Tiaras and Tricorns: Angelina Tarrant vs Madeleine Citronelle (Apex Qualifier)

[Malkavia]

Savate lacked an elegant term for what Madeleine was about to do. Which made sense—there was nothing elegant about raining fist over knuckle ground and pound.

But the punch was late. The loose, unresisting lumps of the pirate’s thighs felt wrong, made her hesitate, and when Angelina cupped her back, she waited another long frozen second because there was something in her gleaming violet eye (and it was wrong, very wrong, the tactic in this moment was to seize ground, but this was soft and she was cautious, just...cautious and curious), and that stuffed something in her gut and imagination became in reality a thumb on her chin that prickled Madeleine’s cheeks like an epi-pen injection. Her lips curled, furious, fist clenched, but her breast felt heavy and she still didn't punch, even though her shoulder had been coiled long enough to ache.

”SHIT—!”

The pulse in her snout told her she was bleeding before she saw the red. It was a sickly itch, as if she could feel the veins squeezing blood into her nostrils one heartbeat at a time. The tickle ran parallel to eye watering pain.

Then the realizations hit like dominoes: she was on her side. Her face was besmirched with red and would be thus in some capacity for the remainder of the match. And that woman had scuttled from her grip.

Mentally, The Study clamped iron walls around the whole red box of the moment. Pressure on the wound. She heaved a breath that sounded more like a snarl, whipped her head towards Angelina and kipped to her feet. One long wipe sopped the red from her face on her arm, and she flicked it in flecks across the mat even as her feet squared and she reeled in search of an opening at a pirate’s tragically whole throat.

[Monsy]

One moment, you got her close. She’s an open, exposed book. The fist is in view. Cocked back and charged, and she bided the seconds in the back of her head. Your fuckin’ move. It’s a small but unknowing invitation. For some reason, it didn’t come. Angelina seized on it. Her head wobbled back and forth after the skull crunch. She hit it wrong. And it sucked like having a drill press against the forehead, but there were no twists or piercing pains about it. It was dull and nauseating.

Angelina slapped the canvas with her back. “Owieeee.” Spread eagle with her boots rising then striking the mat. Her arms spread out into a star. “Baahh… Bahhhh... Edward Teach, have ya any gold? Yes sah, yes sah…” -- She stacked onto her shoulders and kicked back to her feet, landing on a flat foot and her toes. Drool came out one corner. A brow propped up, and that same side was where her smile curved. “--Three chests full.” She had slumped soldiers, with one dipping lower than the other. “Stay still… So I can focus on ya… yo.”

She pulled up a loose fist, folded. Her other arm was straight down. Then she arched, putting her face to the sky, chuckling, then threw herself forward, bending over, “Hup! Hoo-rah!” Placing her hand down, Angelina cartwheeled over, then cartwheeled a second time, however, whipped her foot in the arch towards Madeleine’s cheek. A cartwheel kick. In this state, doing two spins would have her reeling back into the ropes, spineless and bouncy on her legs. Happy all the same. For whatever top-side brain scramble she was feeling.

[Malkavia]

Baa baa black sheep have you any wool… Angelina was off key. Sheet music would have transcribed the melody as do do so so la-la-la-la so, but…well. Angelina started from Re at best, except the note wobbled, all slide-flute in a man er that paralleled her soggy, drifting eyes and crooked, stumbling legs. A scarlet, drunken Bambi.

Madeleine bit her lip and breathed, concentrating for a split second on the pain throbbing behind her snout as she circled Angelina and held her gaze locked between her fists. However much the nursery rhyme tickled, she couldn't afford to slip another smile.

…She could see the cartwheel coming, but she had difficulty believing her eyes. Angelina was a puppet sprung to life, one moment swinging loose by its strings, then you blink and it's tearing up a strip of ground to cut into your gut.

Once again, The Countess had underestimated the safe distance and found herself stumbling backwards, lips parted and face pale. CRACK! Pure reflex saw Madeleine raise her guard and catch Angelina’s ankle on her forearm, which sent a splinter of pain down to her elbow. Her jaw clenched, she groaned, and another curse got caught halfway up her throat and shoved back down as Angelina bounced off the guard and onto her feet.

Anxiety is just an unavoidable animal reaction to distress...

Madeleine’s eyes narrowed. The incandescence of the audience burned on her back, but—she shut them out. And dove at Angelina.

...But Animal feelings could be managed, and even overridden, with the appropriate plan. And we do have a plan, n’est-ce pas?

Her face was iron, her body a coil, and the plan was pure, steam-driven offense. It would start with a Superman punch, but there was a queue of follow up: pivot into a knee against the ribs, elbow the eye, kick the gut, sweep the legs. It wouldn't matter what Madeleine felt when the plan kept churning and swinging and unfurling until her opponent was flat on her back, hands shaking in front of her face.

[Monsy]

Her fists were gifted with paper strength. Wobbling in the wind, but with each toss and turn, the tos’ dotted its fros. Winces were periodic. She was squinting. Her head still fuzzled. Like a shattered puzzle rearranged into different slots, where the arms became the legs, and the legs became the torso. Its spun around, inverted, growing and shrinking, and looking at herself just made her feel queasy. “Sssstupid Axe-kicks. Why ya not go downnn?”

Angelina talked with a whine. Frustrated little pirate who stomped her leather boot, then saw Madeleine take flight. She arched a curl into her spine, looking, hailing with a hand over her eyes like peeking at the sun. A stoic blonde delight, raining down meteors in a tight packed fist. “W-Woah…” And she leaned too far back. She stumbled, back and back.

The Superman punch whisked by her lips. The knee slammed her arm into her ribs. Angelina spun around on her ankle, with her arms balancing out -- trying to keep steady. “H-H-aow…” Then she was gonged in the orbital bone. Her head reeled and bounced like a bobble head.

The eye flickered with a squint, while the other was bug-eyed. Her shoulders and upper-back motioned. An index finger came up shoulder-height, and she mused a small protest. “That huuurr--Heck!” Right in the gut again. Angelina bent over, horns over the knees. She drooled, wheezed then gasped. But as quickly as she folded, she bounced back up, swung her leg as she saw the sweep. It clipped the ankle and the limb veered as Angelina barely caught the fall by stumbling. Her arms windmilled, then she hit the ropes. And she ran. More like a bumbling but sudden dash nonetheless. She spun clockwise, then whipped her elbow straight for the Countess’s jaw. That glassy little spot that saw her tumble and shatter at the start.

[Malkavia]

Flow made Savate beautiful, even in training: Jab the gut opens the field for a cross-strike into the sternum, cross-strike lowers the off-hand for an uppercut hook to the jaw, then grab the head and knee the snout, until the series of strikes is like one melody from many notes, the savateuse a trained pianist unfurling arpeggios.

The ring, the opponent with blood on the line, the exhibition made it glow all the more golden. The Countess’s brain buzzed as she lept, as the spotlight made the mat tingle underfoot and the crowd roiled on every side, as the air brushed cool against her body, while her mind hung cold and stared iron at the woman who bloodied her, who—

Somehow, the pirate slipped between strikes. Or took a glancing hit. Or stomached Madeleine’s knee but kept standing. And every time, Madeleine’s chest got tighter. The more Angelina ducked and dove, the harder Madeleine leaned in, jaws clenched. Harder—Faster. Her breathing became heavy, sparkling with exertion, and the world tunneled on this irritating, sand-under-the-eyelid slurred-tongue crooning warble-voiced marauding doll…

Madeleine pushed into Angelina’s space, pivoted on the ball of her foot, turned a full 360 degrees with her ankle thrust over her head. She saw Angelina rotate under the high-aimed kick. And yelped when the pirate’s elbow cracked her jaw right where it hurt most.

The pain was eye-watering, but worse was what the force did to her balance. She backpedaled one step. Her face went sheet-white, lips tight, and her mind grasped for balance that was now spinning in three pieces in different directions. Then like a building collapsing it all heaved one direction: she’d leaned in too far, gotten too horizontal, and her second step couldn’t find ground, and she crashed onto her side.

[Monsy]

Ping-Pong ball meets Ping-Pong paddle. Hit, serve, hit back. Thrown one way, she comes back another. Tit for tat, and there were answers here and there. But the sheer fuckin’ speed of coming at her was ground floor to penthouse when this worked on street bums. For now. It worked. She was scrambling, guessing, and when she came off those ropes, she gambled again, tucked her head by momentum then reeled the elbow home.

Bam. Gold.
Angelina’s wobble came to an end with her foot stomping the ground. Madeleine fell, and Angelina used one eye to peek, snickered and tried standing straight.

“Almost had me, again.” Commenting as she dragged herself over, bending over on one foot, the other leg back, and her grabby hands plucked the tiara from her pretty blonde head, then put it on herself. Right in front of the horns. Her head shook. And like that, it seemed like her brain scramble became an omelette. Whole again, if not a little toasted. “Consider this ma’ match fee. Now…” Angelina looked down at them, finger on her bottom lip, simpering, with those cat-eyes tracing down and down and down until she settled on the ankle.

“Ya know knees are like small bristly pearls in a ditch, held in there by tight rubber bands, right? Knocking them out of their ditch, even just a teeny-tiny bit will take months to fix.” She picked up an ankle, hooked it and spread the pair to a nice forty-five degrees. Then her boot went over Madeleine’s leg, with the heel against the knee-cap, turning it slowly over until the full sole was over the knee’s entirety.

“Bettah stop this fast, girl.” And with that, Angelina raised her knee to tummy-height, and stomped on the kneecap. Once. Twice. Thrice. More. More. More.

[Malkavia]

When Angelina yanked, ribbons of hair knotted around wig combs, adhesive rubber bands stretched then broke, and pins went flying like springs. Madeleine’s face stretched, her neck arched, cringed as hair wrenched out of follicle, until the tiara finally pulled away with frizzy blonde fibers in its clips.

She didn’t need to look to know Angelina had slipped it on. Tongue out, while the crowd sucked in its breath. Her frown became a grimace, trembled over an inaudible growl while her chest heaved. Hair hung in her face, tickling her nose—which threatened to precipiate a sneeze. (Achoo!) So she puffed, brushed her bangs aside, put palm to mat, and—

A firm, slender hand on her ankle sent a tingle up the Countess’s spine. The tight, wet chill ran up her back, brushed her neck with goose-pimples, then made her lips slip apart. Her mouth was cotton-dry. The image Angelina planted in Madelleine’s mind…Pear in a ditch...dropped to the bottom of her stomach like a stone. Wait. Her face was cold and damp. Her nails pressed pale against the ground. Wait wait wait.

Her kneecap slammed the mat and twisted. Madeleine screamed. ...The Study, Mads. You’re in the—

A second stomp widened the spider-crack fissure she imagined in the bone. She could feel Angelina’s pear, like a splinter in her mind. Uninvited, the image played over and over, pear twisting, ligaments stretching. Threatening to pop and snap. She barely felt the agony splitting her leg as that image made her gut go queasy, which got her tearing at the mat with numb finger tips. Her hips lifted off the mat, her ribs stretched and spine reached, but Angelina reeled her back like a cat caught by its tail. The sweat on Madeleine’s palms streaked the mat.

CRACK! Madeleine squealed, tummy heaving, in and out, quick like a rabbit’s. Her legs—her beautiful, beautiful legs. The cancer rotting in her knee was like a splinter spreading up her inside, glassy self. ...ROLL Mads—

The thought was struck no sooner than her shoulders twisted, core tightened, and good leg coiled. She needed to get on her back, to face Angelina (even if it meant the Marauder would see the tears thick down her cheeks) and kick for all the Countess had left.

[Monsy]

You know what bone feels like on your foot? Hardly anything really. It’s all surrounded by squish or something stiff. Muscle, flab. Pretty kin on the top. But not the solid bar underneath. It’s more like a cross between jelly and ice. A popsy stick, that’s it. It can bend, move only so much. When it breaks. There’s something to listen to. But it remains. Still the same ol’ squish and stiff. Angelina was prodding for it, half there to see if Madeleine can pull this one out. And for that to be facilitated. She needed to be honest. Full force this shit. She wasn’t pullin’ knees, she was yanking them into her chest and diving down like the mortar of Queen Anne’s Revenge.

Then she finally does it. Kicks into her gut. It doesn’t hurt. Nah, these were closer to shoves that caught her mid-kick. Weight played its tune in splat minor, and Angie hit her butt, freeing Madeleine. She slipped back onto her elbows, then pivoted on her ass, rolled over on her stomach and got up on all fours.

“Does that feel good, Madeleine?” Angelina cackled, “Got a new look goin’ on in the face. Don’t fuckin’ hide it now.” And dragged her index fingers down her cheeks. She got up, licking her lips longer as Angelina tunnel-visioned on the target. There was a clear runway here. She can feel herself in cleats. The ball? Well. She looked at that mountain of swelling, and fuckin’ bolted for it, coming in on arch to line it up, then pointed her toes and shot a toe-bashing soccer kick for that pear. “EXPRESS YOURSELF!”

[Malkavia]

A kitten. Madeleine pictured a stuffed, slinking kitten—a toy predator with a glittering tiara accessory, whose unblinking glass eyes glittered with play, fun as the grin stretched a hungry face and revealed the teeny tiny needles under its lips. The Countess shrunk.

Then the soccer kick slammed Madeleine’s kneecap, and the nerves slick along the bone’s surface fired gouts of red. She bucked and rocked, holding her leg as muscles on her neck clenched tight and deep. She gasped and pushed her feet against the mat—

(Which shot a spike through her knee. Stern. A warning.)

—And raised her feet over her head. A grounded guard, with both her feet raised to the kitten like a pair of coiled snakes. Her thighs clenched, toes pointed, all coiled and ready to lash out if Marauder got close. That, too, made the pins between thigh and calf creak and groan. She caught those creaks halfway up her spine and held them before they could show on her face. She bit her lip and sucked in until the tears stoppered behind her teeth and her chin went tight instead of trembling.

If Angelina wanted expression, she would need to pry it, hissing and flailing, out of her gut.

[Monsy]

Tough sell. Angelina booted that fuckin’ thing and not a peep. And having walked away, strutting almost while throwing back her hair. She got to watch, casually, then raise her brows. Actually nothing. Without a doubt, she didn’t see herself there. Rather, she saw herself a mess when someone bites at her knees. The lifeblood of her flight, and an anxiety of needing a cast, and where you get those from. She admired it, and grinned.

“Atta’ good girl there, Madeleine! Makin’ me WORK!”

Working her way over to Madeleine’s grounded guard, she wiggled her brows, poked her tongue out on the corner. “But I bet I know where ya magic button is. Hm?” Behind that small play, hips were kept low. Hands were out. She came in like a viper and stepped to the outside, hoping to bait a kick where the corresponding arm can underhook near the knee, pull it into her armpit. Then it came down to wrangling the other leg. Kick. Hit. Eat one in the gut. It didn’t matter, so long as she got that grip. Ankle. Shin. Knee. Whatever.

Take ‘em both, pull them apart. Then, when it’s nice and spread, jump; knees to her chest, then thrust down like a sledgehammer into the Countess's covered sex.