❝ –– Gáe Bulg!

Vision Which Illumines:

                  ❝   “A mbeë eirr óengaile,

                                                             ARUT-OSSA ollgábud,

                                 uathad fri h-éit n-imlebair. --------------

                                                                                             Verba Scathaige

P.L. Henry, Celtica, Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies 1990 // Alt Link

Despite being a fast and agile fighter, the fact that blocking the blow hadn’t broken her arm shows a degree of durability. Well, that only means he’ll have to swing harder next time. That’s how all good fights proceed; slowly ramping up more and more as your opponent lets more of their strength out. She knows this game well, and he can tell. How many opponents has she humbled? How many decades were spent honing the art of the spear she wields? He already has many questions about her!

The fact that she’s going for his gut shows that she’s getting more serious, so he might as well respond in kind. The cut may be long, but it’s superficial, only scraping over bone rather than tearing through anything important. The bleeding already seems to be slowing down, somehow. Seems he’s the type that heals quicker than most, but it’s nowhere near as instant as a Hollow’s.

Though he doesn’t know the discipline of Shunpo as much as his fellow Captains, able to vanish and reappear in blinding bursts of speed, he’s able to match such speedy combatants in melee. And he’s only using his sword with one hand for a reason. His hand darts out in a blur, aiming to either swat the thrust to the side, or catch the weapon entirely.

From such a close distance she could see the small wound sealing up on its own. Scathach couldn't begin to know exactly what he used to do so, but neither was it too surprising. Were he human she would not have rushed at him in such a way to begin with; even from the start she knew he was not human, though what he was exactly she was not sure. Something closer to a spirit to which she had an affinity for, maybe.

As his hand darted out towards her spear, she watched with amusement as he swatted the spear to the side. The momentum was used to spin the weapon back upward in a gust of force, and she jumped back from his melee range in response.

"It would seem I've engaged battle with a boulder holding a sword." She smiled warmly at him, teasing. "A sturdy, resilient one to be sure. How it reminds me of someone." Someone that had a tough time battling as well. Even in that fight she did not come away without serious damage.

Many things had changed over the long years of her immortality. Some good, some bad. One of the many good things was the delightful concoction of coffee. Iced, cold brew, warm or slow dripped. It was a wonderous miracle to behold.

Her speed is impossible, blistering the air around her, the gust hitting him before she does. It’s impressive, akin to the Shunpo used by so many of his fellow officers. Something he’s never been able to master himself, but not something he isn’t used to fighting. Though he doesn’t change his stance or shift to guard, she can tell that he’s following her movements with that one uncovered eye, looking into the blood-tinged pair as her spear screams for his skin. In the infinitesimal moments before it touches him, he’s hoping, praying, that a woman such as her might be a true challenge to him…

Then her weapon draws blood, sinking into his skin, scraping over the bones of his ribcage. The red spray that rises in the wake of her weapon hits his senses as it arcs through the air, and the smile spreading across his face widens from ear to ear. The pain hits him, and he feels alive again. He can’t stop the counterstroke, instinct taking his arm and bringing his sword upwards in a sweeping, vicious arc. The sudden speed of the blow is surprising, but from what he’s seen of her own agility, she should be able to dodge it. Or will she? Perhaps she’s hiding some form of durability.

Finally, someone who can make him feel again, after so many years of a numb, enervating void. Yes, this is a fight he’ll remember. This is an opponent he’ll never forget.

That too familiar feeling of a blade sinking into flesh and scraping against bone. Metal heavy with thick liquid and a warm spray that hit the side of her face. None of this garnered her attention, however; her eyes remained fixed upon his gleeful grin. He had not tried to dodge and instead took the blow head on. Not that he couldn't, but just that he hadn't, and almost intuitively she knew that he would take that chance to strike.

There was no need to dodge his attack, but neither would she fall victim to it either. The spear that had vivisected his chest spun and was brought up to block the strike swiftly. Her eyes remained fixed on his face the entire time and the only change in expression was a slight raise in one eyebrow, as if she was asking a question.

With the advantage of length using her spear, she pushed his sword away with a powerful swing, before bringing the spear closer to her center and thrusting it straight towards his stomach. If he wanted to bleed then she could easily oblige. Each strike was made so swiftly that the blood red spear appeared as nothing but a gleaming blur of demonic energy.

“both.”

The sword rises. Her body sets itself in a practiced stance; his remains still. He’s only acknowledging the oncoming inevitability of the fight, testing her. It’s easy to tell the meaning of his actions; he wants her to make the first attack. He doesn’t seem to be guarding, despite the raised weapon. Kenpachi wants to see just how much that weapon can pierce his skin. It’s not that he merely craves pain, he seems to be using it as a metric. A real fight can’t happen unless the two fighters can damage each other, right?

So much inferred from just their stance, just their movements, wolves circling each other. They speak the language of violence so fluently, words failing to convey their truths. Perhaps in him, she might see Balor, one-eyed, death in his wake. Perhaps in her, he might see the blade of death that he once idolized, who left her mark across his face.

“she gave me my name, and all the strength it carries.  show me how strong your name is.”

Though her face looked stony and devoid of emotion, a small smile twitched to life at the corner of her mouth when he mentioned that he had indeed killed that person. Oh, the irony of the situation. Even his 'master' was able to obtain the one thing that she lost so long ago that made her truly human or alive: mortality. "A lucky woman, indeed." Those lips muttered in a low breath, her eyes turning a bitter shining red.

What a gentleman, she bemused to herself inwardly as it became obvious that he wanted her to go first. Gradually her body stilled until it looked as if she wasn't breath; did she even need to breath? Probably not. In a blink she had moved, having kicked off from the ground so swiftly that it appeared as if she had simply vanished. The only evidence of her ever existing there was a large crater in the ground from the impact of her taking off.

“fighting… that, i learned from somebody.”

The pile. How fresh it had been, when she found him atop it. How he had sought to make it higher, to add more bodies, to try and climb and snatch the sun from the sky so he might eat it whole. There had been nothing for him. And then, there was everything.

“before that, all i knew was killing.”

The promise of combat excites him, seeing the weapon appear in her hand. His own sword falls from his shoulder, resting at his side.

“Like a lost soul pounding at the notes of an instrument, lost without song or rhythm.” Though she did not say it, his story was a common one, even if he himself was a singularity. How many a boy did she meet who was nothing but a street urchin, knowing only how to survive or murder for fun?

“berserker? well, some people called me that before… i just like to fight, is all.”

Interesting phrase, the way she says it implies something greater to it. A categorization more than a title. And, as she does, so too does he hold back his further descriptors.

“kenpachi zaraki.”

The exchange, though simple, reminded her of the days of old. Among many warriors it was just good manners to exchange names so that you knew how bested you, or who you wiped the floor with. Battles were so much more different now. There was no sense of respect these days.

“I can tell you do a lot of fighting, but considering your questions earlier not much of the other variety. Did you learn how to fight from someone, or was it engrained from personal experience?” As she spoke, a crimson spear appeared from seemingly nowhere, materializing in a glimmer or air as if it had only been shielded by illusions.

“just like a fight! finally, someone who makes sense.”

“yer smart, lady, what’s yer name?”

“huh, never thought about it that way.”

“yer makin’ this sound actually kinda fun.”

"If done correctly, yes.”