Two men, one dressed in a doublet and shirt of the darkest black with leggings of the same, a rich gold filigree decorating the otherwise plain outfit, and the other in tunic, hat, and breeches of a dark Lincoln green, square off upon the grassy hilltop, the noonday sun beating down upon them. A dainty blade is held the right hand of each, their left encased in a leather gauntlet and held forward to ward off attack. A light breeze blows between the adversaries, each studying his foe for any weakness of posture, any weakness of guard, any weakness of mind, heart, body, or soul that might be exploited to their own advantage. Only a drop of blood is required to satisfy the matter of honor that calls these men to this deserted hilltop, and both men are determined to be the first to kiss steel to flesh and claim the right to be the one walking away with his head held high, confident in the knowledge that he is in the right.
The blade held by each is a rapier, a slim blade longer than a man's arm. It is not a graceful blade save in the hand of the skilled, prone as it is to abrupt attacks and defenses as opposed to the spiral strikes and rising slashes of the calvary saber or broadsword. It is an instrument of death, a weapon of honor well suited to this bout, a duel. Its miniscule tip is its main threat, the blade growing in length instead of thickness from this point, allowing for only the briefest of edges before such a surface is kept rounded in order to make the blade thicker and therefore stronger near to the hilt, a spiral affair made of handsome wire or the inverted cup of a well-used bell guard, polished and sparkling brightly in the sunlight. The grip is not much more, a mortal's handhold upon this delicate weapon, wrapped in black leather and ended in a small counterweight of steel to balance the sword.
A nod brings the fight to a start, both men advancing slowly, cautiously as it would seem, making their way step by step across the green grass, an overcast sky of menacing storm clouds providing a suitable background for the duel. Steel rasps upon steel as the two blades engage, clashing harshly upon the air as their two tips meet. Suddenly, one of the duelists beats the other's blade aside, slapping it aside with his own, committing himself to an attack in the same breath, his arm rising in the blink of an eye and extending in a heartbeat. His opponent is swift to recover, quickly bringing his blade back into guard to cover his suddenly exposed midsection. However, the slim blade meets naught but air as its foe simply ducks under it and continues its forward motion, lunging forward until it is batted aside by the man's free hand as he hastily steps backward, desperate to avoid the blade's questing tip. Not to be daunted, the blade rises, jumping upwards to tap the arm of its prey, pressing down and drawing back swiftly to elicit a gasp of pain and a thin line of blood in punishment, tiny droplets of hot and sticky scarlet spreading like plague upon the rich black cloth the man's sleeve as the blade's razor edge slashes skin through the dark wool, coming back to guard with a trace of scarlet glistening upon the glittering steel.
The injured man was enraged – his confident acceptance of a challenge had led to this fight, a duel that he knew that he could win, yet here he was, a trace of his blood decorating his foe's blade. His foe stood easily at guard, quietly amused by the wrath boiling in his opponent's eyes. Rage made opponents much easier to defeat, especially if they let it control them. A simple attack, such as the one he had just made, would do to slay them instead of simply wounding them. It had not been much different in his last duel, a fight where the challenged had not been satisfied by a single touch; he had required three to quell his anger and finally relinquish his honor in at least a mildly genteel fashion. To say the least, the man had not been an accomplished duelist and did not notice the trick used thrice, in direct succession no less, to draw his blood. Perhaps the same would be true here.
"Again." The word was bitter, almost snarled as the injured man brought his embarrassingly clean rapier back to a high guard with venom in his tongue and sparks flying from his eyes, his blade's deadly point quivering with menace. His opponent nodded calmly, bringing his own blade up to a similarly aggressive guard and advancing, bringing himself into range of his foe before springing forward, his rapier a glittering shard of silver as it flies forward, beating aside its counterpart as before as it hopes for an easy touch.
Again, his opponent's weapon comes back swiftly, missing the sword by only a hair's breadth as it seeks to complete a parry with the questing blade as it ducks under the defending rapier. With a hasty retreat step, the man parries with his hand, this time adding a riposte to the move, forcing the uninjured swordsman to divert his attention to a sword lunging in reply rather than perform another draw cut. However, all does not go as planned. As pressure comes onto the first blade, its master twitches his wrist, sending it in a circle about the hand that sought to push it aside, gathering the unblooded blade with it in a circle parry, pushing it to the left and blocking defending hand in the same motion. Sliding up the steel with the sharp hiss of steel on steel the swift sword passes by the injured man's shoulder, a clean miss…and then the blade returns, its cruel edge slicing through black wool as it bites skin and drinks of the man's blood once more, both edges now stained scarlet as the sword returns to guard, leaving its foe with a blossoming flower of blood upon his shoulder, nigh invisible upon his black shirt.
The uninjured man stands easy, sure that honor has been satisfied after two touches, his slim blade held low as the challenger waits for his foe to acknowledge the wrong the man brought upon him. He could not have been more wrong.
With a primal roar, cheeks flaming red with embarrassment at having lost his pride twice over to the man before him, the injured gentleman gathers himself up and springs forward in a great lunge, blade flashing like a lightning bolt in the midday sun. Surprised, but keeping his calm, the challenger whips his blade up and around in a swift parry, marking the two blades' meeting with a harsh CLANG before he extends the blade's deadly tip towards the other's breast, angered that the other should prolong such an obviously decided argument for so long, but such a swift end is not to be. The offender circle parries his deadly attack, forcing it off to the side with a quick flick of his wrist, encircling the attacking rapier in a cage of steel. Pressing his guard and blade to his opponent's sword, the injured man replies to the attack in turn, swiftly sliding the rapier up his foe's blade with a sharp hiss. He is sure that such an attack cannot fail with the two blades locked together as they are…or are they?
With a swift circle parry, the dauntless challenger moved a step ahead of his foe, bringing his opponent's blade off to the side as he locked it upon his own blade and guard, stepping forward to bring the attack to a close with his foe's tip well off to the side and behind his shoulder. Flicking his tip upward and letting its thin flat settle upon his gloved hand, the man ended the bout, once and for all.
Blades rasp in protest as the challenger brings his hilt forward, sliding it swiftly across his opponent's sword with his hand for a lever. He brings the cupped guard into his foe's forehead with a sickening thud as flesh bone meets steel. The rapier springs back to guard as the challenger jumps back from the body before him, his foe sinking to the ground, unconscious, with his blade falling from his suddenly limp grip to settle upon the cool grass. Satisfied that the man no longer harbors an argument, the challenger wipes his bloody sword upon the grass and takes its richer partner from the man upon the grass, placing it in his belt. Cleaning his bloodied blade before returning it to the scabbard, slinging a quiver full of arrows upon his back, and strapping a fine yew longbow on top of them, the outlaw walked off with a tip of his hat to the man – now quiet, prostrate, and rather devoid of honor – who now lay quite peacefully upon the ground, evidence of the skill of Robin of Locksley.