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Under a bright blue sky, under the gentle shine of the afternoon sun, atop the crest of a bald hill whereupon the road gave way to a clearing of swaying grass, the duel found them.
Kristen Pirian was by now well accustomed to long stretches of travel. She rode easily astride her horse, and the slow passage of the landscape around her had a serene quality to it, like a blissful respite from the duty of being an Initiate—often harrowing, this—and the ceaseless training which accompanied it back at Vel Anir's Academy. Far from boredom, here was a time for the simple pleasure of being, of letting the steady procession of Arethil wash over her.
Of course, having a companion didn't hurt. And she did on this occasion. Conversation was to Kristen always a boon. What else was there to want? Kristen was on her way back home to the Dreadlord Academy after a successful mission, one finished rather handily she would daresay, and this left her on a high note of satisfied elation in addition to all else to be enjoyed on so nice a day.
Then came that bald hill, those waves of grass in the breeze, the forests down below the slopes...and a singular figure approaching Kristen and her companion from the opposite direction in the road. A solitary man, carrying a single-edged sword yet wearing no armor, merely dark and form-fitting clothing. Stranger still, his face, his head, were entirely masked; upon closer inspection one could see the shape of his nose, the ridge of his brow, the curve of his head, these features and more in the black mask, but there was without a doubt a kind of alien quality to it. How could he see? How could he breathe?
The Masked Warrior stopped. Kristen brought her mount to a halt.
"Hail, and good day," Kristen said, apprehensive, but cordial enough.
The Masked Warrior eyed (if one could even say such) Kristen's sheathed sword, and as well the armaments of her companion. He made his demand curtly, his voice with a small but unnerving and unnatural echo behind it, "Draw your weapon."
Kristen, now highly apprehensive, shifted in her saddle some, making ready. "What? Who, may I ask, are you, and why would you demand of us such a thing?"
The Masked Warrior brandished his sword, said, "Draw your weapon!" and spared not a moment longer.
He dashed with a frightening speed and was upon them. Kristen didn't remember jumping from the saddle, but she had. And exchange of sword strikes...and Kristen was dead. Or she should have been, if the Masked Warrior had not switched to the dull edge of his sword in the (what would have otherwise been lethal) strike upside her head. He had even pulled the force of the blow some, so as not to cave in Kristen's skull.
Despite that, however, the blow was devastating enough, and Kristen had fallen down to the ground. The Masked Warrior and her companion were having their own exchange, and it wasn't good for her companion either. Kristen, slowly, began the struggle to rise and find her feet.
The fight was on.
OOC Note:
We're going to lose. Hard.
Kristen Pirian was by now well accustomed to long stretches of travel. She rode easily astride her horse, and the slow passage of the landscape around her had a serene quality to it, like a blissful respite from the duty of being an Initiate—often harrowing, this—and the ceaseless training which accompanied it back at Vel Anir's Academy. Far from boredom, here was a time for the simple pleasure of being, of letting the steady procession of Arethil wash over her.
Of course, having a companion didn't hurt. And she did on this occasion. Conversation was to Kristen always a boon. What else was there to want? Kristen was on her way back home to the Dreadlord Academy after a successful mission, one finished rather handily she would daresay, and this left her on a high note of satisfied elation in addition to all else to be enjoyed on so nice a day.
Then came that bald hill, those waves of grass in the breeze, the forests down below the slopes...and a singular figure approaching Kristen and her companion from the opposite direction in the road. A solitary man, carrying a single-edged sword yet wearing no armor, merely dark and form-fitting clothing. Stranger still, his face, his head, were entirely masked; upon closer inspection one could see the shape of his nose, the ridge of his brow, the curve of his head, these features and more in the black mask, but there was without a doubt a kind of alien quality to it. How could he see? How could he breathe?
The Masked Warrior stopped. Kristen brought her mount to a halt.
"Hail, and good day," Kristen said, apprehensive, but cordial enough.
The Masked Warrior eyed (if one could even say such) Kristen's sheathed sword, and as well the armaments of her companion. He made his demand curtly, his voice with a small but unnerving and unnatural echo behind it, "Draw your weapon."
Kristen, now highly apprehensive, shifted in her saddle some, making ready. "What? Who, may I ask, are you, and why would you demand of us such a thing?"
The Masked Warrior brandished his sword, said, "Draw your weapon!" and spared not a moment longer.
He dashed with a frightening speed and was upon them. Kristen didn't remember jumping from the saddle, but she had. And exchange of sword strikes...and Kristen was dead. Or she should have been, if the Masked Warrior had not switched to the dull edge of his sword in the (what would have otherwise been lethal) strike upside her head. He had even pulled the force of the blow some, so as not to cave in Kristen's skull.
Despite that, however, the blow was devastating enough, and Kristen had fallen down to the ground. The Masked Warrior and her companion were having their own exchange, and it wasn't good for her companion either. Kristen, slowly, began the struggle to rise and find her feet.
The fight was on.
OOC Note:
We're going to lose. Hard.
