Overconfidence, perhaps, is a factor that would allow Goro to overtake her. She isn't a soldier with sharp instincts nor a clear goal in mind; she can't be calculating and cold when the moment is burning up in the midst of action—a range fighter, that is what she is better at. Still, she has proven before that her hands don't tremble when she finds herself stuck with her back to the wall and a sharp sword inches from her face.
But Goro does not wield weapons other than the large fists he carries on his arms. It's raw strength, muscles forged from endless battles—and it is that which gives him the edge over her, his favoring wars and fights keeping him coolheaded in his strategies.
The strike removes her feet from the ground, swept off in the force of it and into the air. Wanda would certainly have eaten dirt if she didn't use a pulse of her magic to cushion her fall, though her body slams hard against the ground regardless, her world spinning, black dots in her vision as she tries catching her breath. She's grasping at the world around her, trying to keep her focus, the sound of his demanding, booming voice the only thing that gives her a sense of the distance between them, of where he stands.
The world seems to be at a standstill. Focus, says a voice inside her head. You can't lose your cool. Images flash in her mind; Natasha Romanoff's usual side-smile, Steve walking a half circle around her. She had learned so much from them; Natasha with her combat skills, Steve with his unending support and patience.
Your own weakness!
She isn't weak—
She's sacrificed so much—
It is your destiny to destroy the world.
Chaos Magic erupts from inside her, her anger cold—focused—leaving no room for doubt. It sweeps out of her, around her, like the disintegrating pulses of magic that would remove enemies from her vicinity. All this time she's been here, having to hold everything in while the answer to her wishes lie on the pages of the Darkhold, now lost to her. This unfairness, the injustice of it all, when she is the Scarlet Witch, a being capable of anything. Wanda yells, her magic enrapturing her in blinding scarlet, her eyes aglow as she stands—no, hovers over the ground, the usual dance of her arms as she collects enough hex power to throw at Goro.
It slices skin, muscle, removes the arm he has used to strike her from the shoulder joint.
"You're the weak one," she returns to him, sending another bolt of red magic his way, to attach itself to his brain, like a parasitic worm, manifesting a flurry of attacks to his mind. Her voice echoes in his head, digging deep, you're weak, over and over. He'll believe it, because her magic will make him see it as his new truth.
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But Goro does not wield weapons other than the large fists he carries on his arms. It's raw strength, muscles forged from endless battles—and it is that which gives him the edge over her, his favoring wars and fights keeping him coolheaded in his strategies.
The strike removes her feet from the ground, swept off in the force of it and into the air. Wanda would certainly have eaten dirt if she didn't use a pulse of her magic to cushion her fall, though her body slams hard against the ground regardless, her world spinning, black dots in her vision as she tries catching her breath. She's grasping at the world around her, trying to keep her focus, the sound of his demanding, booming voice the only thing that gives her a sense of the distance between them, of where he stands.
The world seems to be at a standstill. Focus, says a voice inside her head. You can't lose your cool. Images flash in her mind; Natasha Romanoff's usual side-smile, Steve walking a half circle around her. She had learned so much from them; Natasha with her combat skills, Steve with his unending support and patience.
Your own weakness!
She isn't weak—
She's sacrificed so much—
It is your destiny to destroy the world.
Chaos Magic erupts from inside her, her anger cold—focused—leaving no room for doubt. It sweeps out of her, around her, like the disintegrating pulses of magic that would remove enemies from her vicinity. All this time she's been here, having to hold everything in while the answer to her wishes lie on the pages of the Darkhold, now lost to her. This unfairness, the injustice of it all, when she is the Scarlet Witch, a being capable of anything. Wanda yells, her magic enrapturing her in blinding scarlet, her eyes aglow as she stands—no, hovers over the ground, the usual dance of her arms as she collects enough hex power to throw at Goro.
It slices skin, muscle, removes the arm he has used to strike her from the shoulder joint.
"You're the weak one," she returns to him, sending another bolt of red magic his way, to attach itself to his brain, like a parasitic worm, manifesting a flurry of attacks to his mind. Her voice echoes in his head, digging deep, you're weak, over and over. He'll believe it, because her magic will make him see it as his new truth.