Before she can give any more thought to skill, Misty's caught on the metric. Kneejerk associations with bloodlust are something dangerous and random, too close to cruelty for comfort and too seemingly indicative of something off, something untrustworthy. Something dishonorable. Recognizing that association, she can acknowledge she won't be able to self-assess for it without bias. She doesn't think she possesses it, or at least no more than anyone who's witnessed any injustice, but his matter-of-factness inspires some willingness to mull on it.

Of course, considering it at any length means she's dead silent well after he's finished speaking. Realizing this, she clears her throat and lifts her gaze from where it had settled on the floor.

"Sorry to hear that," she says, of that simplistic read of him. Or maybe they're just wary. Likely not a call she should make without more conversation with those wardens in question, who she decides not to ask him to name. Instead she presses on regarding the fight itself — which is good, she decides. She won't seem avoidant.

"There rules to this kind of thing, when it's just keeping from getting rusty? Does it have to be to the death, do we get to yield, that kind of thing?"

Because as much as she'd like to be sporting, she isn't about to lay down and die for it.