Across the now razed battlefield of displaced chunks of stone, the scarlet-armored woman was covered in cuts and bruises with disheveled hair, catching her breath. Despite more of her skin bleeding than less of it, a triumphant smile curved on the warrior's lips.
"My lightning ain't too nice to be struck by, is it?" Sylvan called out, using her own sword to support herself as if it were a cane.
Tederich was already sweating profusely with a reddening complexion, coughing into his arm while trying to keep himself standing tall, "Yeah, it's a bitch, I'll admit that."
The rare sub-category of lightning magic wielded by Sylvan was potent in its effect. For even the healthiest men, a single moment of contact with the plagued element would incur a nasty fever for a week. In the case of Tederich, it was a terrible match-up for one, simple reason:
Despite his greatness, the Champion's best years were decades past, leaving him with an old body, all too susceptible to illness.
