The Clash of Blades

[Max Dirks]

(Closed to Ranger)

Max Dirks was wheezing when he finally stopped and turned to his old friend, Ranger Nailo. “You know, priest, I think you enjoy making me suffer,” Dirks said, wiping sweat from his eyes. The two had just finished running a mile as a warm-up. Ranger looked notably less fatigued. “Not all of us glide like an elf...”

It was a bright day in Raiaera. The temperature was perfect for a scuttle, though a look at Dirks’ sweat drenched tunic might indicate otherwise. Ranger had selected a small grove in an Eluriand park as the location for their invigorating spar. The grove was filled with flowers that had been outlined with grass to create the royal symbol of Raiaera (see Sighter Tnailog’s avatar).

“I’ll admit, Priest, you sure have style.” When he finished speaking, Dirks grabbed his guns from their exposed shoulder holsters and tossed them aside. He cracked his knuckles and then reached over his shoulder, grabbing a single katana from its sheath. The Prevalida blade had less curvature than a normal katana to suit Dirks’ awkward handling of the weapon. Dirks smirked, “I hope I don’t kill too many flowers when I run circles around you.”

Dirks held out his weapon with both hands and invited Ranger to attack.

[Ranger]

“First things you must learn is that your stride and stance need to be fluid,” the prophet said with a smile. “If you crush a flower you lose, simple as that. Enough have been destroyed by the destruction the forgotten unleashed; I do not believe more destruction even on the small level is necessary.”

He was jovial; the warm light of the Raiaerian sun had provided the perfect atmosphere and mood for a light jog. The sparring practice that followed would be no less interesting. Dirks, once an adversary in a number of competitions, had grown on the drow and he had offered the younger human training with the blade. In the heart of the high elven capital, in one of the many gardens, the two began.

Ranger’s smile broadened at the sight of the prevalida blade. He drew one of his twin elven blades, its edge simple steel. They had seen plenty of combat though, and were by far the most useful of weapons the prophet had at his command. They were also the two weapons he could wield the most proficiently.

“Let us begin this training then. Perhaps you will prove that you can use that weapon and not be afraid of combat, instead of using those cowardly firearms.” With a titter of laughter he danced forward. His feet slipped across the soft grass effortlessly, gliding above the surface with grace as perfect as any elf. His blade swiped from side to side, testing the man’s defenses.

[Max Dirks]

“There’s always a catch,” Dirks quipped while raising his blade in defense. Dirks parried Ranger’s attack, catching the elf’s sword with his own. The two had practiced many times before, but it was no secret they were once been rivals during the Red Hand’s takeover of the Bazaar. Dirks felt a rush of adrenaline as he pushed the priest’s weapon away.

With a smirk, Dirks released his left hand from the blade and stepped back towards Ranger. Dirks maneuvered his katana like a long sword, swinging first at the elf’s left leg. Then Dirks caught the hilt of the blade with his free left hand and raised the weapon above his head. Proud of his new and completely unorthodox move, Dirks brought the katana down hard upon Ranger’s face like a sickle upon wheat.

[Ranger]

The prophets sword was pushed aside easily, as he expected. Max Dirks was not a complete idiot, and the drow had hardly begun to try yet. He softly side stepped, and watched the display the human tried to impress with. In a flash his sword had danced around, and was falling towards his head.

Ranger bent his knees, spun to his flank, and raised his sword. The steel blade caught the katana at an angle and let it slide down. Instead of backing away, or putting too much pressure against the sword he slid his blade towards the man. The pommel of the worn sword was pointed at Max's forehead.