Roleplay from Smiddich Fontaine
A Bottle of Rum
Playing cards were fluttering lazily through the air as Nemean was forced into a corner, and he spun, panting. Despite the sudden and frenetic fight, his steel was steady even as his eyes darted around for an escape.
"This is not the game I'd intended on enjoying tonight", said the Duke with a grin, his sword low alongside his leg in a ready stance, "But it is thrilling. Tis as well I own the place". The princes blade was aimed at a broad torso, the master swordsman already calculating a myriad defense.
Sir Nemean pushed himself off the wall with the one hand, a wordless scream, his blade coming in high and fast. What would have bisected the Duke in one moment was dashed aside at the last, sparks flying from their sharpest edges. Nemean turned to face his foe again; he had won his freedom from the corner but found himself still with few places to go. The Duke pivoted smoothly in his tall dark boots which crunched on broken glass, an errant lock of dark hair across his face.
"All other concerns wash away in this moment, Nemean. Win or lose, now", said the pirate lord, stalking his prey, "Now we are countrymen!"
The Prince was backing away, near slipping, as the Duke began his playful onslaught. The blows rained on him from the left and right, with disemboweling lunges, each repelled with inches to spare before finding flesh. In truth, Smiddich relished this return to his familiar weapon and its wicked curve.
"Is everything alright in...?", ventured a voice, forcing open the door which had become jammed with debris, and Nemean took this advantage to launch his own volley. An array of overhead, dashing blows at the neck and shoulders which Smiddich parried in a dazzling blade-dance, his feet stepping lightly with a hand behind his back. Twice, Nemean would have punctured him had he not turned aside at the last second....and, enough!
The Duke brought his basket hilt down hard on Nemeans own hand, having overextended at the last. His sword dropped from his numb, fractured hand with a cry, even as his other hand reached for a dagger. The prince never had a chance to raise it; the black-bladed Duke of Perdan had already made up the distance and implanted his sword to shoulder, inches deep,
"Enough, Nemean", said the Duke, withdrawing the blood-slick blade. "That was well fought, and not as sure a thing as I might have hoped. There is passion here, and I can only hope to stir it, and direct."
He extended his open palm to the fallen knight. From the door, the bewildered barman viewed the scene of the carnage with a wince.
