Arsène
03-22-09, 01:42 PM
((Solo))
The roses were a lovely shade of red. In fact, all the flowers of the garden were in full bloom. Sweet scents ran wild in the air, and the humid touch of life soaked the skin with warmth. It was an open room, with wide columns that held up an ornate glass ceiling and let the calming dawn breeze flow freely in. The colors of early sunshine were dim, but grew more noticeable with every minute. The patches of ground without grass were finely crafted marble, worn from many boot soles. Later in the day, the public gardens might have been a bustling place. But that morning it was dead, and as private a place as any.
Three souls were all what stood there, and all were too focused to admire the beauty around them; two well-dressed gentleman, and a girl in plain clothes in between. One gentleman, with neatly kept short blond hair, had a stoic face and a keen glare. The other gentleman, with a long messy tangle of black hair, grimaced with a squinted fanaticism. The girl, who bit her lip with fright, walked to each man and handed him a sword of equal worth.
As each man lifted their sword to the rising light, the gleam of the newly born sun sliding down each rapier's blade, they mumbled a soft and poetic prayer. Then, as if in unison, they walked within four paces of one another, and readied their weapons near their opponent's breast. From deep within an apron pocket, the girl retrieved a white handkerchief that danced, either from the wind or her trembling hand, and dropped it without warning.
The blond opened first with a lunge, striking the black-haired man's thigh with precision; embedding his blade inch-deep into flesh before pulling out and dancing a circle around his foe. There the blond held for a moment; waiting as the black-haired man spun around with a wild slash that was deflected as quickly as it came. A sharp kick to the ribs sent the black-haired man reeling backwards and stumbling into a nearby bush.
There was a brief pause where the black-haired man mumbled something harsh and inaudible before limping at his opponent again with two sloppy slashes, only to be met with a swift hit to his face. Before he had time to prepare, the blond struck again with a deep stab into the shoulder, before twisting the blade out. Bloodied and beaten, the black-haired man finally succumbed to his wounded leg and fell to his knees. The clang of steel fell silent, and only the hushed and hurried breaths of the defeated penetrated the perfidious silence. The blond, with neither a smile nor a frown, lowered his blade to within a hair’s length of his foes tender throat; his stained sword had dropped freckles on the plants nearby.
The roses were a lovely shade of red.
The roses were a lovely shade of red. In fact, all the flowers of the garden were in full bloom. Sweet scents ran wild in the air, and the humid touch of life soaked the skin with warmth. It was an open room, with wide columns that held up an ornate glass ceiling and let the calming dawn breeze flow freely in. The colors of early sunshine were dim, but grew more noticeable with every minute. The patches of ground without grass were finely crafted marble, worn from many boot soles. Later in the day, the public gardens might have been a bustling place. But that morning it was dead, and as private a place as any.
Three souls were all what stood there, and all were too focused to admire the beauty around them; two well-dressed gentleman, and a girl in plain clothes in between. One gentleman, with neatly kept short blond hair, had a stoic face and a keen glare. The other gentleman, with a long messy tangle of black hair, grimaced with a squinted fanaticism. The girl, who bit her lip with fright, walked to each man and handed him a sword of equal worth.
As each man lifted their sword to the rising light, the gleam of the newly born sun sliding down each rapier's blade, they mumbled a soft and poetic prayer. Then, as if in unison, they walked within four paces of one another, and readied their weapons near their opponent's breast. From deep within an apron pocket, the girl retrieved a white handkerchief that danced, either from the wind or her trembling hand, and dropped it without warning.
The blond opened first with a lunge, striking the black-haired man's thigh with precision; embedding his blade inch-deep into flesh before pulling out and dancing a circle around his foe. There the blond held for a moment; waiting as the black-haired man spun around with a wild slash that was deflected as quickly as it came. A sharp kick to the ribs sent the black-haired man reeling backwards and stumbling into a nearby bush.
There was a brief pause where the black-haired man mumbled something harsh and inaudible before limping at his opponent again with two sloppy slashes, only to be met with a swift hit to his face. Before he had time to prepare, the blond struck again with a deep stab into the shoulder, before twisting the blade out. Bloodied and beaten, the black-haired man finally succumbed to his wounded leg and fell to his knees. The clang of steel fell silent, and only the hushed and hurried breaths of the defeated penetrated the perfidious silence. The blond, with neither a smile nor a frown, lowered his blade to within a hair’s length of his foes tender throat; his stained sword had dropped freckles on the plants nearby.
The roses were a lovely shade of red.