There is a lot about battle that this warrior of Kyoshi knows. She knows the smell, the taste of victory—the reward for hard work and determination, and she loves it. She knows the bitterness of a draw, to be stuck in between, and what it feels like to never really get anywhere, either. She knows when she has been broken, when she has pushed herself too far, and she knows just how much one can wish to be more than what they are.
She also knows when she is defeated; she hasn't reached that point, not yet, and if this masked man thinks that a measly broken wrist is going to stop her from defeating him he's got another thing coming. Quickly, she jumps, this time with only one fan…but the masked man is faster, more agile, and he laughs as she trips, falling all over again.
But she is a warrior woman for a reason, and no coward hiding behind a mask, will be beating her so easily.
A part of her says to just let go, it's just a bit of fruit, he probably needs it in order to live, but she refuses. She was raised to believe that you had to work in order to get what you want, and if he wants their supplies so badly, then she's going to make sure he's going to work for it. She raises her good arm, calculates the distance between them, and throws her beloved fan smack at his face. For a moment, the mask falls, but it's wearer is more clever than he lets on. She doesn't have a chance to see his face, but his body language is so strong she doesn't really need to see his expression to know what he's thinking.
This means war.
It's over, now. No more fun and games. This time, he means business. It's on, and he's going to give it his all to make sure this woman doesn't stop him.
She can't help but smile at his determination—finally. She came out here to fight a war, after all, and it's about time she got her chance to, even if all it is is defending their temporary supplies against a masked thief in black with a pair of (probably stolen) broadswords.
He jumps, and she uses it as a chance to duck under him, barely dodging the mad hack-and-slash of the broadsword. She runs, clutching her hand to her chest, and grabs her fan in the nick of time—he's right behind her and his swords are far, far too close to her for her liking.
Now they fight, not so much for the food, as it is to see who's the better, who's the stronger, and who's the faster of the two. They continue like this for hours—jumping and twirling and swishing and bleeding, like a violent, tribal dance fought in circles, rings, constantly going, but never really getting anywhere, either.
In the end, there isn't a clear winner—when she finally passes out from pain and blood loss, he's already long gone and the barrel of strawberries, their prize of victory, lying smashed and forgotten in the middle of the street.
I hope you like it, Ladolly! If you don't, tell me and I'll rewrite it or make it longer or do something so that it will be better. I hope this is an equal trade for your drawing, as I really do appreciate it and I :heart: the drawing.