Sir Alonne Vs. Sir Grey
[ P a r t   O n e ]    

    Rise on both feet, lone lord in solitude. The roar of a door fashioned in thick fog comes with the latest guest. Bring aloft a deathly tool from the Far-East. Not the slightest shudder of hesitation is instilled upon the grip of the silk-wrapped handle. The lacerating length can skewer a row of five huddled men with a mighty thrust, maybe even a sixth one. The iron mask with four pairs of sharp oval holes will bring terror to any whose fighting spirit is anything but strong.

    The unsightly guest garbed in gray tatters fitting a vagabond beholds the tall host whose audience he must seek. Reveal his own tool sleeping near the left hip, a blade more than twice shorter than that of the host but of the same Far-Eastern make. While he often favors the longsword, perhaps in this endeavor, he may honor other masters with prowess in combat refined through such kind of fang. This single edge as his ally will be his most prominent means flaunt his fury. The cloaked folk has been spending some time learning ways of other warriors such as he, the different paths their walk down to the nuance to cut down those who cross them.

    “How many times, Grey?” inquired the host with a bravado fitting a general.
    “How many times must you endure the shame of being cast back to what bonfire you spawned from? I admire your courage to push on, you curse-bearing lot. But it is folly if you sorely lack the skill beyond drawing a mere drop of blood, a feeble cut that I can easily recover from.”

    Both host and guest raise their blade before them. The fatal tips are gazing upon the cathedral of a ceiling that requires the gift of flight or uncanny agility to reach. A careful march is taken, one foot before the other. Above the cloth-mask, the pair of pearls with the lovely hue of a spring meadow is mindful of the onward host whose reach with the blade exceeds his, demonstrably so.

    “Until there is not a speck in me yearning the slightest to pursue this quest anymore, Sir Alonne.”
    A brief hum of humor comes from behind the mask of the towering host. Follow it with a sigh.
    “So be it, you brave fool.”

    In this grand hall worthy as a palace piece where an eternal sunset sky illuminates the marble floor past three great balcony archways, warriors will waltz. Again. This is but another attempt from the guest in the noble pursuit to best a legend.

    Sir Alonne puts his long blade to his right once only four yards from Grey. Soon, he glides forth to end with a stomp and swift sweep of his steel to cleave the guest from below the left hip up to the right shoulder. Grey slides a foot back and swats his fang in a forward arc before him. The blade was led slightly down from such a quick course. Its aim is fairest upon the sharp thing that could have easily made two pieces out of his ugly slab of flesh in rags if it connected.

First note rings with a bright flash!

    Alonne feels the mild sting of such competent deflection on his padded wrists and elbows. No matter, this is just the overture. Perhaps, instill confidence upon Grey, keeping it alit to ensure he was not pathetically cut down in a single stroke... this time.

    The host twists his left foot, twirling his person to take a desired single-step retreat with his one. This spin made the blade sweep widely in a nigh-full circle, its lowest clearance aimed at the side of Grey’s hood-veiled neck. The cloaked fellow retreats another step and sprints his fang the other way. The host is not finished! Another twirl comes with another sweep fro as the prior to. Grey answers and succeeds to keep his neck safe again! Ring out, notes of intervention! His nerves writhe a bit from and his heart skips a few beats from the prowess of Alonne pronounced through that spun steel of his.

    Grey advances to close the gap. His fang flies to take a bite out of the right elbow of his tall foe. There is much less padding in and having to deal with one less arm would be a cosmic boon. Alas, Alonne is an eagle upon this mad dash to cut him down. Pull back to let a good inch or two of his tool bite back at the incoming steel! The padded forearm of the left arm catches the back of the retreating blade to soften recoil.

    Clash! Grey grumbles as he is left unsuccessful to give himself the immediate upper hand in this deathly dance. In a short curved path, he strafes a few paces to his right to avoid the loss of space behind him, should his retreat put him closer to the fog door. Past losses had him corralled in a corner and skewered if not ruthlessly dismembered.

    “How long this time, Grey?” teased Alonne, facing his foe with his blade lifted to his left side.
    “Beyond or under a minute? Perhaps two. O, do entertain me much past two, I beg of you.”

    Furrow a bit those brows above the pearls. Grey is not fond of this snide, reminding him of all the past battles where Alonne treated him as a lump of meat to be cleaved with fair ease.

    Grey gallops ahead to reengage. Fang leaps to thrust forward and aimed at the clothed neck of the old lord. Alonne steps forward with a left-foot stomp. His long blade sweeps an arch before him, nearly a third of the length from the tip hammering down onto the blade of the incoming fang. Grey stumbles! Right foot twists with a quick stomp back, forcing the rest of him to commit to a sudden halt, maybe raise his distance from his foe again, and not lose his posture. Alonne twirls his blade around the girth of the other to impede the feat to regain balance. Grey challenges it with a mirrored feat.

Steels kiss the marble floor!

    “Good, Grey, good,” Alonne growled in an amused tone.

    Alonne jolts his arms and backs up two steps to break away from this blade lock. Grey does the same. Hilt in fine grip held ever so close to his right temple. The tip pointed at Alonne who is quite distant again. So far, the cloaked folk is without a wound to endure, actually keeping up against this masked legend who reminds him that victory is earned, not handed. Doubt is being drowned with focus, maybe confidence. Perhaps, this time, he will indeed last more than two minutes. Perhaps, commit to more than just drawing a mere drop of blood.

Unabashed, roar, host and guest!
Stride and clash, resume this quest.
Curse-bearer, triumph this test.
None fairer than a legend to best!

  [ Part Two in the Works. ]