The furies of fires ignited, they lash with poise and principle. INCINERATION. DEVASTATION. It is nothing if not a controlled burn. These flames broil in excitement to do what they do best, but the controls of this vessel will not be handed over to simplistic urges to hurt. All fires, be they big or small, shall bend to her will. Never again will it be the other way around.
A body of soft lilacs, it prides itself as a graceful weapon sharpened on the finer points of battle. No attack performed is without its appointed purpose. She is honed. She is precision manifested. Swift. Deadly. She is if grace could kill. And kill she has. And kill she will.
In this strange place, a world of bugs instead of men or Mobians, it seemed these attributes of the flame-born princess would carry her well and true. Heat swells and swelters as another burst of combustion rages forth from the palm, a fiery plume lashing down low, coating the floor and all who cling to it in smoke, ashes, and flickering cinders. Smallfries are scattered and charred, and all those too slow to leap and get out of the way.
One sudden gout of flame will act as a boost to close the distance— a grimmly-masked foe that towers over the monarch would have itself downed in mere moments, sharp claws primed and palms plenty forceful as they strike again, again, and again into their target. Her form dances like a candle's wispy smoke whenever the other tries to retaliate. (Duck and weave... slide through the legs... Punish.) They were brutish. They were sloppy. (Drift around their side... Goad them into overextending for another lumbering strike... Punish.) And they would be disciplined severely for thinking they could do away with their foe without putting their back into it.
Watch them bellow in desperation. A bounding charge is fast, but she is faster. This gargantuan bug, they give chase with thunderous steps. All the cat need do is lean into her strides and turn a corner quick. The bumbling fool, they have no hope of making such a maneuver. They stumble, they stagger. Dexterous palm cups one nearby stalagmite. It's used as a pole's length to swing a now-blurring form around and around. Fingers release their grip, and the subsequent flying kick sends the blunderous oaf through the cave's wall with a final crash.
...Then, pause. To her dance partner's back will a body soon pose itself. For now, the battlefield was silent, its chittering and clattering absent. But there was more in the further recesses of this deep-set cavern. Inhale... Exhale... More oxygen to fuel the flames. And breath in the lungs to make a brief introduction.
"Blaze, by the way. I know we have nary a second to share before these walls come clamping down once more, but I thought it only proper to disclose. I hope to speak anon, it is rare to meet someone so clearly seasoned like yourself."
@threadstorm
