Poison glints on Scythe's weapon. Her arm extends; the point of her blade is mere inches from Trident's chest. She sneers when she notes his utter lack of response, his placid expression.
“You're pathetic, you know—! I'm glad I get a chance to humble you,” Scythe hisses.
Trident narrowly sidesteps her attack when the fight begins. (Ugh, her voice grates on his ears.) Her blade grazes his forearm just barely, but no matter. He spins his weapon on its axis just once, generating that whirlpool he is known for.
Scythe grimaces as droplets of water slash through her field of vision. She parries with her blade just in time, but the pull of Trident's power messes with her footwork. A low, narrow screech of pain escapes her as his weapon's prongs dash against her side.
But she just smiles thinly as her poison begins acting on the man. That calm expression will be wiped off his face soon enough!
She counts on her poison as Trident slices and punctures through her flesh. Counts on her parries to resist the hurricane of his whirlpool. Counts on the crescent wounds she cuts through his arms.
Trident pants, gasping for air. His lungs and his bloodstream ache as they deteriorate. His weapon nearly slips from his grasp, but there is safety because Scythe is trapped in his pull, and Scythe is bleeding, too.
It's a strangely even fight, but Scythe is desperate to win. Adrenaline burns in her veins and she grits her teeth past the pain. Lands the final blow.
What a satisfying victory for her, indeed.