Askaree Bint Bahar

The arduous heft of her stare does not linger upon Spencer long enough to permit her view of the spectacle of his faux-apathetically pitched brow. She cared naught for his disdain, his arrogance, or whatever guises hung from him as the billowing dregs of a moth-eaten robe. She cared only for this opportunity to have him eat the words with which he had been so careless, so embarrassingly free. In the following minute or so (which, let's be honest, was all it was really going to take) she would be shoving them down his fucking throat; and maybe, just maybe, he would not disregard her so readily in the time to come. And if he did... well, all the better able would she be to fuck with him.

Her adversary approached her with just as much overly-confident ease as one might expect from a fellow who appeared so "seasoned" in this blood-sport; however, the slow shuffle of his gait proffered up just enough time for Askaree to take note of the yellowed hue to the dirtied cresents of his fingernails matched only by the similar shade of his teeth. The weathered and leathery state of skin drawn into taut lines in what was so obviously a premature fashion and, the tell of it all, the sickly rattling of each breath as it broke free of its fleshy cage. A smoker, she was certain of it. The epiphany curled an inward, demonic grin that did not mirror its impish doppleganger upon the sinful cushions of her lips. A cocky son-of-a-bitch though Askaree undoubtedly was, she had learned that to show such blatant confidence whilst in the midst of battle invited only the possibilty of defeat.

Such training her opponent had, clearly, not received as he rushed towards her, callused fists careening in the very general direction of her pretty little kisser. A blow it was so very easy to avoid as a series of feline-like movements deflected the meaty casing that was his arm whilst Askaree sent an elbow to land a well-aimed blow to the gentleman's kidney. She did not retreat, though many would have thought this a wise course of action given the sheer bulk of her adversary; no, she wished to see the look of surprise as he spun around to face her, only to have the flat of her falsely-delicate hand meet with the prominent bulge of his adam's apple. A rattling breath stalled in his windpipe as the gargantuan man shuffled, grappling to maintain his footing as Askaree retreated but a few miniscule paces.

A growl ripples the brims of his arid, cracked lips, and again he rushes her, flinging forth a clenched fist that, much to her dismay, clips Askaree's chin, splitting the plumpness of her bottom lip. Mother fucker. That was going to make getting her lipstick on fleek a real fucking chore for the next two weeks. "Ha," his rasping tone grates terrifically against her eardrums. "Come on, sweetie. I've broken more than one bitch like you," he sought to taunt her, cracked fingers beckoning her forth. What a tool. And yet she obliges him, the young Egyptian taking a measured step towards her opponent who, as she suspected he would, seeks to fling another clenched fist towards her darkly-attractive features. But she is prepared this time, already having grown bored with the cheap, tired flourish with which he conducted himself and this sad little charade of a fight just to prove a point to Mopey the Vapid Cripple. In a single, swift and marvelously-precise movement Askaree forces the heel of her hand upwards so that it collides solidly with the man's nose, her efforts (little though they were) rewarded with a gush of crimson, syrupy blood from his now-shattered nose. Thick hands move instinctively to inspect the damage, the grisled gentleman's beard already a gnarled mess of mucus and blood.

She moves for the finish then, a forceful kick plunged into the very center of the man's chest, Askaree's bare foot connecting with his sternum with a sickly thud, the movment made all the more cogent by the thick cords of muscle that built the woman before him. He falls to his back then, struggling for breath through a shattered nose and shocked, smoke-choked lungs, Askaree merely watching with a facade of what could have only been described as disinterest as she wiped away the singular trickle of blood which oozed from the abrasion upon her lip. The countdown to his defeat is quick, the mixed roars of anger, surprise, and victory a cacophonous amalgamation as Askaree moves to extract herself from the ring, barely sparing him a backwards glance as she delivers her would-be aggressor one last blow. "There aren't any bitches like me, sweetie."