Safiyah Neferet vs. Gwendolyn DuPont Bettencourt - Reclaim The Throne

[Lightman]

Match Type: Falls Count Anywhere

Victory Conditions: Achieved by pinfall, which can take place anywhere in the location. No countout or disqualification. Hentai permitted but is not accepted to obtain victory.
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The warm night air clung to Safiyah Neferet’s bronze skin, beads of sweat forming at her collarbone as she stood in the shadows of the grandiose stage that awaited her. The arena—if one could even call it that—was unlike anything she had ever fought in before. Bathed in the glow of golden torchlight and framed by towering palm trees, a grand wrestling ring stood atop an opulent stone platform, surrounded by shimmering pools of crimson wine. Luxurious cabanas draped in rich violet silk lined the edges, their velvety curtains swaying with the evening breeze. A pyramid loomed in the distance, a monument to glory and conquest, while obelisks adorned with ancient hieroglyphs cast long shadows over the battlefield. At the heart of this oasis of indulgence lies the squared circle—its mat pristine, yet soon to be marked by the struggle of two warriors.

Yet, despite the grandeur, a lingering weight sat on her chest. Her last match had been a humiliation—Cleo Hulbury had stripped her of not only victory but of dignity, parading her defeat like a trophy. The sting of that loss still burned, but here she was, standing on the precipice of redemption. This match was her chance to erase the shame, to reclaim the name of the Azure Cobra.

And her opponent? None other than Gwendolyn DuPont Bettencourt—the so-called Imperial Rose. The embodiment of arrogance wrapped in silk and gold, a woman who dripped with entitlement as though it were her birthright. Safiyah had watched her matches, seen the way she wielded sharp cunning and cruelty like a sharpened blade, breaking opponents in both body and spirit. But tonight, it was different. This was no pristine ballroom where Gwendolyn could waltz to victory; this was a battlefield where every strike would leave a mark, where every hold had the power to end the fight.

The Falls Count Anywhere stipulation played into Safiyah’s hands. No ropes for Gwendolyn to cower behind, no referee to break a hold at her whim. If Safiyah wanted to pin her in the shallows of the wine-filled pool, she could. If she wanted to drag her across the stone and make her beg, she could.

She rolled her shoulders, exhaling sharply. Beneath her confidence, there was doubt—unshakable, crawling under her skin like a curse. But that doubt wouldn’t serve her now. Safiyah clenched her fists, her mismatched eyes burning with resolve. This was her night. And she would not—could not—let it slip through her fingers.

Attire

Theme

Her theme played in the speakers. The open-air carried the sound, unlike the arena where a concealed space bounced it around. From the curtain, Safiyah steps out, bathed in an ethereal glow as the arena erupts into a symphony of cheers. Clad in a revealing white and gold bikini top, the cups were structured enough to offer coverage, yet still be provocative. Gold trim and intricate patterns adorn the fabric, evoking the feel of ancient Egyptian jewellery and armour—a golden collar-like piece connecting at the neckline to add a regal touch. The bottoms added to the elegant design, and the crescent moon-shaped golden ornament reinforces the celestial themes.

The sapphire and gold of the bikini gleam beneath the torches, the toned frame accentuated with every deliberate stride. Barefoot, the Azure Cobra embraced the coolness of the marble floor, feeling every grain against her skin as she slithers into the ring with the grace befitting of the serpentine nickname. The emblem of an ancient eye gleams on her chest, a symbol of watchful resilience. Safiyah’s heterochromatic gaze sweeps across the arena—one eye burning gold like the desert sun, the other deep blue like the Nile under the moonlight.

As far as she is concerned, this is her domain. And she’s not about to let another coloniser take it all away.

[killcarrion]

The flickering dance of torchlit flames becoming an apropos prelude to the salacious ballet soon to be undertaken this moonlit night. An impassioned dalliance between competitors rife with accommodations befitting the exorbitant wealth at the fingertips of one particular combatant. One who spared no expense in any facet of her life, including earlier in the day when a certain pampered imperialist would have been found peacefully lounging back in her beautician’s chair and in a serene state of mind that was in direct contrast with the frenetic buzz of duty-bound employees attending to their noble benefactor's every whim. Understandably, there was no shortage of willing suitors once Gwendolyn made it clear that she was hereby venturing into matches of a more lascivious nature, where the objective could very well mean shepherding your adversary towards a blissful awakening in between the more conventional types of physical domination inherent to the wrestling landscape. Dubious and vastly unlikely though the outcome was in her pretentious mindset, the consequences of being defeated underneath such circumstances was not lost upon the enterprising business magnate. As a matter of fact, she'd surmise that such a vile conclusion was what enticed a certain subset of the fandom the most when news of Gwen's interest in these match types spread.

A typical and rather gauche fairy-tale ending perhaps anticipated moreso considering the match's exotic locale is befitting more towards an Egyptian princess being praised for her beauty by subjugated worshipers than a British noblewoman who regards unwashed peasantry with the utmost of disdain. Hence why Gwendolyn sought to attain these specific conditions in the first place. An adversary yearning to make a name for themselves by thwarting a competitor of heralded prestige and unparalleled skill in the backdrop of such nationalistic pride and practical home advantage...would be the perfect circumstances to achieve victory within for the vainglorious blueblood. Being decimated within her homeland with tactical advantages behind this Safiyah Neferet, has the distinct possibility of instilling degrees of confidence quelling shame no other setting could replicate. And service Gwendolyn's intentions of making an imperious statement out of her illustrious victory this day, even if she has to play the role of the colonizing aggressor this star-sprinkled night. However, Gwendolyn decided earlier into this match's inception that if this was indeed to be a night of adventurous experimentation and imperialistic conquest, than she must earnestly commit to the concept. As if the setting of colossal pyramids and lumbering camels weren't enough to signify that particular fact.

Theme

On opposing sides from wherever Safiyah made her entrance, a shawl of silken curtains would be yanked back to reveal three flower-bearing lady attendants dressed in belly dancing garbs. Tribal clothing with circular gold laced around the seams with royal blue as the overarching color, who'd all begin fluttering the floor with yellow flower petals. The trio stepping towards the ring as they did so as Gwen's elegant overture of an entrance theme started being played with the noblewoman now stepping through the entrance herself. And upon doing so, showcasing her Azure blue swimwear and roses as fitting accessories. Gwendolyn's queenly cadence exemplified with every poised step with arms extended to the side as she basked in her own illustrious magnificence alongside the booing scorn of the LAW faithful. Two of the servants hunching themselves over on hands and knees to form a human staircase with the third widening the gap in between two of the ring ropes. Gwendolyn traipsing from a flower-petaled walkway and upon the back of attendants on her way inside of the ring, all of whom making their exits afterward. "...*giggle*...Do forgive me. I regard the elaborate theatricality as one of the more enjoyable aspects of this profession. I trust you harbor no objections, oh so renowned Azure Cobra?~..." Gwendolyn coyly remarked with a graceful gait taking her towards the middle of the ring.

Attire

[Lightman]

Beneath the brazen glow of torchlight and the watchful gaze of eternity’s sentinels—the pyramids, monolithic and unyielding—Safiyah stood as a perfect vision woven from the very sands of history itself. The desert night embraced her like a favoured daughter, its warmth lingering against her bronzed skin, where golden chains draped like the adornments of a goddess long since immortalized in stone and legend. Her indigo silks dyed the colour of the deepest twilight, clung to her frame with the weightless caress of a whispered promise, the fabric shifting with each subtle breath as if alive with the echoes of a thousand nameless queens who had ruled before her.

The wind, dry and knowing, slithered through the towering pillars of the ancient arena, stirring the veil that crowned her midnight-dark hair, making it dance like the restless waves of the Nile under a moonlit sky. It carried with it the scent of desert spices—frankincense and saffron, myrrh and oud—filling the air with the heady perfume of empire and eternity. Every inch of her bore the markings of sovereignty not granted by wealth or lineage, but by presence alone; a force of nature moulded by the very land beneath her feet, its breath, its pulse, its unyielding permanence.

And as the grandiose display of Gwendolyn’s entrance unfolded before her, the scene was as ostentatious as it was amusing. The audacity, the sheer spectacle of it all, would have been comical if not for how perfectly it aligned with the British noblewoman’s self-perception. A woman who viewed the world as her playground, who adorned herself with silks and gold as if they were marks of destiny rather than mere affectations of wealth. The foreign blueblood bathed in the artificial glow of her own self-importance, draped in excess as though it were proof of power.

But the Azure Cobra did not laugh. She did not sneer. She merely observed, her golden eyes narrowing as the petals were scattered along the noblewoman’s path, as the servants prostrated themselves beneath her feet. This was not the first time she had seen someone play at being royalty in a land where true queens were born, not made. True power did not need to be flaunted. It did not need to be wrapped in bows or carried atop the backs of those desperate to serve. No, real power was felt in the marrow of one’s bones, in the way the earth itself seemed to bow beneath its presence. And that—as the smirk that curled Safiyah’s lips so plainly revealed—was something she suspected this coloniser had yet to understand.

And now here she stood, smiling so coyly as if she had already conquered this night before it had even begun.

The Egyptian warrior took a step forward, deliberate and unhurried, the soft chime of golden bangles accenting the movement. A forward stride with the effortless grace of a lioness prowling her domain. A breath of incense and myrrh, the scent of sun-warmed spice, and something richer, something darker—power, perhaps—surrounded her as she moved. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d thought you were the jester with how such theatricality only served to entertain me.” She tilted her head ever so slightly, the sapphire cascade catching the flickering firelight, heterochromatic eyes drinking in the golden embellishments of her opponent’s royal blue-clad frame. A beautiful woman, that much is undeniable. Arrogant, but beautiful. And deliciously untested in a battle such as this, Safiyah suspected. “But tell me, oh so esteemed Lady Bettencourt..." she continued with a smirk, voice honeyed with amusement, “...How long do you intend to play at being a queen before you remember that you have stepped into my kingdom?”

She let the words settle, her smirk deepening as she saw the flicker in Gwendolyn’s gaze, the unspoken challenge passing between them. This was not merely a match. It was a battle of wills, of legacy, of who would write the story of this night. And Safiyah had every intention of ensuring that when the sands settled, it was her name that remained engraved in history. “I do admire the effort. To pose as a queen is one thing…to be one? That’s another entirely, musta'mir.”

[killcarrion]

Subtlety and nuance, while assuredly words within Gwendolyn's verbose vocabulary, were typically scarcely implemented whenever her divine whims and strategems were put into full execution. One need only breathe in the hallowed locale to rightfully ascertain that the heiress approaches all aspects of her life with the same grandiose flamboyance and ludicrous opulence that encompasses nigh all aspects of her refined life amongst the one percentage. Divergent in pigmentation though they may have been, the unified consensus ascertained by Safiyah's pupils was the contemptuous disdain evident upon fixating her attention upon her imperial adversary. A saccharine opinion accentuated by the acerbic commentary which was only somewhat sweetened by the honeyed vocals of a temptress who’s assuredly assuaged more than her fair share of wayward souls and yearning partners into a nocturne bliss. An aura of utmost confidence resonating strength that nevertheless strode upon the clouds with an aroma of desert spices and whose beauty painted a portrait to be cherished for generations.

...Questions abounded within Gwendolyn as to how this delusional plebeian deemed herself worthy enough to speak in so callous a tone within her refined presence. So feckless a manner. Apparently seeing fit to criticize and deride a noblewoman such as herself. Such impertinence assuredly being a loathsome byproduct of associating with those of low born lineage all these years within the squared circle. A whispered flick of acknowledgement evident upon the heiress' iris' when the topic was broached through veiled innuendos regarding the salacious entanglements that were to come, and whose reign would commence this starlit night upon a throne of carnal delights. "Ah...the elaborate masks we wear. Gazing upon me I bear witness to a hetero-chromatic duality. Fate bestowing upon me the mirrored outcomes of tonight's festivities. But tell me...within which eye do you foresee this engagement culminating with your resplendent victory? Because...I'm afraid I don't see it." Gwendolyn's cheshire smirk radiating superiority as she continued her diatribe, a frigid wind bellowing within the ring to accompany the glacial overtones of the heiress' messaging.

"...And I'm of the opinion you don't either. Hesitation and apprehension are the scars you bear from past failures, conspicuous to any within this profession whose observed certain telltale signs, and ones which you are patently obvious in your intent towards concealing. Whereas I, my dear...have been wreathed in immaculate success throughout this venture~..." Gwendolyn extended her arms to the side as if gifting Safiyah the opportunity to bask within her superiority, smiling towards the night sky as if the heavens were bathing her in its celestial luminescence. "Fallen adversaries are littered around my refined magnificence no differently than the rose petals I stepped upon when gracing this humble ring and uncultured philistines with my presence. Queens are naught but subpar avatars emulating the Goddess' which the peasantry revere. Conquered and subjugated once one closer to divinity wages war with another, and that is the woeful role you, Azure Cobra, are pitiably cast for this day~...So, shall we commence?" Gwendolyn's curt windup of a retort accompanying a flourishing flick of her resplendent ringlets and adaptation of a grappling stance, beckoning Safiyah onward with naught but the gleam in her eyes.

[Lightman]

For all the grandeur woven into Gwendolyn’s words, for all the aristocratic opulence laced within her voice, there was something else buried beneath the gilded veneer of her speech. An intent so razor-edged it sought not just to preen, but to wound. To peel away at the unshaken confidence of a woman who stood before her draped not in the wealth of empires, but in the history of a land far older than anything Gwendolyn could ever claim as her own.

And yet, for the faintest moment—perhaps no longer than the hush between heartbeats—Safiyah faltered. An imperceptible shift, a brief tightening of her jaw, a flicker in those mismatched eyes that belied the momentary sting of memories far less regal than the image she so carefully cultivated. She did not dignify Gwendolyn’s words with a spoken acknowledgment, nor would she allow the past to coil around her throat like a noose. But even the most carefully sculpted statues bore the weight of erosion in time, and for one fleeting second, the cracks threatened to show.

It was not failure that haunted her—no, failure could be learned from, reshaped into something stronger. It was humiliation. That bitter taste, that venom that lingered at the back of the tongue long after the battle had ended. The reminder of a treacherous hand and foot, of skin slick with tainted oils, of limbs that had betrayed her beneath the weight of something unseen yet insidious. She had clawed her way back from that disgrace, had buried it beneath a mountain of unwavering defiance, but now—now—this self-anointed queen sought to exhume it. To parade it before the stars and the gods themselves.

A slow breath. Inhaled through the nose, exhaled through barely parted lips. The weight of Gwendolyn’s words passed through her like a desert storm—howling, insistent, but transient. The smirk she offered in response was deliberate, sharpened at the edges like the blade of a ceremonial dagger. A weapon not of steel, but of subtlety.

“Such a fascinating delusion you cultivate, ya sayyidati,” Safiyah murmured, voice a silken thread that wove through the still air between them. The curl of her lips did not waver, but her eyes—one gold, one blue—gleamed with something that was neither reverence nor submission. “To mistake arrogance for divinity, to drape yourself in silk and convince yourself it is armour. Perhaps that is the privilege of those born to comfort rather than conquest.”

She stepped forward, the fine blue silks of her attire shifting like the rippling dunes beneath a desert moon. A prowling movement, unhurried yet purposeful, the kind of approach that spoke of a predator. She did not lunge blindly into the trap of Gwendolyn’s waiting stance. No, such recklessness belonged to warriors who fought with fury rather than calculation.

Her weight shifted—left foot subtly sliding forward, knees bending just enough to lower her center of gravity. A grappler’s stance, but one tempered by the fluid grace of striking. The canvas beneath her bare heels anchored her, the heat of the earth familiar, grounding. She moved closer, encroaching upon Gwendolyn’s space, testing the waters of her opponent’s defenses without committing to the tide. “It’s clear you know nothing about failure, but I’ll give you a good lesson. It makes one learn. And it makes one adapt.”

Instead of meeting her in a standard tie-up, the Azure Cobra struck out first, already closing the distance, already shifting low to feint a grapple attempt. That was, until the Egyptian exploded upwards with the sharp and graceful movement of a trained gymnast. Flipping backwards, her dangerous legs followed the upper body, backflipping into a walkover while a lone instep travelling with the same force of a boxer’s uppercut. Of course, an uppercut to start a match is a bold strategy, but for Safiyah, it was a test, a way to see just how quickly this self-aggrandising goddess could react. Because if she so happens to struggle with this, then defeat would be a foregone conclusion.

[killcarrion]

Every battle is won before it is ever fought. Whether within the capitalistic sterility of a corporate boardroom or the sacred arena of combat waged between these four turnbuckles, warfare is a subject thoroughly embraced by the affluent heiress lest she desire to lose that prestigious title to those deigning to usurp her position within family's conglomerate. Gwendolyn obviously comprehending the distinction between these disparate settings but understanding that certain teachings can be applied to them all regardless. Entering upon this venture without thoroughly researching her adversaries match history and background would have been a foolhardy endeavor, and one which the aristocrat saw no issue with since fame decrees her own chronicled background to be considered common knowledge to anyone with faint interest and access to a smartphone. Safiyah's closet possessing its own fair share of shambling skeletons which Gwendolyn found intriguing although momentarily they were not worth bringing into the light, save for one. Recently enshrouded behind Safiyah's veil of superiority and confidence but uncloaked with naught but subtle innuendos and a luxurious lexicon.

A predisposition to psychological warfare being one reason amongst many that adversaries of Gwendolyn leave the ring with scars pertaining to more than mere physical blemishes, and those deemed fit to be derived as arch-nemesis by the heiress are those few who have skins with thickened hides. Destabilizing your opponent. Weakening their resolve if even for the faintest flicker of a seconds. Compel foes into making mistakes. Committing to gambits otherwise deemed unwise within a more rational mindset. All of these miscues open opportunities otherwise unobtainable and can become the puppeteering conduit which the noblewoman uses to dictate her foe's action. Not to mention...satiate the prestigious bluebloods conceited vanity. Although it was indiscernible to the layman's eyes within the audience, the shaken waver from Gwen's silken barbs were nevertheless noticed and acknowledged with a slight upturn to the heiress' resplendent smile. Even the slightest imperfections upon an auburn beauty such as Safiyah were most unbecoming and significantly apparent in its glaring flaws. Akin to a paint blotch on a masterful portrait or line crack upon a sculptor's masterpiece.

"...*giggle*...I courteously oblige, Azure Cobra~..." Gwendolyn replying with naught but a gracious curtsy towards Safiyah's obvious condescension before reclaiming her grappling stance. Nary an issue taken with the Egyptian's rebuttal save for the assumption that the heiress has never imbibed the acrimonious libation known as defeat. Gwendolyn having sampled that bitter swill all too often, enough to never have its putrid distaste taint her heavenly lips ever again. The posh blueblood narrowing her eyes as Safiyah encroached upon Gwendolyn with a methodical pace and abrupt feint leading into a graceful backflip. Matching the arch of a crescent moon as the wind cascaded throughout her silken garments but accompanied with a hook kick at blistering speeds with concussive strength, but evaded with a sidestepped swivel and subsequent downward plummet by Gwendolyn. Smacking the ring canvas with her hands as a steadied balance in service of an attempted legsweep aimed at whatever Safiyah was balanced upon herself. Be it her arms within mid-somersault or tanned legs upon her nimble landing in Gwen's bid to rob Safiyah of verticality.

[Lightman]

A cruel twist of fate, that a woman such as Gwendolyn—who draped herself in gilded splendor and wove her own legend with words as much as deeds—should possess such a surgical mind for war. It was not an unfamiliar battlefield that Safiyah found herself in, nor was she naïve enough to believe that Gwendolyn had stepped upon these sands unprepared. The aristocrat was as meticulous in her machinations as any pharaoh of old, but the difference between them was simple. Gwendolyn reveled in her dominance, in her ability to unravel an opponent thread by thread, reducing them to the sum of their insecurities. But Safiyah? She had endured it before.

The Egyptian’s body remained still, save for the gentle rise and fall of her chest, but her mind was a storm. Gwendolyn’s words had been chosen with care, aimed with the precision of a blade meant to slip between the ribs rather than simply cut. And for the briefest moment, they had landed. The whisper of memory, the phantom burn of a loss that had stained her name, coiled around her like the ghost of an aphrodisiac-slicked touch she had long since sworn to erase from existence.

But Safiyah was not so easily unraveled. A slow exhale passed her lips, a flicker of composure reasserting itself as her golden eyes honed in on Gwendolyn’s poised stance, the graceful curtsy mocking her with its elegance. If this was to be a battle waged in body and mind alike, then she would answer in kind. And so, her approach was measured. Not sluggish, not hesitant, but deliberate. A prowling hunter, steps fluid and soundless, exuding control over the storm raging beneath the surface.

And then—movement. Safiyah struck with the elegance of a desert windstorm, her backflip as much a spectacle as it was an attack, the arch of her body tracing the heavens as she twisted mid-air, her silken garments rippling like banners in the wake of her momentum. Her heel, a guillotine masked as artistry, carved through the air in a sweeping crescent aimed at Gwendolyn’s temple. But grace alone did not dictate the outcome of war, and Gwendolyn’s experience proved its worth in the barest of margins. A sidestep, a drop, and suddenly, the noblewoman was beneath her, hands striking the canvas with the elegance of a ballroom dancer as she sought to claim balance from her foe with a cunning sweep.

Safiyah’s body reacted before thought could register. A shift of weight, a bend at the hips, and her grounded foot left the mat in a single, controlled movement, her entire form now inverted in the air above Gwendolyn. A moment of weightlessness—then a sudden twist. Where lesser combatants would have simply fallen prey to the sweep, Safiyah adapted, her limbs coiling inward before snapping outward in a counter-rotation. A scything motion, an attempt to reverse the momentum Gwendolyn sought to claim.

Should her gambit land, the heiress would find herself contending with a descending strike of Safiyah’s knee, a forceful answer to the attempt on her verticality. But should Gwendolyn evade once more, the Egyptian would land lightly upon the balls of her feet, poised, yet ever-fluid, her body ready to react in kind. A battle dictated by inches, by intellect, by instinct. And this dance had only just begun.

[killcarrion]

The righteous indignation within Safiyah, which festered comparable to a malignant parasite, was tucked beyond the borders of perceptibility. Biding its time whilst feeding upon and nurturing the despondent conjuring's of her psyche until assuredly overflowing in a tempestuous spectacle of unfiltered volatility. Gwendolyn acknowledging its presence regardless with subsequent barbs directed straight towards it...although in spite of her pious declarations, the affluent aristocrat appreciated the strength of willpower it must take in order to conduct oneself in so courteous, demure and genteel a manner as her adversary has done so today. The uncouth neanderthals that Gwendolyn typically finds herself within the woeful company of thanks to this profession would have worn their turbulent emotions upon their metaphorical sleeves, yet those conducting themselves with poise and composure know better than to willingly exhibit signs of weakness and emotionality. However, time will tell as to whose veil will slip first as one Goddess waged war with another...

...Signs of which perhaps becoming evident at the match's inception, as Safiyah eschewed the typical conventions of grappling interplay in favor of what some may consider an underhanded ploy. Feigning an interlocking of their arms when intentions were set on a beauteous somersault kick as if embodying the nocturnal radiance of a lunar eclipse itself. Air itself sliced in twain but found little else aside from that, including the intended target of the Azure Cobra's opening volley. An angelic alacrity befitting one of Gwendolyn's prestigious lineage and honed athleticism taking center stage as if the combatants were in synchronous balletic coordination. The blistering pace offering mere milliseconds of sequential time in order to riposte one strike with yet another or notice the faintest smirk upon the heiress' facials all throughout. Dainty fingertips balancing the golden-curled blueblood as if she were a featherweight in the most literal meaning of the word as the wide-reaching sweep of her leg was seemingly on the advantageous verge of unbalancing the Azure Cobra.

*Tsk...* Gwendolyn clicking her teeth once Safiyah demonstrated similar levels of responsive instincts when it came to unforeseen strikes, practically a perfect circle swirled onto the canvas even though the heiress found there to nothing perfect about this situation at all. Including the Cobra's attempt at levying a plummeting comet of a knee strike towards the grounded aristocrat. Gwendolyn's other leg being tucked afforded her the posture necessary in vaulting to the side in a deft evasion that left her hunched over on the tips of her toes. Similar to a sprinter's stance and with comparable intentions as the heiress breathed a wisped pant and vaulted straight ahead. Except given the close proximity of her Egyptian adversary, the journey between them would be covered in one fell upward leap. Whether it be Safiyah's caved in breadbasket or her hetero-chromatic countenance, a rocketing knee strike would become targeted by the illustrious highblood. A cascading flow of her ringlets in the wind which started swirling of rose petals into the ring from Gwen's entrance.

[Lightman]

The coil of emotion within Safiyah was not so easily banished, merely restrained behind a dam of cold precision and disciplined pride. The sting of Gwendolyn’s veiled jabs and mocking subtlety gnawed at the edges of her mind like unseen jackals, sharpening the storm that churned within. Yet on the outside, the Azure Cobra remained serene, the embodiment of Egyptian grace. She would not give the heiress the satisfaction of seeing her rage bloom openly, not yet. Patience, she reminded herself, even as the fire built with every elegant sneer and flawless evasion the gilded noblewoman delivered. The moment Gwendolyn vaulted, Safiyah’s senses, trained sharp by countless hours of brutal drilling beneath relentless desert suns, snapped into razor clarity. She recognised the upward trajectory instantly—a rising knee, aimed to carve into her core or shatter the poise from her face. It was a gamble, a flash of raw aggression that contrasted the poised fencing of their earlier exchange, and it spoke to Gwendolyn’s confidence in her superiority.

But Safiyah was not prey to be snared by such a flourish. As Gwendolyn soared, the Egyptian’s feet were already shifting, her weight pivoting over the balls of her bare feet. Rather than retreating outright or foolishly attempting to absorb the blow, she dipped low, the supple strength of her frame bending like a reed in the desert wind. Her body folded at the waist, the incoming knee slicing the air inches above her back, narrowly avoiding what could have been a devastating impact. And with the evasion came opportunity.

Without hesitating, Safiyah’s legs tensed, uncoiling in a surge of kinetic energy as she twisted into a sweeping spin, the hem of her azure silks brushing the mat like a painter’s stroke. With a sleek, coiled arm like a striking asp, Safiyah lashed upward, aiming a rising palm strike at Gwendolyn’s exposed ribs. This strike wasn’t meant to maim, but to punish her arrogance—a reminder that the Cobra’s fangs were always poised to strike unexpectedly. It was a counter designed to force Gwendolyn to reckon with the reality that no matter how gilded her steps, no matter how immaculate her technique, Safiyah Neferet was not a trinket to be toyed with. Their dance was fluid and perilous, neither goddess yet yielding the floor to the other. And as she struck, Safiyah’s mismatched gaze—one the colour of desert skies, the other of burning gold—never wavered from her opponent, watching, calculating, waiting to see how the imperial rose would respond to a thorn’s sting.

[killcarrion]

Unintentional though it may have become...each and every maneuver, strike, submission, and counter play up until this specific point in this moonlit ballad between dueling deities would henceforth be regarded as nothing more than a warm-up session. An instinctual approximation of their adversaries fighting capabilities and mere prelude to the official commencement of the sandstorm sirocco to come. Fluidity given form between the eidolic divinities' strikes slicing through the same air that held the audience's gasped breathes from each deft evasion milliseconds apart from eachother. Gwendolyn's own competitive flames rekindled anew at the enticing prospect of combating against a worthy adversary unfettered of any restrictive shackles, including ones inherent with wrestling as a profession. The Haughty Highblood zealous smirk contrasted the narrowed brows indicating a level of honed concentration indicative towards a training regimen as befitting one tenaciously seeking perfection in all aspects of her life. Gwendolyn's exquisite agility and sublime footwork enabling her to seamlessly avert catastrophe and henceforth attempt to deliver the same upon Safiyah, whose own tenacity shown through once again in the most vexing of manners.

"Hmph..." Gwendolyn's split-second bemusement from once again having her strike eluded accompanied a pirouetting spiral once her feet graced the canvas again, prioritizing keeping track of her adversary’s location and consistent spatial awareness between herself and Safiyah at all times. Upon doing so, the noblewoman observing a steadied serpent on the cusp of bearing her venomous fangs. A daredevil’s defiance exhibited once Gwendolyn closed the distance between them and spared herself a clawed hand embedded within her midsection with one slanted sidestep. The reasoning behind her opting to be within close contact as opposed to evading altogether came in the form of Gwendolyn snatching one hand upon Safiyah's extended wrist. Spiraling in place with Safiyah's arm yanked over the noblewoman's shoulder, the Egyptian's swelled softness felt upon the heiress' back who'd find herself precariously balanced given the heels of Safi's feet were uplifted off the canvas. "Through which eye. I wonder~..." Whispered words reminiscing Gwendolyn's earlier proclamation being sweetly enunciated as the heiress peeked over her other shoulder into Safiyah's golden azure iris', but upended with an attempted over the shoulder throw and meteoric plummet.