Welcome to Gaia! ::

HP: 27/40
DMG: 3

He didn't catch her throat, but he did catch the uncovered skin between that and her bolero; that was bleeding, definitely, red lines streaking down her chest. That would hurt, later, when she had time to think about it, when she had time to complain.
She struck out with a fist again, but the hit was weaker than what she'd given before. Chrysocolla's hands weren't shaking, but an inherent tiredness had started to show itself in her eyes, one that rest wasn't going to cure at all. Chalcanthite seemed almost finished, she was so close - but her bruises from Pyrophanite still hurt, the ones that had been more than skin-deep, and those flickers of pain were too distracting for the focus of an arena.

HP: 21/40
DMG: 6

The arrow made easy contact with her shoulder and tore through fabric and flesh, lodging itself in; Chrysocolla stumbled with a breathy whimper of pain, and she wanted to be done with this, because blood being drawn always hurt more than punches and kicks. (Bones grinding hurt worse. Bones breaking under someone else's grasp. That was worse than blood drawn, but neither of her opponents had wanted to go that far, and she was thankful for it.)

He was poorly enough already, one good hit would do it - so it was one strong kick, brute-force, for a final strike for that perfect moment of bright clarity on one contact of flesh; of knowing she was better and she had their blood on her hands to prove it, and that she could do things well and that someone - someone would be proud of her. (God, she wanted someone to be proud of her.)

It was her and Chalcanthite, and nothing else mattered except that she was better than him (and everyone who had ever questioned her <********> loyalty could also come fight her, right now, maybe).