Esoteric adj. 1a: designed for or understood by the specially initiated alone, b: requiring or exhibiting knowledge that is restricted to a small group; broadly: difficult to understand, 2a: limited to a small circle, b: private, confidential, 3: of special, rare, or unusual interest
Ionia was a lost cause. Yes, they had competent fighters, but none with the spirit he was searching for.
Noxius had performed slightly better, but Pantheon had gotten the sense that, for them, fighting was a means to an end rather than the end itself. Darius especially had made him think that, but the other Noxians had solidified that impression.
Draven was an exception, but being…well, Draven. Pantheon felt no desire to pursue anything there.
He had hoped in a place called the Institute of War he would find at least one kindred spirit, but so far his that hope had been dashed.
A shame that the only one in the League who shared his upbringing was no longer with the Rakkor for rejecting the Art of War. After so much time away from home it would be…nice to have someone who would not roll their eyes at the endless topics of fighting technique and honor.
Today he had sparring matches with several of the newer Demacian champions. He didn't have high hopes. The culture seemed to teach a distain for combat while at the same time lauding those best at it. He would never understand lowlanders.
The woman waiting for him in the practice yard sniffled as he approached. He looked at the sun: he wasn't even late.
Even the woman's attire was fussy, every piece lying like she had spent time carefully arranging it. She must have spent her entire time waiting here brushing every speck of dust off her needlessly ornate clothing.
Pantheon disliked her already.
His opponent obviously shared his first impression. She wrinkled her nose again, though Pantheon could only half see it through her impractical haircut. She extended a hand. "Fiora Laurent, head of House Laurent, Grand Duelist of Demacia."
Did she really expect him to kiss her hand before a fight? He would not. Instead, he planted his spear in the ground and replied, "Pantheon, of the Rakkor."
She drew her hand back with another sour expression and placed it on her hip. "Know that I never take a challenge lightly. Whatever the rules of this engagement, I will prevail."
Pantheon had to laugh at that. "Rules? If your lowlander pride is so cheap, set whatever constraints on me you wish."
"Rules of engagement affect both parties, Pantheon of the Rakkor." Pantheon decided the sour look was simply her face, the expression baked in with years of practice. ""I would not have my honor sullied by facing a handicapped opponent."
Fiora tapped a long finger against her hip. "A proper duel must have rules of engagement." She paused. "So be it. Let me put this in terms you will understand." Her normally clipped tone slowed, each word spoken with the exaggerated slowness usually reserved for slow children. "Though it breaks the conditions of a proper duel, weeeeee wiiiiiill nooooooooot kiiiiill ouuur ooopoooneeent. Because that would get the victor disqualified from the League of Legends, and I assume even a bore such as yourself does not want that."
Tired of her abuse, Pantheon just nodded and took his place on the practice field. Such actions could not be accepted in the lowlands; his encounter with her country's prince had ended with the man laughing off his defeat. While he had not understood the Art of War, at least he had fought with honor instead of insults.
While a huff, Fiora strode to her place on the other side of the practice field.
Pantheon's eyes narrowed. When she'd been standing still he hadn't been it, but now that she was in motion it was clear; this was a warrior with complete control of her movements.
Unconsciously, Pantheon sunk deeper into his stance and adjusted his footing.
The first series of strikes were tests, trying the other's defenses and habits.
Then, the moment he thrust forward with his spear in a genuine attack, she caught the point with the small blade she held in her left hand and flicked the attack away.
It was a thing of beauty.
But he didn't allow his hope up until one of Janna's poorly aimed whirlwind caught him in a dust storm. Pantheon snapped his eyes shuck, threw up a shield, and searched as best he could for her presence.
The blow never came. Instead, when the dust cleared and he was finally able to reopen his eyes, he saw Fiora in her starting stance, standing a little ways off, at ease and watching him. He took the time to knock the dust of his helmet, then caught her eyes and nodded.
She dashed forward, the glint in her eye unmistakable to one with his upbringing.
Yes, Pantheon thought as he caught her blow with his shield and then had to retreat when she continued pressing forward, this would do.