It'd been a long time since Deora had held any weapon. Many years after the vicious brawls in Scalian streets, where he'd displayed a necessary brutality. Today was not for turf, or riches, simply for reputation, and a spot of fun. Granted of course that the heavy broadswords were a far cry from battered knives and bare fists. Still the object was the same. Beating another person into submission with the use of speed, strength, and basic animal cruelty. He'd spent some time prior to the match limbering up, and Deora was glad to learn that despite his years in the lab he was still spry and sinewy. He was clad in his usual garb, and was allowed a wide range of motion. A crude ring was drawn in the moist earth. Yelling soldiers surrounded said circle. Each one strained to voice his opinion, or place a last minute wager.

Most of the crowd favored the Lieutenant over an unknown fighter, but Deora ignored the background noise as he strode into the ring. The heavy broadsword was balanced on his left shoulder with the blade sitting on a thick piece of cloth. The blade itself was covered in silk in order to avoid horrible mutilation towards either party. He smiled and nodded towards his most worthy opponent, before dashing forwards. He began the battle with low kick from his right foot towards his opponent’s lower left shin. He allowed his left shoulder to lean back.

Digby loved a good challenge. This man, though, gave him a strange feeling; his hackles rose where he hadn't any, and he felt an odd shiver down the back of his neck. He'd learned long ago to pay attention to his feelings, had Digby. But he was a recruit like any other. And he needed to make a demonstration with someone other than Hawes for once. Hawes always beat him, anyways, and that was no good for morale. Much as Digby loved his sergeant, the man had no right to be so good with a sword--though with a hache Digby could take him anytime.

Now he'd taken out his old broadsword, back when he'd gotten one from the King, and donned his mail shirt. He had no fancy army, of course, but he, like his opponent, had padded the blade of his sword. They'd feel the impact, all right, but there would be no beheadings. God willing.

Digby took up his stance and then swung, heavily, as Deora dashed headlong toward him. Amateur, he thought, with some amusement, noting the other man's unbalanced stance. Not that he was much better. Broadsword combat was never his favorite. It reminded him of hacking down trees, and it wrought havoc on his once-dislocated shoulder. But he was game for it, game for anything, once the song of battle had started to sing itself in his head.

He came at Deora first overhand, and then, twisting away, managed to avoid locking blades and sheared in sideways, trying to whack him below the ribs.

Here was the Deora's return to the world of fighting. While others may have used ferocity ,or strength ,or overwhelming natural skill , Deora used cunning. Traps and tricks were his discipline and it was paying off.


He silently congratulated himself as his opponent wandered into the trap. Granted, the man was fast and seemed to have a decent grasp on things. To many expert eyes his stance would appear ridiculous. One foot jutting out ,with the opposite shoulder back.

The skillful attack on his ribs seemed to be minor nuisance as he sprang into action. The leg that had jutted forward now swung sharply back. His hips turned and for the piece de resistance the sword bearing shoulder flew forwards. The shoulder became a fulcrum as his sword was sent diagonally at the man in the shape of a powerful blow. His entire body ,from the legs to the hips to the shoulders lent power to the massive attack. The momentum of the strike moved him to the left ,and aided an evasion of the rib attack. It also brought him closer as the awkward blade sought to shear Digby from shoulder to opposite leg in an overwhelming attack. The blade was covered but the accumulated force could always make a dent.

Digby was surprised at the sudden force of his opponent's movement. He took a quick step back, but his gimp leg betrayed him. He staggered, scored across the chest by a lucky stroke.

He brought up his own sword, catching th other man's by the hilt, and strained against him, his teeth gritted. "Think you can outlast an old soldier?" he whispered, and pushed back as hard as he could, one heel digging into the dirt for purchase.

Behind him, he heard the thrum and pulse of the gathered crowd. He knew they'd be talking about their El Tee, as some called him, half-irreverent, half-wary.

He wrenched his sword away from his opponent's and swung it under his guard. If that didn't hit something--

Deora soon realized that his opponent had a large dose of fight in him. He felt the man throw his weight on Deora's blade. When Deora counter-pushed he found himself fighting air. And as a new issue his opponent's sword had appeared under his guard ,and speeding towards him. Deora had little time to react ,and chose a rash measure. He dropped his hilt in the path of the fierce attack. The sword's heavy tip collided heavily with Deora's hilt. A wave of pain washed through his body upon the impact. Heavy vibrations rocked him ,and he found it difficult to concentrate.

However his mind would be suppressed by such trifling things as physical pain. He'd made a point to study his opponent ,and something came to mind. He was fighting a man with a bad leg. Honor did not impede Deora as his strategy was formulated. He couldn't use his pained swordhand efficiently so he decided to discard it. He pressed it against the enemie's blade in an attempt to push it down. His ringing hand released it ,and he immediately leapt towards his enemy.

A strong low kick was sent towards the lame leg ,while the opposite hand made a grab for his enemie's sword arm. To top off the feral assult the other hand moved to claw at Tremain's eyes.

Digby saw the move Deora was going to make a split second before the boy followed through, and he was shocked. Cheating tactics! This was no soldier of his.

"Cheating, boy?" he barked. The kick had hit his leg, but Digby knew pain, and he knew endurance, and the pain washed over him like pleasure. It heightened his rage. "Ye do that to an officer?" He still had his sword, and took a quick, albeit limping, step back out of the range of Deora's clawlike nails, his sword pressed to his opponent's throat. "Honor is what separates us from them!" he roared, waiting to see if the boy was foolhardy enough to fling himself forward against the sword. Surely not--he was foolhardy, stupid perhaps, but not insane. Or so Digby hoped.

"Us from them!"

At the end of the match, with both men (miraculously!) still standing, victory is awarded to Lt. Tremaine.

For his victory, he receives a proper side-sword as well as honor and reputation... a trifle.

Deora is awarded... a trip to the apothecary! For something to ease the pain of those nasty bruised ribs. ;]

And the crowd goes wild!

Well that was fun. I'm off to the apothecary.