epicene distaff

"I'm tired of traits. I'm tired of comparisons! I'm tired of who's right, who's wrong, who's facing up to the music first and who's being," Patroka snarls, whips, grinds her heel, "choke-slammed there."

Such volubility - philosophy, sophistry, dramatis lingua franca liber - is just as rare as it seems, for Patroka. She usually finds a pointedly more concise way of expressing herself; the physical gesture to intimidate, accompany and drive, however, is a staple.

The same, in terms of personal declarations, is rare for her opponent, whose crystal-clear voice is her primary matter of communication when anywhere but in familiar quarters, where she can also utilize touch, and does so adeptly.

Patroka wonders, has to wonder, doesn't even feel stupid and redundant for wondering: does she see? Does Brighid, the Jewel, know what others look like, when they look at her? Does she even know what they see?

It's a fair fight. Obviously; one has the raw power that emanates off of such a prized Blade, and the other has conviction and a thirst for blood.

Not even the imperialist terror of Mor Ardain for which Brighid constantly, incessantly screams her head clean off can stop Patroka in her geta-gutted tracks.

She wants Brighid down and dead. She's wanted it before. She'll want it again.

There are Blades who live as themselves, and Blades who live for others.

What will the all-seeing flaming dame diplomat do when her self-loyalty is questioned?

Will she see the light? Which bat here is blind?