A thunderous roar rose from the crowd as he came into the sunlight, armor gleaming. He raised his arms and tossed back his head, drinking in the praise. Long, arrogant strides carried him to the center of the arena, where again the fighter cast his arms to the crowd, bringing forth further exaltation. Ponderously he turned, gazing upon the vast crowds before him, before at last he rest his eyes upon the beauteous gilded throne.
The King rose to honor his entry. The fighter doffed his helmet, and stowed it at his elbow. In salute to his liege, his patron, he raised his sword. At the left hand of the king, his lovely daughter, clad in brilliant white, sat radiant and rival to the stars, though just as distant. Many a battle he’d fought, and many a battle he’d won, but only those before his love mattered to him. A smile crossed her lips as she caressed her braid. With a jaunty wink he blew a kiss, which his lady caught with a subtle blush.
Trumpets sounded the arrival of his opponent. The fighter flourished his helmet, its crimson plume and bronzen crest flashing in the sun, dropping it over his head. A deathly calm took over his mind, and his eyes grew cool. The familiar weight of helmet, greaves, manica and shield joined his body as he settled into his stance, sword and shield at the ready. His opponent emerged from the tunnel to little applause, shield up and ready. Each saluted the other, then king. A bell commenced the duel.
The fighter circled right, drawing his foe to the center of the arena. The pair circled, and circled, until, at a meter and a half apart, the fighter struck, stepping to the left and slashing at his opponent’s exposed shin. A narrow miss, as the fighter ducked to the right to avoid a strike from the other man’s shield.
Step, thrust.
The fighter drew blood.
Parry, dodge.
A swing glanced harmlessly off the fighter’s shield.
Block, riposte.
More blood.
The fighter dashed in, darted out, cut and thrust with brutal precision. Scarlet blood stained his foe’s torso in twin thin cuts, while he remained unmarked, untouched. His foe was powerless to graceful speed.
Feint, attack, now three scarlet lines.
Parry, lunge.
A quick recovery brought the other man’s sword into play, and a painful gash opened on the fighter’s tricep. Circling back out, the two men returned to a meter and a half, neither still unscathed. The crowd cheered and jeered and yelled, that first violent clash a tease, whetting the bloodthirst of the people. Ever the showman, the fighter let anticipation fester, frustration grow, tension build. He taunted his foe, pounding his shield, rattling his sword. A quick glance showed his lady fair, tight and tense, worried and proud. The fighter smiled.
Back forth, once more, the warriors clashed. The fighter once more, danced around, in then out. His burdened foe could not keep his shield to bear, and a brutal slice to the shield arm shoulder made it harder still.
Pivot, parry, thrust.
A solid strike, crippling his foe. Sword-side thigh, deep and dangerous. No more sudden lunges, and even slower response. Now the fighter fully led the dance. He could have ended his foe, a cut to the hamstring, thrust to the spine, but no. When the crowd came for him, they came for spectacle. They wanted to see him dominate, to toy and play and to flourish. They came not to see him win, but to see him fight.
Slash, recover, parry.
A subtle twist from his foe caught the fighter off balance, and a blow to the helmet sent him reeling. A blind swing and a retreating step brought the fighter out, safe from danger as he recovered his composure.
The crowd had grown quiet, anxious and taut. The time for flash was done. The time for toying was over. Properly primed, his audience was ready for the finale. The fighter smiled, his masterpiece almost complete. A quick, brutal opening, high tempo, loud. A slower, methodical bridge, deadly and purposeful, building tension with no release. Now, for the closing. Quick, methodical, and precise. Each action clear in purpose, artful in execution.
First, the shield. The fighter feinted left, pivoted and rolled right, attacking the shield arm once more.
Snick
The muscles parted, and his opponent’s arm fell limp.
A quick disengage, and like a tiger the fighter circled. Now, for the leg.
Beat, parry, step, slash.
The other man fell to his knee, unable to stand. The fighter backed off again and paced around his crippled foe, preparing his final blow. Twenty battles fought this day, and soon twenty battles won, but only the soon thirteen before his love mattered to him at all. Though far and forbidden, she was his muse, inspiring his works of bloody art. And now, to sign his painting. In fourteen battles, the fighter’s signature had evolved, although five unfortunately had ended with the sword. His shield his weapon, the fighter down them finally. Locking eyes with his lady, the fighter raised his sword and beat his shield, three times, then closed.
The fighter sprung quickly.
A sweep cleared the sword and readied his shield for the closing swing.
The final blow.
From the shoulder…
A fiery pain filled the fighters gut. His shield dropped. A deft pivot had brought the sword back to bear
The fighter fell to one knee as his opponent rose to match. His eyes rose to his lady, his love. He fancied he could hear her anguished cries above the crowd’s own uproar. She was standing now, tears in her eyes. With a groan, the fighter collapsed, landing on his back. With all of the strength he had left, the fighter raised his head, raised his arm, and blew one last kiss to his lady. As he fell back and darkness drew across him, it found him with a smile on his lips.
The King rose to honor his entry. The fighter doffed his helmet, and stowed it at his elbow. In salute to his liege, his patron, he raised his sword. At the left hand of the king, his lovely daughter, clad in brilliant white, sat radiant and rival to the stars, though just as distant. Many a battle he’d fought, and many a battle he’d won, but only those before his love mattered to him. A smile crossed her lips as she caressed her braid. With a jaunty wink he blew a kiss, which his lady caught with a subtle blush.
Trumpets sounded the arrival of his opponent. The fighter flourished his helmet, its crimson plume and bronzen crest flashing in the sun, dropping it over his head. A deathly calm took over his mind, and his eyes grew cool. The familiar weight of helmet, greaves, manica and shield joined his body as he settled into his stance, sword and shield at the ready. His opponent emerged from the tunnel to little applause, shield up and ready. Each saluted the other, then king. A bell commenced the duel.
The fighter circled right, drawing his foe to the center of the arena. The pair circled, and circled, until, at a meter and a half apart, the fighter struck, stepping to the left and slashing at his opponent’s exposed shin. A narrow miss, as the fighter ducked to the right to avoid a strike from the other man’s shield.
Step, thrust.
The fighter drew blood.
Parry, dodge.
A swing glanced harmlessly off the fighter’s shield.
Block, riposte.
More blood.
The fighter dashed in, darted out, cut and thrust with brutal precision. Scarlet blood stained his foe’s torso in twin thin cuts, while he remained unmarked, untouched. His foe was powerless to graceful speed.
Feint, attack, now three scarlet lines.
Parry, lunge.
A quick recovery brought the other man’s sword into play, and a painful gash opened on the fighter’s tricep. Circling back out, the two men returned to a meter and a half, neither still unscathed. The crowd cheered and jeered and yelled, that first violent clash a tease, whetting the bloodthirst of the people. Ever the showman, the fighter let anticipation fester, frustration grow, tension build. He taunted his foe, pounding his shield, rattling his sword. A quick glance showed his lady fair, tight and tense, worried and proud. The fighter smiled.
Back forth, once more, the warriors clashed. The fighter once more, danced around, in then out. His burdened foe could not keep his shield to bear, and a brutal slice to the shield arm shoulder made it harder still.
Pivot, parry, thrust.
A solid strike, crippling his foe. Sword-side thigh, deep and dangerous. No more sudden lunges, and even slower response. Now the fighter fully led the dance. He could have ended his foe, a cut to the hamstring, thrust to the spine, but no. When the crowd came for him, they came for spectacle. They wanted to see him dominate, to toy and play and to flourish. They came not to see him win, but to see him fight.
Slash, recover, parry.
A subtle twist from his foe caught the fighter off balance, and a blow to the helmet sent him reeling. A blind swing and a retreating step brought the fighter out, safe from danger as he recovered his composure.
The crowd had grown quiet, anxious and taut. The time for flash was done. The time for toying was over. Properly primed, his audience was ready for the finale. The fighter smiled, his masterpiece almost complete. A quick, brutal opening, high tempo, loud. A slower, methodical bridge, deadly and purposeful, building tension with no release. Now, for the closing. Quick, methodical, and precise. Each action clear in purpose, artful in execution.
First, the shield. The fighter feinted left, pivoted and rolled right, attacking the shield arm once more.
Snick
The muscles parted, and his opponent’s arm fell limp.
A quick disengage, and like a tiger the fighter circled. Now, for the leg.
Beat, parry, step, slash.
The other man fell to his knee, unable to stand. The fighter backed off again and paced around his crippled foe, preparing his final blow. Twenty battles fought this day, and soon twenty battles won, but only the soon thirteen before his love mattered to him at all. Though far and forbidden, she was his muse, inspiring his works of bloody art. And now, to sign his painting. In fourteen battles, the fighter’s signature had evolved, although five unfortunately had ended with the sword. His shield his weapon, the fighter down them finally. Locking eyes with his lady, the fighter raised his sword and beat his shield, three times, then closed.
The fighter sprung quickly.
A sweep cleared the sword and readied his shield for the closing swing.
The final blow.
From the shoulder…
A fiery pain filled the fighters gut. His shield dropped. A deft pivot had brought the sword back to bear
The fighter fell to one knee as his opponent rose to match. His eyes rose to his lady, his love. He fancied he could hear her anguished cries above the crowd’s own uproar. She was standing now, tears in her eyes. With a groan, the fighter collapsed, landing on his back. With all of the strength he had left, the fighter raised his head, raised his arm, and blew one last kiss to his lady. As he fell back and darkness drew across him, it found him with a smile on his lips.
