At a rustic campsite in Brisshal, a traveler slept: their tent-flap open, their loot unguarded. A mid-day nap (perhaps!) or a player who'd left their body behind to regain health while they carried out the dull errands of daily life. The sleeper's chest rose and fell as a small figure in a beak-shaped mask emerged from the forest, eyes bright. Their breaths came slowly and evenly as the dark-haired thief came closer, tap-tap-tap. They did not wake as fingers wrapped around their sword and sheath (and dagger too!) and lifted them high with wonder. They did not stir until it was too late, and Rook the Quick was gone in a flurry of footsteps, one-after-the-other, like the first raindrops of a sudden storm. --- Thwack, thwack! He was a footrunning tanglerolling bundle of movement down a hillside studded with wiry trees and patches of spindly foliage, bits of grass and leaves drifting in his wake. As he passed each shrub like a buzz-saw, a tasmanian devil, it burst in a shower of surprise and green confetti. The forest celebrated with him! (He was a many-legged weedwhacker, but he was not a swordsman. Not yet.) Rook stopped, panting, looking flushed and filled with triumph at the rapier in his hand. A blade! A real blade! He swung it again, testing it in both hands. It was light. So light! More than the plastic swords from game conventions and the slender replicas at the museums and the wooden sword from Kyoto that Mamá had bought for him his eighteenth birthday. He wanted more! When Rook appeared to @Rhalgr, it was not with quiet. He was not in stealth or darkness, he was not the kind for dropping in from trees or sneaking from behind. A murmur was his messenger, a crashing and a slashing from the trees and twigs and branches as he burst from the brush with a triumphant leap, landing with a somersault before the other player. He straightened up and threw his hands (and the blades he carried, one long, one short) high in the air like a luchador's first pose, like the first letter of YMCA, like the sagging cross of Christ. He cocked his head to the side, eyeing the red-haired elf with mild interest. He gestured with his blades, and jerked his head. His sandaled feet tested the ground and he hopped from foot to foot, springy and spry, ready for battle. Then he stopped. He seemed... unsure. For the first time, Rook cleared his throat. His voice was a croak, muffled from behind his mask, his words drawn-out and hesitant. "You... duel?"
Admittedly, Rhalgr didn't know what to think of the player in front of him. He seemed eccentric for the most part with an air of uncertainty and liveliness about him. There was a hesitance to his words and the way he held himself was like a spring ready to be let loose if given even the slightest pressure. "I don't know how much of a challenge I'll be for you," Rhalgr answered, sheepishly scratching the back of his head. "I just started the game, y'know?" He folded his arms across his chest and regarded the other with a raised brow. On one hand, there was a chance that this guy would try to attack him regardless of whether he accepted or not. On the other, considering that he asked there may be a chance that he actually would take his feelings into account. Whether or not he wanted to play by those odds was another question. "You have the Slash Mastery, right?" Rhalgr asked, gesturing to the swords with a slight incline of his head. "Why don't we do a practice spar? Teach me a few moves, newbie to...veteran?" He sheepishly grinned and tilted his head to the side.
No challenge? Disappointed, Rook drooped. His freshly-stolen blades fell to his sides as he ceased his hopping back and forth. He looked dejected. No challenge, no duel? ...Game? This was no game! Swordplay was no silly board and cards and plastic-pieces, no discs and wires and pressing-buttons! "Kek!" He scoffed, a hard, clipped sound like a snapping twig in the back of his throat. Rook, he was no master! He was learned in lore but not in practice, talented but lacking skill! Perking up at the stranger's proposition, the short Quick gave a nod and ventured forward, swords held down, nonthreatening and quite relaxed. Coming closer, he looked at Rhalgr first with one eye then the other, curious about the elf. He reached out suddenly to grab the redhead's wrist, looking at his hand, then dropped it and sprang back. There was no reason for the sudden motion and Rook did not seem affected at all by his own odd conduct, instead proffering his rapier-- hilt-first-- to the stranger from afar. He jiggled it insistently. He'd decided Rhalgr's hands would suit the longer weapon best. The black-haired player spun his parrying dagger with his other hand, absentmindedly testing out its weight. The shortsword had a longer guard, built to trap and parry other blades while Rook the Quick made his attack with his second hand. Armed as they were, he with the main gauche and Rhalgr with the rapier, Rook was satisfied that they could have a swordfight! Slash and Parry, Slash and Parry-- a spar, a spar between two men of arms! One could practice his attack, one could practice his defense! Shifting back and forth again eagerly, Rook struck a pose with one foot forward and beckoned Rhalgr on to make the first attack. Hidden: Optional Dice Contest For fun, you can roll a d6 at the end of your next post to attack with Slash. In my next post, I'll roll a d6 to defend with Parry. Winner (highest roll) gets a victory point. No points for ties. First to 3 victory points wins the sparring match! Code: [dice]d6[/dice]
