The axe swings down - for any other toy, it would have been a serious blow, maybe even enough to cut them in half, but the beastfolk warrior underestimated how well Molly could move as she leans back and practically folds in half to duck underneath it. Once the axe passes, she's up again just as quickly, her needle jabbing out to be caught on her opponent's buckler.

She's got the height advantage here - even the smaller toys are bigger than most of the beastfolk - but he's as quick as she is, and a much smaller target.

The axe comes down again, distracting her for a moment from the movement of his other hand, as he throws a knife out from under the shield. She dodges it, barely, and manages to turn her off-balance lurch into an almost-controlled roll. She gets to her feet just in time to parry another strike from the axe, making her lose ground and take a step back towards the edge. She ragdolls down to the floor, collapsing into an almost shapeless heap before spriging back up arm first, underneath his guard. The point of her needle strikes him in the shoulder - and the blunted tip knocks him to the floor.

“Point to Molly, and that's the match!” the announcer calls, from the top of their wooden stand as the audience cheers. Molly reaches out, extending a hand to her challenger to help him up, as she looks to the edge of the arena for her next challenger.

“Nae kidding, that was yer first fight?” The old warrior sits at the bar, a viscous purple liquid filling the glass in front of her. “Sparks above, but if yer friend hadn't broke when she did, ye'd have been close tae having us.” She knocks back the glass, her plastic hand still steady and smooth, even though her other arm is stiff and grey-furred with age. “Wasn't a surprise to find ye'd taken out Haim, just made me glad we'd face ye on the open field where quickness matters less'n numbers.”

Lyl sighs “If I were younger I'd see ye on the sparring grounds, but don't reckon it'd be a fair fight these days. Might send a few of my cockier folks over your way to see if ye can knock some sense into them. They seem not to have any, and ye seem to have some to spare, so maybe it'll even out somehow!”

Jordan stands over the crib, a much-loved ragdoll in his hands. She's had so many patches and repairs over the years that whether she's the same doll his parents were given at their baby shower is an interesting philosophical question at this point.

“Hey kid, Molly's always been here for me, so now it's time for her to be here for you too! She's brave and courageous and not afraid to talk sense when everyone's being stupid. She's been through a lot, but your granny fixed her up again so she should be lovely and soft for you now.”

They place the ragdoll down into the crib, where she flops down against the blankets. The eyes that have been staring at her since Jordan got her out follow her down, and a little hand reaches out to grab her and pull her close.