(Written by Script and CaerJester)
The Present:
The smoldering proselyte stood against a wall near the impromptu coliseum where the sparring would take place. Tall and broad in his shining armor, Swigelf couldn't help but feel particularly sour. For once, he found himself not looking forward to a fight. Even stranger, he found it a waste of time and energy. Especially when one of his class mates had gone missing. After what happened in Lumenia a few months back, Izaic found himself...disgusted that the Order had not moved to act. Who cared about winning anymore when the time spent competing could cost Celeste her life.
If it hadn't been for the stern lecture Kurtrin had given him, he wasn't even sure he'd still be wasting his minutes of daylight here. But weighing more on his mind than even those depressing thoughts was the Nuvellon kid. Inarin. It'd been possible since day one, sure, but for the two of them to actually be pitted against each other...
...Izaic would make it quick. For his sake.
When the call went out for Inarin and Izaic to take their place in the ring, Inarin's heart skipped a beat. The nerves that had been welling up in him for the whole morning began to go into overdrive, and he had to force himself to take a deep breath in order to calm himself down. It was just a sparring match. Nothing would go wrong. Even in the very likely event that he lost, he'd just have a few bruises to show for it. It would be fine.
He started forwards for the ring, trying to forget the worried look on Aurelion's face when he'd heard about the matchup, and the various words of caution or concern he'd been given from Noah and some of the other proselytes. They were all just ... overprotective.
Still, it was hard not to be a little scared, seeing the much larger proselyte approaching. Despite that, Inarin managed a smile for Izaic as they both came to take their positions and wait for the referee's go-ahead.
After a moment's hesitation, he spoke up quietly. "D-don't go easy on me, or anything. I don't th-think you would, but just in case."
Izaic heard the fair share of boos amongst the applause he recieved when his name was called. Though some thought him dim, he'd have to be truly blind if he'd let the rumors and the whispers about his previous competitions go unnoticed. The Iverian was...unfortunate, but for now, those memories had to be pushed out of his mind. Strolling across the sparring grounds, he'd come to a stop before placing one plated hand over the hilt of his zwei.
It was hard not to smile back, all things considered. Izaic had high hopes. Inarin had seemed serious about his training, and this would be the first real test for his peer. Still. Now was not the time for banter. Face stoic and grim, the much larger of the two young men would allow himself to reply with "Good. Then I'll forget I ever had the idea."
A shout of "BEGIN!" From his right, the referee's signal for the round to commence.
Curly hair flying wildly, Izaic would dash forward toward's Inarin, drawing the two-handed blade in the process. The first attack of the duel would be a wickedly fast, vertical strike, aimed for either the left shoulder or the head. Swigelf meant to end this in one blow.
It almost happened, but the time it took Izaic to draw his weapon was sufficient for the smaller boy to dart aside to the right, drawing his own sword in the process. He'd lowered his helmet's visor into place just before the referee's call. He spared only a moment to readjust his footing, then went in for a thrust towards Izaic's side. He was careful not to over-commit, knowing that underestimating the larger boy's recovery time from even as heavy a swing as that could prove disastrous.
His heart was beating fast, but he determinedly kept his head. He knew that overthinking was one of his weaknesses in a fight, but losing himself to panicked instinct would be just as bad.
Green eyes would flare wide and he'd spin on his heels, wrapping his second hand around the first. Inarin was right to worry about Izaic's turning speed. With a double grip, he'd drag the sparring sword across the ground. He'd only hope his minor spin would throw off Inarin's aim, at worst scoring the proselyte foe before him a glancing blow, but this was a risk he was willing to take for his counter attack.
While Nuvellon was mid-way throuh his lunge, the blade that Izaic had been dragging behind him would be swung upward, a second vertical slash coming up from below. Izaic sought to overwhelm Inarin with an onslaught.
The abrupt swing was quick enough to force Inarin to abandon his thrust, instead bringing the flat of his blade to bear in order to just barely deflect the forceful upward slash. He was forced back a step, and his sword went wide from the force, but he just about avoided being struck.
He needed to find an opening to go on the offensive, but already Izaic had him squarely on the back foot. At this rate, he wouldn't even get a chance to take a proper swing.
First a dodge, and then a deflection. Granted, Inarin's attempt had been a success but it was hardly a proper or proficient block. Still, Izaic found himself grinning ear to ear. He could already tell how much the Nuvellon had improved, and the thought filled him with momentary hope and pride. The admiration would have to wait however.
The offense would continue with the older proselyte's footwork sliding him once again forward. The older proselyte found himself hoping that his younger peer might see through the coming deception. The worst thing Inarin could do against the oncoming horizontal swipe aimed at his mid section, aside from taking the attack head on of course, was to roll away from it. More backpedaling would only give strengthen the rhythm Izaic was developing as the fight drew on.
The aforementioned slash was released, seeking out Inarin's ribs as it came whistling through the air with alarming levels of both speed and force.
He'd only a moment to react. For the barest instant his mind started to try and figure out the best path to take - to try and catch the swing with his own sword, or dodge away? But for once, he let instinct override it. Using his smaller size to his advantage, Inarin didn't roll, or backpedal, but ducked, dropping into a half crouch and folding himself down to allow the swing to pass a hair's breadth away from the top of his helmet.
The moment the weapon was clear, he was rising up again, swinging his own sword in an upward slash and giving a small cry of exertion. It would be far from a decisive blow even if it connected, likely to score across the larger proselyte's chestplate, but it would hopefully gain him some space and an opportunity to act, rather than simply react.
A grimace flashed across Izaic's features, a muscle extending too far in his injured shoulder, and he felt his balance slip despite himself. The blow that should have landed on his chest plate instead connected with underside of his upper arm. His left upper arm. The grimace became a bark of pain, agony seasoned with simmering rage.
A gauntlet covered right fist would unleash its grip upon the two handed sword, the slightly numb left barely being about to keep to blade steady. Now it was Izaic who needed space. His now free hand would form into a fist, a veritable ball of steel, a backhanded strike aimed at the side of Inarin's head.
Even if this landed, the Nuvellon had scored the first hit of the melee. He wasn't hopeless after all. Maybe not on the outside, but inside, Izaic smiled, his rage subsiding. There was a chance Inarin might be able to keep himself safe.
Inarin tried to pull his head back, but the blow glanced across his faceplate and caused him to stumble to the side. It was painful, but he forced himself to regain his footing and turn back to face Izaic before the taller boy could take too much advantage of the hit, keeping his sword ready to face his next move.
The next move was already coming. A quick but less than powerful thrust, once again trying to force distance. Izaic needed room to swing his blade properly, and he needed Inarin on the defensive. Still, to see him bounce back up like that after taking one of his punches to the face. More and more impressive.
Just barely bringing his blade across in time, Inarin deflected the thrust to the side, causing it to score lightly across the armour on his upper arm. In an attempt to regain some momentum, the smaller proselyte drew his weapon forwards, skimming it off of Izaic's sword in a horizontal swing for his midsection. It was hardly elegant, but he had to use every opportunity he had to stay within the larger weapon's most effective reach, or the match would be as good as over.
With a twist of his wrist, Izaic would bring the length of his zwei sideways against Inarin's counter, and then down, using a fair bit of his might. Once the blades were locked, and more or less pointed downward, the elder of the dueling pair would rip both arms upward, once again putting a fair bit of strain on his bad shoulder. With all his strength, Izaic would try and rip the sword from the Nuvellon's hands and fling it far across the arena.
Inarin clung to the blade as best he could, but Izaic's strength was superior. The sword was wrenched out of his grip and tossed aside, leaving him defenseless. But where the Inarin of a month ago might have backed off and held his hands up in surrender, Inarin now wasn't ready to give up. Before Izaic could bring his sword back down, he'd darted forwards and to the side, aiming to slip past the taller boy and make a dash for his weapon.
The Nuvellon was slippery, and determined. Two very good traits to have. Izaic would get a jubilant shout...before lashing out to the side with a metal-plated knee, just as the much smaller boy was passing by.
Oof.
The impact took Inarin in the stomach, and though his armour did a good job of softening the blow, he was still winded and knocked to the ground. He managed to plant his hands on the ground to catch himself before going fully prone, but was stunned for a crucial moment.
Izaic felt a rush inside his chest, the kind that came only from victory. With a roar, he brought his blade over his head and down, its long edge aimed squarely where the helpless Inarin's neck met his shoulders. It was a wicked slash, a killing blow, and even with a blunted sparring weapon...the damage would be serious. And Izaic had a record for going overboard.
Which is why he stopped the attack, more than an inch but not quite two, above his fellow proselytes prone form. Then, he'd lightly tap his blade against Inarin's armor. "Do you yield?"
There had been a sudden and brief crescendo of gasps and yells from the crowd as Izaic swung, and Inarin had screwed his eyes shut in fearful anticipation. But when the expected blow never came, he tentatively opened them again, peering out from behind his visor. "I- I do," he managed to stammer, breathing a sigh of relief.
The referee called out, announcing the victor, and Inarin let himself sprawl backwards, flipping his visor up to let some air in. The exertion of the spar was finally catching up as the adrenaline began to fade away, but far from being downcast, the smaller proselyte was grinning. And then laughing, happily, without reservation.
"I was actually doing well there, for a moment," he remarked breathily from the ground, to nobody in particular - though Izaic was the only one in earshot. There was no stammering, no nervousness. Just delight.
Izaic knelt, planting his blade into the dirt a fair bit as he did. "You did very well, shrimp. You even scored first on me. I'm glad to see those training weights I gave you are working out." He'd then hold a hand out to Inarin, an offer to help him up. "Now come on. The citizens shouldn't see future paladins napping in the dirt."
Still beaming, Inarin nodded, taking Izaic's hand and pulling himself to his feet. Future paladin. Izaic probably didn't realise how much the casual comment had swelled his smaller classmate's heart, but it was all the more meaningful for its offhandedness. "Thanks," he said, giving another happy sigh. "I couldn't have done it without you, you know. I'd give you a hug if I didn't think it would embarrass you." Inarin laughed again, glancing around at the cheering crowd. He somehow felt more proud of this loss than of his victory earlier in the week.
"...Maybe some other time. When I get used to general affection more." Izaic was glad he was out of breath and sweating. It hid the blush rather well. "I'm going back to the dorms for now. Get out of this armor, and get my arm back in its sling. You better go check in with your friends." He'd point out into the stands, right at the twins from earlier this week. "They've been starring daggers at me this whole match. Understandably, of course."
Then, Izaic would pick up his blade, and move towards the far exit. Once again, putting up distance, but for this time, having a genuine medical excuse.
"I'll see you later, then!" Inarin called after him as he went. He remained on the spot for a few moments more before gathering himself, and leaving the ring - stopping to retrieve his sword on the way. Though he flashed a smile at the twins on the way out, he picked out his brother near the front of the standing crowd, and made a beeline for him instead.
The Present:
The smoldering proselyte stood against a wall near the impromptu coliseum where the sparring would take place. Tall and broad in his shining armor, Swigelf couldn't help but feel particularly sour. For once, he found himself not looking forward to a fight. Even stranger, he found it a waste of time and energy. Especially when one of his class mates had gone missing. After what happened in Lumenia a few months back, Izaic found himself...disgusted that the Order had not moved to act. Who cared about winning anymore when the time spent competing could cost Celeste her life.
If it hadn't been for the stern lecture Kurtrin had given him, he wasn't even sure he'd still be wasting his minutes of daylight here. But weighing more on his mind than even those depressing thoughts was the Nuvellon kid. Inarin. It'd been possible since day one, sure, but for the two of them to actually be pitted against each other...
...Izaic would make it quick. For his sake.
When the call went out for Inarin and Izaic to take their place in the ring, Inarin's heart skipped a beat. The nerves that had been welling up in him for the whole morning began to go into overdrive, and he had to force himself to take a deep breath in order to calm himself down. It was just a sparring match. Nothing would go wrong. Even in the very likely event that he lost, he'd just have a few bruises to show for it. It would be fine.
He started forwards for the ring, trying to forget the worried look on Aurelion's face when he'd heard about the matchup, and the various words of caution or concern he'd been given from Noah and some of the other proselytes. They were all just ... overprotective.
Still, it was hard not to be a little scared, seeing the much larger proselyte approaching. Despite that, Inarin managed a smile for Izaic as they both came to take their positions and wait for the referee's go-ahead.
After a moment's hesitation, he spoke up quietly. "D-don't go easy on me, or anything. I don't th-think you would, but just in case."
Izaic heard the fair share of boos amongst the applause he recieved when his name was called. Though some thought him dim, he'd have to be truly blind if he'd let the rumors and the whispers about his previous competitions go unnoticed. The Iverian was...unfortunate, but for now, those memories had to be pushed out of his mind. Strolling across the sparring grounds, he'd come to a stop before placing one plated hand over the hilt of his zwei.
It was hard not to smile back, all things considered. Izaic had high hopes. Inarin had seemed serious about his training, and this would be the first real test for his peer. Still. Now was not the time for banter. Face stoic and grim, the much larger of the two young men would allow himself to reply with "Good. Then I'll forget I ever had the idea."
A shout of "BEGIN!" From his right, the referee's signal for the round to commence.
Curly hair flying wildly, Izaic would dash forward toward's Inarin, drawing the two-handed blade in the process. The first attack of the duel would be a wickedly fast, vertical strike, aimed for either the left shoulder or the head. Swigelf meant to end this in one blow.
It almost happened, but the time it took Izaic to draw his weapon was sufficient for the smaller boy to dart aside to the right, drawing his own sword in the process. He'd lowered his helmet's visor into place just before the referee's call. He spared only a moment to readjust his footing, then went in for a thrust towards Izaic's side. He was careful not to over-commit, knowing that underestimating the larger boy's recovery time from even as heavy a swing as that could prove disastrous.
His heart was beating fast, but he determinedly kept his head. He knew that overthinking was one of his weaknesses in a fight, but losing himself to panicked instinct would be just as bad.
Green eyes would flare wide and he'd spin on his heels, wrapping his second hand around the first. Inarin was right to worry about Izaic's turning speed. With a double grip, he'd drag the sparring sword across the ground. He'd only hope his minor spin would throw off Inarin's aim, at worst scoring the proselyte foe before him a glancing blow, but this was a risk he was willing to take for his counter attack.
While Nuvellon was mid-way throuh his lunge, the blade that Izaic had been dragging behind him would be swung upward, a second vertical slash coming up from below. Izaic sought to overwhelm Inarin with an onslaught.
The abrupt swing was quick enough to force Inarin to abandon his thrust, instead bringing the flat of his blade to bear in order to just barely deflect the forceful upward slash. He was forced back a step, and his sword went wide from the force, but he just about avoided being struck.
He needed to find an opening to go on the offensive, but already Izaic had him squarely on the back foot. At this rate, he wouldn't even get a chance to take a proper swing.
First a dodge, and then a deflection. Granted, Inarin's attempt had been a success but it was hardly a proper or proficient block. Still, Izaic found himself grinning ear to ear. He could already tell how much the Nuvellon had improved, and the thought filled him with momentary hope and pride. The admiration would have to wait however.
The offense would continue with the older proselyte's footwork sliding him once again forward. The older proselyte found himself hoping that his younger peer might see through the coming deception. The worst thing Inarin could do against the oncoming horizontal swipe aimed at his mid section, aside from taking the attack head on of course, was to roll away from it. More backpedaling would only give strengthen the rhythm Izaic was developing as the fight drew on.
The aforementioned slash was released, seeking out Inarin's ribs as it came whistling through the air with alarming levels of both speed and force.
He'd only a moment to react. For the barest instant his mind started to try and figure out the best path to take - to try and catch the swing with his own sword, or dodge away? But for once, he let instinct override it. Using his smaller size to his advantage, Inarin didn't roll, or backpedal, but ducked, dropping into a half crouch and folding himself down to allow the swing to pass a hair's breadth away from the top of his helmet.
The moment the weapon was clear, he was rising up again, swinging his own sword in an upward slash and giving a small cry of exertion. It would be far from a decisive blow even if it connected, likely to score across the larger proselyte's chestplate, but it would hopefully gain him some space and an opportunity to act, rather than simply react.
A grimace flashed across Izaic's features, a muscle extending too far in his injured shoulder, and he felt his balance slip despite himself. The blow that should have landed on his chest plate instead connected with underside of his upper arm. His left upper arm. The grimace became a bark of pain, agony seasoned with simmering rage.
A gauntlet covered right fist would unleash its grip upon the two handed sword, the slightly numb left barely being about to keep to blade steady. Now it was Izaic who needed space. His now free hand would form into a fist, a veritable ball of steel, a backhanded strike aimed at the side of Inarin's head.
Even if this landed, the Nuvellon had scored the first hit of the melee. He wasn't hopeless after all. Maybe not on the outside, but inside, Izaic smiled, his rage subsiding. There was a chance Inarin might be able to keep himself safe.
Inarin tried to pull his head back, but the blow glanced across his faceplate and caused him to stumble to the side. It was painful, but he forced himself to regain his footing and turn back to face Izaic before the taller boy could take too much advantage of the hit, keeping his sword ready to face his next move.
The next move was already coming. A quick but less than powerful thrust, once again trying to force distance. Izaic needed room to swing his blade properly, and he needed Inarin on the defensive. Still, to see him bounce back up like that after taking one of his punches to the face. More and more impressive.
Just barely bringing his blade across in time, Inarin deflected the thrust to the side, causing it to score lightly across the armour on his upper arm. In an attempt to regain some momentum, the smaller proselyte drew his weapon forwards, skimming it off of Izaic's sword in a horizontal swing for his midsection. It was hardly elegant, but he had to use every opportunity he had to stay within the larger weapon's most effective reach, or the match would be as good as over.
With a twist of his wrist, Izaic would bring the length of his zwei sideways against Inarin's counter, and then down, using a fair bit of his might. Once the blades were locked, and more or less pointed downward, the elder of the dueling pair would rip both arms upward, once again putting a fair bit of strain on his bad shoulder. With all his strength, Izaic would try and rip the sword from the Nuvellon's hands and fling it far across the arena.
Inarin clung to the blade as best he could, but Izaic's strength was superior. The sword was wrenched out of his grip and tossed aside, leaving him defenseless. But where the Inarin of a month ago might have backed off and held his hands up in surrender, Inarin now wasn't ready to give up. Before Izaic could bring his sword back down, he'd darted forwards and to the side, aiming to slip past the taller boy and make a dash for his weapon.
The Nuvellon was slippery, and determined. Two very good traits to have. Izaic would get a jubilant shout...before lashing out to the side with a metal-plated knee, just as the much smaller boy was passing by.
Oof.
The impact took Inarin in the stomach, and though his armour did a good job of softening the blow, he was still winded and knocked to the ground. He managed to plant his hands on the ground to catch himself before going fully prone, but was stunned for a crucial moment.
Izaic felt a rush inside his chest, the kind that came only from victory. With a roar, he brought his blade over his head and down, its long edge aimed squarely where the helpless Inarin's neck met his shoulders. It was a wicked slash, a killing blow, and even with a blunted sparring weapon...the damage would be serious. And Izaic had a record for going overboard.
Which is why he stopped the attack, more than an inch but not quite two, above his fellow proselytes prone form. Then, he'd lightly tap his blade against Inarin's armor. "Do you yield?"
There had been a sudden and brief crescendo of gasps and yells from the crowd as Izaic swung, and Inarin had screwed his eyes shut in fearful anticipation. But when the expected blow never came, he tentatively opened them again, peering out from behind his visor. "I- I do," he managed to stammer, breathing a sigh of relief.
The referee called out, announcing the victor, and Inarin let himself sprawl backwards, flipping his visor up to let some air in. The exertion of the spar was finally catching up as the adrenaline began to fade away, but far from being downcast, the smaller proselyte was grinning. And then laughing, happily, without reservation.
"I was actually doing well there, for a moment," he remarked breathily from the ground, to nobody in particular - though Izaic was the only one in earshot. There was no stammering, no nervousness. Just delight.
Izaic knelt, planting his blade into the dirt a fair bit as he did. "You did very well, shrimp. You even scored first on me. I'm glad to see those training weights I gave you are working out." He'd then hold a hand out to Inarin, an offer to help him up. "Now come on. The citizens shouldn't see future paladins napping in the dirt."
Still beaming, Inarin nodded, taking Izaic's hand and pulling himself to his feet. Future paladin. Izaic probably didn't realise how much the casual comment had swelled his smaller classmate's heart, but it was all the more meaningful for its offhandedness. "Thanks," he said, giving another happy sigh. "I couldn't have done it without you, you know. I'd give you a hug if I didn't think it would embarrass you." Inarin laughed again, glancing around at the cheering crowd. He somehow felt more proud of this loss than of his victory earlier in the week.
"...Maybe some other time. When I get used to general affection more." Izaic was glad he was out of breath and sweating. It hid the blush rather well. "I'm going back to the dorms for now. Get out of this armor, and get my arm back in its sling. You better go check in with your friends." He'd point out into the stands, right at the twins from earlier this week. "They've been starring daggers at me this whole match. Understandably, of course."
Then, Izaic would pick up his blade, and move towards the far exit. Once again, putting up distance, but for this time, having a genuine medical excuse.
"I'll see you later, then!" Inarin called after him as he went. He remained on the spot for a few moments more before gathering himself, and leaving the ring - stopping to retrieve his sword on the way. Though he flashed a smile at the twins on the way out, he picked out his brother near the front of the standing crowd, and made a beeline for him instead.
