Not at all. She takes that strike, grimacing, the brief chafe of the wood on her arm unpleasant but not enough to stop her from carrying the momentum through. Worth it, to be hit once but return a harder strike. In battle, Abby usually only needs one blow; this is not an actual battle but her reply is not testing, and she slams her mace down hard on Vanya's shield with the intent to knock it out of his hands (or him off-balance).
Out here, she doesn't have to think about anything else; it's safe. Her muscles burn, and Abby feels good.
That one is going to hurt tomorrow; he keeps his shield, absorbing the blow between it and his arm, but the attack pushes him a step back before he can plant his feet. Templars are meant to hold lines. It's still his first instinct, but he shakes it off, moving a step or two farther back deliberately. If Abby isn't concerned with defense, he's in danger of her ending the bout while he's still considering, and distance is his best bet.
While he's moving, though, he's thinking. If she's careless of her defense, she may be easy to draw into a trap, exposing something vulnerable out of the inability to resist an inviting opening. It's just a matter of whether he can guard himself long enough to set up such a move when she's coming fast.
She huffs out her nose when he won't retaliate, when he steps back to draw her forward again, and part of her can see what he's doing in baiting her over and over, but a bigger part of her doesn't care. The faster she strikes him the closer he gets to hitting her back and actually starting a bout, right?
"Come on," she mutters, watching him keep on his toes, waiting.
A few more seconds respite — then she lunges again, the same as before. Mace back, behind her body, starting to swing forward.
Expecting it this time, he takes the opening. Most men his height are used to being taller than their opponents, and he was no exception when he was younger, but he's learned a few more strategies in the meantime. He lunges, shield up to catch the place he expects the mace to be. She's created an opening with the swing where he can hit her lower abdomen; if she's nimble enough to change course, her blow will necessarily lose its power, and if she's not, he's likely to get his hit in, even as she jars his arm. It does, however, mean sacrificing his own mobility for a moment if he's misjudged the arc of her blow.
Nah, Abby doesn't do nimble, no precise moment. Once she's moving forward, with energy and purpose, that's the way she's going. She sees every hit through for better or for worse and so she collides with his shield, feeling the block ring satisfactorily down both her arms. Her hands sting on the handle of the mace. She grins, pressing her teeth together until they hurt.
"Are you gonna do anything? Or block me until I give up?"
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Out here, she doesn't have to think about anything else; it's safe. Her muscles burn, and Abby feels good.
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While he's moving, though, he's thinking. If she's careless of her defense, she may be easy to draw into a trap, exposing something vulnerable out of the inability to resist an inviting opening. It's just a matter of whether he can guard himself long enough to set up such a move when she's coming fast.
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"Come on," she mutters, watching him keep on his toes, waiting.
A few more seconds respite — then she lunges again, the same as before. Mace back, behind her body, starting to swing forward.
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"Are you gonna do anything? Or block me until I give up?"