50th Day of Frost, 350th Year of the Age of Sundering
Torches flickered like a crown of fire topping the domed ceiling of the training ring. Orange light played across the faces of the three armored individuals leaning against the granite stone. Gaunt, decaying visages stared back at Masagh as he drew his claymore. Even in those passive, undead stares he caught the flinty focus of judgement. They wished to see how their newest peer shaped up under the onslaught of the best of them.
Sabrione casually raised her hand and lifted her own sword from its sheath, the metallic rasp almost the same tone as her voice. It shimmered and tendrils of ichor seemed to ooze from the blade. He had seen that sword do frightful things all his life. Since she had first tested his ability, she had wielded it. Her flinty embers stared back at him, waiting.
It was a daunting task, setting your skill and your metal against the person who had taught you all you know. He could only hope to be quicker, to be stronger, or to monopolize on a mistake. She would see anything else coming. She had taught him all his tricks, after all.
Or he could try to improvise. The idea made him think of that dripping blade lobbing off his head. He growled and put the image out of his mind. The Claymore dipped low, point towards her knees. He stepped to his strong side, forcing her to do the same.
They began the game.
“Come now, brother. Show me what you’ve learned.” The Weaponmaster goaded. She could adopt an edge of bravado that was as false as it was convincing. When you survived as long as she had vanity was little more than another tool to set your opponent on edge. Masagh knew this about her. She never bothered with such frivolity when out of the sparring ring. What’s more, Masagh saw her eyes constantly focused on his hands and his feet. The words seemed to escape her without thought, another layer to catch him off guard. “The Knights wish to see-“
He lunged low with a crackling snap of joints.
She moved to block and he feinted high. She was able to parry the blow but was forced back, and her goading ceased.
“Maybe you can learn something today, Sabrione.” Masagh tried his hand.
She did not move her eyes from his feet and hands, but the thin grey lips curled in a grin. Masagh moved forward, the claymore snaking up and over the tip of Sabrione’s dripping blade. He watched her movement rather than the dangerous edge of her blade. As her eyes flickered up and her weight shifted to meet his attack, he feinted back and shifted low. His lunge almost caught her.
But Sabrione was Weaponmaster for a reason.
Where another, less experienced swordsman might have instinctively tried to bring their sword down to block or deflect, Sabrione knew that would only put the point lower on her body. Instead she used the momentum of her blade to carry her to the side in an attempt to dodge. It Masagh had been better he might have been able to divert his blade in that direction after her.
He failed in the attempt and put himself off-balance in his eagerness for a touch. She turned with dreadful grace, boney limps twisting with a speed he did not yet possess. The dripping blade slammed down across his own and the impact was so great that he was forced to release his grip. Startled and off balance, Masagh shuffled back.
But such an opportunity would not be wasted for Sabrione. The Weaponmaster lashed out repeatedly with her blade, forcing her younger brother to retreat further away. He slid back. The blade tore the air between them. Shoulder dip here, a quick crouch, and he was away from danger.
Sabrione stood over his sword, staring at him. The position was not ideal.
Masagh flexed his empty fingers and gnashed his jaw, his teeth snapping. She stood between him and his sword, but still he did not concede. With the other Knights observing the idea of conceding on such a pathetic note irked him. So he did what he could.
He stepped to his strong side, circling slowly. Sabrione tilted her head and stared malevolently at him from under her grey hood. “I appreciate your attempts to set the tempo.” She said, with plain honesty. “But you still telegraph such heavy handed feints, brother.” He watched her feet. “No matter, we will work on this.” She was not stepping to the side to match his movement, only turning to face him.
Of course she would not, he had no blade. He lunged to the side suddenly, growling some cry from within. She instinctively stepped to meet the movement.
Masagh released the aether he had been building up in his palm, casting the Returning spell. He felt his will roll from his soul across the training ring towards the fallen blade. It lifted through the air and the blade swung towards his sister. It had worked, and he might score his blow with the Returning alone.
As the claymore flipped through the air, realization dawned in Sabrione’s eyes. She spun and whipped her pact blade down hard. It was almost too fast to register. But his sword was sent sprawling again.
“Clever, broth-“ He had not waited for her lecture this time. Sprinting forward he had dropped his broad shoulder and slammed it home against her back. Sabrione went sprawling with a clatter and a cloud of dust. Masagh did not stop to watch this however. He kept moving.
His fingers curled around the grip of his sword and he felt a surge of victory. It was not enough though. He did not pause to lift the blade, instead rolling forward and letting it come with him. As he tumbled and then found his feet there was a scraping metal sound. Turning with his blade raised he found Sabrione with her blade embedded where he had been a moment earlier.
She was grinning and the dark cowl had fallen off her head to reveal the skeletal head beneath. “Good, good.” She rasped with genuine approval. “Maybe I am learning a bit. About you if nothing else.”
