It was pirouetting to the classic of the theatre.

It was a sashay to the thumping beat in a square dance hall.

It was a left-two in the swaying motion of a wild, faunish country swing, a dance of glory, a dance of beauty, a dance of absolute joy.

Blade against blade, they scraped earth and sky, sandstone and cloud. With the sun beating down harsh, as it peeked from behind the cumulus and the stratocumulus, the two forms of the beautiful women merged together into one blur. There was a moment of sychronisation as, truly, they actually echoed the steps of a formal dance, and then there was the rage of perfect battle.

The white curve of Philomel's sword scratched air, carved the world around her in twain. She found that her opponent was a wonder in the art of swordplay, a master. Barely ever did an entry open, there was little to no chink in her armour, apart from those that were so minute that as soon as Philomel noticed it, it clsoed again.

Whistling through her teeth in not so much anger as admiration, Philomel allowed the waltz to continue for some time, before she new it was time to end. Time to give the final bow, to wave to the audience, to love the band and send gratitude flowers to the mages who operated the sound effects. A smile curved at the corner of her mouth, a musing tense. It became a giggle, a laugh of some happy kind, before she left her partner there, alone, and vanished into the earth.

And at the same time Veridian launched his foxy self from behind the red-haired opponent, right where he had been serrupticiously pacing, waiting, hiding for the right time. He threw his body, now the time ripe and beautiful, at the exposed back leg, jaws open, teeth long and sharp as little daggers, ready to turn this ballet into a tragedy.