Fighting against someone who draws on form and style is easy. It's a dance of sorts, as Amelia takes the time to observe and learn the movements before jumping in and using that same knowledge against someone. It makes fighting men in the same army or unit so easy - they all think alike, fight in the same manner, are predictable.

Mordred is none of those things when he fights. As their blades connect with the loud crash of metal against metal, her feet slide across the grass under the sudden force of his strength. He's going to be reckless in this, she knows, but how is never certain. He's unpredictable and wild and the thrill of facing that pulls a grin across her face. This will be a hard fight for both of them, but she's eager for it.

Pushing back against his blade, she takes a step forward and adds the short gauche to the mix to force his blade off to the side. She follows the movement of the blades to get close and then shoulder checks him in the chest to force him back a few steps. Her grin widens as she settles again into her defensive stance.

"A good start," she quips, raising her blades, "but you let me get too close. Don't hold back with me - I know how to take care of myself."