Post by Deleted on Jul 1, 2013 16:53:37 GMT -5
“Introducing the first of today’s combatants; he’s an unseeded swordsman and making his fencing debut here today, Oaklan!”
A polite round of applause filled the theatre as the ragged and slightly bewildered bounty hunter made his way onto the stage. His eyes glanced almost nervously out at the sea of faces all staring back at him. The sensation brought back uncomfortable memories. The room was huge and lavishly decorated, the walls were largely a rich red and all the furniture was adorned with gold trim. Hanging from the walls above the not-so cheap seats were the stands, sat amongst them were the wealthiest sword fighting fans in all of Toroa. Quietly the fencing virgin stepped onto the long mat rolled out across the wooden stage. As he understood it this was the designated fighting space, leaving the mat would incur a penalty. The blade they’d given him was strange and whilst the hand guard was an interesting concept, the blade itself wobbled as he fidgeted with the blade.
“The second of out combatants is no stranger to this completion, a two times semi-finalist and the sixth seed, put your hands together for Maurice!”
A significantly louder cheer filled the room as a boy who appeared a few years Oaklan’s junior strode confidently out onto the platform. He gave a casual wave to the crowd telling the sellsword that his opponent was right handed. As he neared he flashed a smile, ran his hand through his mid-length brown hair which had been slicked back and gleamed under the theatre lights. Then his eyes narrowed with focus and he lowered his helmet, an item of protection the Shandian had forgone, despite efforts to persuade him elsewise. Yet regulation dictated he used one of their stupid floppy swords, so here he stood, totally out of his element but ready to fight.
“Ready?” the well-dressed referee asked, quickly receiving confirmation in the form of two nods. “Ok then, en garde!”
Maurice flashed forward with surprising pace, normally men liked to measure each other a little as they crossed blades but this was no street fight. The opening lunge put Oaklan on the back foot forcing him to stumble clumsily backward to avoid the blades tip. Predictably but with impressive pace came the follow up slash as the boys blade tore through the air like a whip. Knowing himself to be well within range only a block would do. Still off balance the Shandian swivelled on his heel, the small pivot allowing him to build the speed needed to meet the blow in time. The strike was hard, a far harsher blow than the fencer was used to. Despite the fact the blades had clashed, the arcing swing of the amateur sent the younger boy reeling as the momentum of the strike transferred through the boy’s sword arm and sent him spinning.
An excited chatter washed over the crowd as they wondered whether or not they may witness an upset so early on. Oaklan stampeded forward abandoning the side on stance that his opponent seemed so set upon. The savagery and strength of his next swipe left only the option of retreat for Maurice who danced backwards narrowly avoiding the blow. Trying to keep the momentum the ex-slave wound back for another clumsy hack but the young fencer read the move and sensing his opening coiled forward with another dainty lunge. Unable to catch the blade the bounty hunter raised his left hand and blocked the forearm instead, bringing the strike to an abrupt stop. Then feigning a strike he used the opportunity to grapple the youngster by his stupid white collar and brought him in for a colossal head butt.
An audible gasp filled the room as the unknown dented the helmet with his skull. Casually the Shandian let the boy slip to his knees and looked to the stricken crowd triumphantly. They however, were less than impressed.
After a struggle Maurice managed to pry open his visor, his eyes full of confusion and anger.
“What the hell are you playing at?” he barked in a voice that immediately revealed him to be from the upper caste of society.
Now it was the swordsman’s time to feel confusion. The crowd were jeering now, clearly he’d broken some kind of rule – in truth the whole affair had seemed a little odd.
“Disqualified!” the referee decreed loudly as the commentator hailed in some security.
“Like hell, I won!” Oaklan protested in a futile effort to maintain a chance at the prize money. He’d assured Beck he’d win no trouble, ‘how embarrassing.’
“This is fencing not some back ally brawl, what do they think they are doing letting trashy riff-raff in anyway? Get this moron out of here!” Despite the small cut to his forehead the younger fencer had managed to find his feet and was ranting angrily as the Shandian felt two sets of burly arms clamp onto either shoulder.
“Come on lets go,” the guard said grimly as the two escorts tried to steer the snow haired swordsman from the premises.
Flinging the feeble sword to the floor with disdain the swordsman ripped his arms upward throwing both guards onto their backsides as if they were children.
“I shoulda’ known this was gonna be some posh boy shitty sport and not real fighting. After all, how you s’posed to kill anyone with that piece of crap?” he spat angrily. “I’ll leave you pussies to your dancin’” his exit was punctuated with boos of the angry audience. As he found the back exit onto the cobbled streets of Toroa the uproar seemed to be dying down, the muffled voice of the announcer was appealing in a calming manner.
“Hey you!” a voice pierced angrily, stopping Oaklan before he could wander off to god’s knew where. Turning the swordsman saw a fierce faced kid, possibly a guy his own age glaring angrily at him.
“Forgetting something?” he asked before throwing the swordsman’s bastard blade onto the floor in front of him. The boy’s dark hair was parted just to the left of center into two well-maintained curtain-like strands. His face was alike many the ex-slave had seen before; he was very typically the handsome offspring of some nobleman, the type of annoying self-assured asshole who thought he owned the world. Of course this was because the world had not as of yet given these type of prissy rich boys a cause to know any differently. Asides that, the swordsman noticed a shallow scar running from atop the man’s left eye and down diagonally to the bridge of his nose. ‘So perhaps he won’t be all talk…’
From behind him two other faces emerged from within the building. One was Maurice and the other was some other young lord who no doubt also likes to play sword. Despite giving Oaklan a contemptuous glance, the other two boys seemed more anxiously preoccupied with the third than with the disqualified fighter.
“Up next… the top seed and three times champion, Alfion the third!”
The crowd roared and chanted in anticipation, but their excitement quickly faded into impatient curiosity.
“Come on Alf, this cockroach isn’t worth it – if you aren’t quick you’ll be disqualified!” Maurice’s pleading had little effect on the champion fencer, his glass blue eyes steeling over with determination.
“I don’t care, this asshole head butted you.” He turned dramatically towards Oaklan and in a flash drew a rapier from his side. The blade gleamed under the sunlight, the handle’s decoration was so elaborate that it almost appeared ornamental. Pointing the sword at the hunter challengingly Alfion flashed a wicked grin. “Pick your sword up.” His tone came as more a command than a request, the ex-slave didn't respond well to commands.
“No one hurts my friends, I’ll show you exactly how serious fencing is… I challenge you to a duel!”