowd and the stares that went his way, maybe he was a little less so than he seemed at first. The feeling of kinship grew stronger, and she softly asked, loud enough to be heard by her opponent but quietly enough that the crowd gathered around the clump of arena's wouldn't: "[color=D0D4E5]Do they call [i]you[/i] Ill-Starred as well?[/color]"

But that was as strong as she let that feeling grow, because she still needed to fight him, in the end, and he seemed [i]very[/i] confident with holding a sword. So she flicked her hand out, and just as before the mist in the air coalesced, this time as her favorite weapon: a transparent, glassy replica of her father's glaive that she held in an easy, practiced grip of her own. She took one more long, deep, steadying breath. If she could force him back and keep him at her range, if he couldn't get in close, then the fight would be over quickly.

And then the signal was called. So she darted forward, determined to claim the initiative, and swept her glaive at him in a wide, vicious arc. The more she kept this fight to [i]her[/i] tempo over his, the better.