As far as she was concerned, the things she was struggling her way through were completely alien, and possibly designed with the purpose of frustrating anyone trying to walk through them. They caught on her clothes, which were at least more manageable than the last outfit, and left a sticky, sickly residue that she could only hope wasn’t poisoned on every piece of skin showing. If water was abundant enough, she’d have to spare some to try and clean it off; otherwise, her skin would feel like crawling for the majority of the arena.

Her hands came up lazily when she saw his weapon, ostensibly a show of submission but with an air of cheekiness to it. The sword was longer than her dagger, and although her little pink bundle had an incredibly encouraging texture to it, she hadn’t had time to put it on (and good thing, too; nothing worse than gunked mail). Her eyes met his, and she smiled as she leisurely thought through what he would likely do. “You’re blocking the way out,” is all she said, as if she hadn’t been following him from the start.