[She meets the strike, spins away and darts back in again. The wood is too light and unbalanced for familiarity, quite unlike the feel of her own barbed scimitar in hand, and she must take care not to strike too hard lest it break, but centuries of experience leave her dance-fencing swift and elegant nonetheless. But there are a few openings, here and there: the loss of her eye is recent, and she's not yet used to compensating for the blind side.]

I would bow, but such gestures must wait until the conclusion of our bladed ballet. You understand.