Today's current contender is a rather trim young fellow, probably around Fíadh's own age. He had approached her with a few of his fellow soldiers, full of bravado, swagger, and confidence. Nevermind by that point she'd already beat down at least four or five other fighters, no, he looked convinced he was going to win.

Well, with the way the match has now been going, he wouldn't.

Fíadh's fist connects with his already swollen jaw in a ferocious uppercut and blood spurts from his mouth, likely from biting down on his own tongue. He stumbles backward and collapses to the ground. Lethargically he begins to scramble with his hands, pushing himself up, only to be shoved down once again by Fíadh's boot on his chest. Through one good eye and one very blackened eye he angrily stares up at her, met only with her bored gaze and a raised eyebrow.

"Finished?" Fíadh asks. He doesn't reply, but he doesn't move either. Fíadh nods, removes her boot and holds out her hand to help him up. The soldier pointedly refuses, pushing up on his shaky arms and stumbling like a fawn to his feet. His brothers-in-arms laugh heartily, maybe also a little in awe and fear, as they help him limp off. Fíadh's face remains impassive as they walk off, but there is certainly some sort of spark in her eyes as she trains them on Pippa. Of course she's noticed the other woman watching, many people have stopped the watch, but the fact that's she's staying is the most curious part.

"Do you want to fight too?"