[He knows he's make a critical mistake in his certainty before it happens. The curse of the Force as his constant companion. So he braces himself--
But there's nothing to prepare for such a clean slice at his back. The many layers don't do anything to protect him -- he stumbles, breath shallow with pain and voice high as he catches himself on a rock. There's a brief stumble as his singed nerves win out over his fortitude.
His turn is swift -- damages both wounds he's managed to sustain out of recklessness without flinching. For a long moment, he stares with dark and heavy eyes and he waits. She's done him the favor of proving his point, even if she didn't take the final blow. Even still, injured, he does not press the fight -- he will not allow her a third hit by going on the immediate offensive. He doesn't quite straighten -- stayed hunched, robes smoking slightly, both hands white-knuckled under his gloves. There's no hiding it -- he's hurt and if he hadn't possessed the need to preserve what little dignity he had left, he'd be on one knee from the decisiveness of her strike.
They both know what she is capable of, but more importantly, Ren knows what he can't allow himself. His eyes move from her face to the saber, a deep loathing and jealousy plainly seen all over his face.
He says nothing. He only seethes, a gathering of dark and dangerous forces. A weight, deciding what was worth more -- mending his pride or forcing her hand.]
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But there's nothing to prepare for such a clean slice at his back. The many layers don't do anything to protect him -- he stumbles, breath shallow with pain and voice high as he catches himself on a rock. There's a brief stumble as his singed nerves win out over his fortitude.
His turn is swift -- damages both wounds he's managed to sustain out of recklessness without flinching. For a long moment, he stares with dark and heavy eyes and he waits. She's done him the favor of proving his point, even if she didn't take the final blow. Even still, injured, he does not press the fight -- he will not allow her a third hit by going on the immediate offensive. He doesn't quite straighten -- stayed hunched, robes smoking slightly, both hands white-knuckled under his gloves. There's no hiding it -- he's hurt and if he hadn't possessed the need to preserve what little dignity he had left, he'd be on one knee from the decisiveness of her strike.
They both know what she is capable of, but more importantly, Ren knows what he can't allow himself. His eyes move from her face to the saber, a deep loathing and jealousy plainly seen all over his face.
He says nothing. He only seethes, a gathering of dark and dangerous forces. A weight, deciding what was worth more -- mending his pride or forcing her hand.]