ORIGIN

Shrike was just a little battered from her previous opponents. She was currently halfway or so--maybe beyond the midpoint--on her journey to embracing Chaos. That meant she leaked Oil and violence, and the battles had been inspirational. (That was to say, realistically, her enemies had sort of kicked her ass. It wasn't that she'd won on technicality, exactly, but she felt things would've ended differently if the Olympics didn't demand its participants pull their punches.)

Some feathers were torn or missing. Bruises had formed beneath the white, and her eyes gleamed hot with both weariness and bloodlust.

She fluttered in, landing in the dust, and recognized her opponent. One of her fellow Forge, and if she remembered, one with power. It wasn't that she'd been told that Azrael was high-ranking, exactly. But he had a standoffishness to him, rather than the attentiveness to authority some of the others had seemed to bear back at the gathering in Draco. He was half-absent and she was pretty sure one or two of the Forge were his kids. Or "spawn" or whatever she was meant to call it now. All that to say, he was someone who was someone, and she was immediately excited to fight him. The chances of win or loss didn't factor in; the experience was what would matter. (In the worldly sense, not the "xp gained" sort.)

She gave him a grin--a parting and lowering of her mandibles beside her beak--and spoke in a voice made somewhat raspy by the long day. "You! This will be good!" There was no hint of sarcasm or threat, only genuine enthusiasm. Ironically (given Azrael's inner thoughts), Shrike was just hoping she could provide a good fight.

Shrike was rapidly becoming aware of a couple of things: first, that despite being a large creature, she had little spindly legs and no arms to speak of, so when it came to fighting without shredding with her beak, she was already on the back foot. The very spindly back foot.

Second, despite the rush of Chaos screaming at her to throw herself straight at Azrael and probably fucking die, it turned out that father Rrevalk maybe didn't know best. She was already bruised and aching from doing exactly that, and, mad rush of bloodlust aside, she wasn't about to repeat it if she could help it.

Of course, this was an arena match, so she had to be theatrical about it for the small audience: so she shot skyward (despite a distinct lack of sky), wings beating to take her in a graceful arc hopefully over Azrael's head. Because if he hit her like the train he was imitating, she'd be in a bad, bad situation.

She did want to close. She wanted to zip in and hit him, and batter him from the air. But for now she saw him grab for her, and knew that it would have to be on her terms.

That being said, she wasn't here to avoid a fight; it wouldn't be a particularly fun arena match to watch if she just kept flying away. So she tried her best to do it with a flourish. It was riskier, but a weave and dip just out of reach, as if taunting; a flutter upward and a little flip.

All she needed was an opening--and not to get obliterated before she found, or made, one.

This time, he was quick. She raised a wing, and the impact struck; it was enough that she'd have been sent flying if she hadn't turned with it. And she had, instinct swivelling her with the strike, so that while it was a blow it was at least a glancing one.

The slapping thud of the hit rang through the arena, and she tightened her jaw. She really wanted to get a hit of her own in, but the demon was keeping her on the defensive, and the fight was drawing on.

Shrike touched down briefly, flexing out the struck wing, eyeing Azrael with calculation in her eyes. He was all over, and he had a LOT of limbs--how could she break into that guard without getting absolutely pummeled? She had ideas, but she needed an opening to act on them.

She found herself huddled back, what had been a blocking wing turning into a boxing match of sorts: like a victim in the huddle, battered by an opponent raining down the punches. She found herself wincing at the pain of it; the hits left her beak parted, eyes fever-bright as she panted for breath.

That was going to ache later. Adrenaline was pushing her for now, but those were, despite the speed of them, strong strikes.

She had to wait for an opening, buffeted as she was, and when it came she kicked up--wings spreading--and then flapped once, kicking forward with a short burst of momentum. She was aiming high as she went: her body raised higher than a mere jump, but the flap not yet true flight. Her legs snapped forward, aiming for Azrael's chin, claws turned in so as not to draw blood.