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It did cross his mind, as Achilleas made his way out to the courtyard, that perhaps this was not the finest idea he had ever had. Upon standing, it seemed as if the effects of the wine had all come together in a rush, and much as he tried to disguise it, he felt a little unsteady on his feet. He was not one for heavy drinking, indeed it was one of the many reasons he avoided socialising with his brother and cousin. He stood no chance of keeping up, and now he was reminded of the fact as he scrubbed a hand over his face to clear the bleary feeling that had settled upon him.
But words had been thrown down now, and his honor was at stake and he was not about to back out. The bard was a jumped up little so and so, deliberately antagonistic and Achilleas would enjoy putting him in his place.
He did not lose, after all.
Outside, the brightness dazzled him a little. He had thought it to be later, but there was still enough light to bounce off the pale stone of the courtyard and make him squint. He did not look to see if they would have spectators for this little match, or if the others had chosen to remain inside, but only had interest in Hesiodos. The Lord Mikaeilidas turned and watched as his opponent followed him out into the sunshine and he found himself appraising the man, looking for the weaknesses he could exploit as he always did.
Hesiodos was a slighter man, smaller in stature, but Achilleas knew that could offer advantages in quickness of motion. And the bard wielded twin blades, which again would provide their own challenges in speed and flexibility. Still, the Mikaleidas man was a well seasoned warrior- a soldier, and his reputation had not grown from naught.
If anything, the wine served only to temper Achilleas’ more cautious and logical mind, and let his natural arrogance take the lead. Usually he might have identified the risk in such a thing, but now, now he let his wounded pride and desire to see the man before him taken down a few pegs guide him. Whether or not it would prove to be folly remained to be seen.
Cool blue eyes swept dismissively over the bard, and Achilleas turned away, deliberately showed the man his back as he drew the longsword from where it was sheathed at his hip, swung it through a couple of careless arcs to loosen his shoulders and arms. It was a familiar weight in his hands, trusted, and there was a cocky smile upon the face of the man as he finally looked back to his opponent in this, white teeth bared.
“Come then, Hesiodos the bard. Let us see if you are as quick with those shiny blades as you are running off your mouth.” There was a goading edge to the words that Achilleas would not usually have let slip, but self discipline faded under the effects of the drink that he had been plide with since their arrival, and he canted his head to the side and waited for the other man to step up.
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It did cross his mind, as Achilleas made his way out to the courtyard, that perhaps this was not the finest idea he had ever had. Upon standing, it seemed as if the effects of the wine had all come together in a rush, and much as he tried to disguise it, he felt a little unsteady on his feet. He was not one for heavy drinking, indeed it was one of the many reasons he avoided socialising with his brother and cousin. He stood no chance of keeping up, and now he was reminded of the fact as he scrubbed a hand over his face to clear the bleary feeling that had settled upon him.
But words had been thrown down now, and his honor was at stake and he was not about to back out. The bard was a jumped up little so and so, deliberately antagonistic and Achilleas would enjoy putting him in his place.
He did not lose, after all.
Outside, the brightness dazzled him a little. He had thought it to be later, but there was still enough light to bounce off the pale stone of the courtyard and make him squint. He did not look to see if they would have spectators for this little match, or if the others had chosen to remain inside, but only had interest in Hesiodos. The Lord Mikaeilidas turned and watched as his opponent followed him out into the sunshine and he found himself appraising the man, looking for the weaknesses he could exploit as he always did.
Hesiodos was a slighter man, smaller in stature, but Achilleas knew that could offer advantages in quickness of motion. And the bard wielded twin blades, which again would provide their own challenges in speed and flexibility. Still, the Mikaleidas man was a well seasoned warrior- a soldier, and his reputation had not grown from naught.
If anything, the wine served only to temper Achilleas’ more cautious and logical mind, and let his natural arrogance take the lead. Usually he might have identified the risk in such a thing, but now, now he let his wounded pride and desire to see the man before him taken down a few pegs guide him. Whether or not it would prove to be folly remained to be seen.
Cool blue eyes swept dismissively over the bard, and Achilleas turned away, deliberately showed the man his back as he drew the longsword from where it was sheathed at his hip, swung it through a couple of careless arcs to loosen his shoulders and arms. It was a familiar weight in his hands, trusted, and there was a cocky smile upon the face of the man as he finally looked back to his opponent in this, white teeth bared.
“Come then, Hesiodos the bard. Let us see if you are as quick with those shiny blades as you are running off your mouth.” There was a goading edge to the words that Achilleas would not usually have let slip, but self discipline faded under the effects of the drink that he had been plide with since their arrival, and he canted his head to the side and waited for the other man to step up.
It did cross his mind, as Achilleas made his way out to the courtyard, that perhaps this was not the finest idea he had ever had. Upon standing, it seemed as if the effects of the wine had all come together in a rush, and much as he tried to disguise it, he felt a little unsteady on his feet. He was not one for heavy drinking, indeed it was one of the many reasons he avoided socialising with his brother and cousin. He stood no chance of keeping up, and now he was reminded of the fact as he scrubbed a hand over his face to clear the bleary feeling that had settled upon him.
But words had been thrown down now, and his honor was at stake and he was not about to back out. The bard was a jumped up little so and so, deliberately antagonistic and Achilleas would enjoy putting him in his place.
He did not lose, after all.
Outside, the brightness dazzled him a little. He had thought it to be later, but there was still enough light to bounce off the pale stone of the courtyard and make him squint. He did not look to see if they would have spectators for this little match, or if the others had chosen to remain inside, but only had interest in Hesiodos. The Lord Mikaeilidas turned and watched as his opponent followed him out into the sunshine and he found himself appraising the man, looking for the weaknesses he could exploit as he always did.
Hesiodos was a slighter man, smaller in stature, but Achilleas knew that could offer advantages in quickness of motion. And the bard wielded twin blades, which again would provide their own challenges in speed and flexibility. Still, the Mikaleidas man was a well seasoned warrior- a soldier, and his reputation had not grown from naught.
If anything, the wine served only to temper Achilleas’ more cautious and logical mind, and let his natural arrogance take the lead. Usually he might have identified the risk in such a thing, but now, now he let his wounded pride and desire to see the man before him taken down a few pegs guide him. Whether or not it would prove to be folly remained to be seen.
Cool blue eyes swept dismissively over the bard, and Achilleas turned away, deliberately showed the man his back as he drew the longsword from where it was sheathed at his hip, swung it through a couple of careless arcs to loosen his shoulders and arms. It was a familiar weight in his hands, trusted, and there was a cocky smile upon the face of the man as he finally looked back to his opponent in this, white teeth bared.
“Come then, Hesiodos the bard. Let us see if you are as quick with those shiny blades as you are running off your mouth.” There was a goading edge to the words that Achilleas would not usually have let slip, but self discipline faded under the effects of the drink that he had been plide with since their arrival, and he canted his head to the side and waited for the other man to step up.
Hesiodos old teacher, the one that introduced him to music so many years ago, had a piece of wisdom to which he adhered quite a lot: that if you insulted someone, you better have steel to back it up, and if someone insulted you, you better had it to defend your honor. He was a man that knew how to use the lyre and the sword in equal measures, and made sure that the young man from Phossis became one as well.
Over the years, the bard had been in countless duels. He had won a lot of them, and lost some, and all of them left a myriad of silver scars adorning his olive skin. That’s why he walked with all confidence behind the soldier, sure about his victory. His hands were flexing, ready to take his twin swords and drive them into his handsome flesh.
He knew who the man was. Achilleas of Mikaelidas, an undefeated warrior, blessed by Ares himself with strength in battle. Men cowered before him, and no one dared look at him funny. Not Hesiodos, too, first of all because he was too handsome to not to look – which he explicitly told him over wine earlier – but because he was sure that he was just bluffing. After all, he knew a thing or two about the power of legends and bullshit.
He had to try his best to not to laugh like an utter buffoon when people gasped and looked in horror as Achilleas and him traded insults, and then decided to settle things down with sharp bronze. Now the bard walked behind him with a swagger that suggested he owned the place, something normally reserved for the very brave, the very powerful or the very stupid. The truth was that he was also quite drunk, but it was hard to notice… he had quite endurance, and could go on after a lot others passed out. Fighting while inebriated was nothing new to him, and he knew how to do it well.
The bard smiled widely as he saw his opponent draw his longsword; sunlight shone brightly on the bronze. He replied in kind by drawing two twin blades from his belt, and making a theatrical flourish, “As you command, my Lord. You will soon see that a bard’s swords are as sharp as their tongue…”, his tone was full of confidence, as he was sure that things would go on his favor…
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Hesiodos old teacher, the one that introduced him to music so many years ago, had a piece of wisdom to which he adhered quite a lot: that if you insulted someone, you better have steel to back it up, and if someone insulted you, you better had it to defend your honor. He was a man that knew how to use the lyre and the sword in equal measures, and made sure that the young man from Phossis became one as well.
Over the years, the bard had been in countless duels. He had won a lot of them, and lost some, and all of them left a myriad of silver scars adorning his olive skin. That’s why he walked with all confidence behind the soldier, sure about his victory. His hands were flexing, ready to take his twin swords and drive them into his handsome flesh.
He knew who the man was. Achilleas of Mikaelidas, an undefeated warrior, blessed by Ares himself with strength in battle. Men cowered before him, and no one dared look at him funny. Not Hesiodos, too, first of all because he was too handsome to not to look – which he explicitly told him over wine earlier – but because he was sure that he was just bluffing. After all, he knew a thing or two about the power of legends and bullshit.
He had to try his best to not to laugh like an utter buffoon when people gasped and looked in horror as Achilleas and him traded insults, and then decided to settle things down with sharp bronze. Now the bard walked behind him with a swagger that suggested he owned the place, something normally reserved for the very brave, the very powerful or the very stupid. The truth was that he was also quite drunk, but it was hard to notice… he had quite endurance, and could go on after a lot others passed out. Fighting while inebriated was nothing new to him, and he knew how to do it well.
The bard smiled widely as he saw his opponent draw his longsword; sunlight shone brightly on the bronze. He replied in kind by drawing two twin blades from his belt, and making a theatrical flourish, “As you command, my Lord. You will soon see that a bard’s swords are as sharp as their tongue…”, his tone was full of confidence, as he was sure that things would go on his favor…
Hesiodos old teacher, the one that introduced him to music so many years ago, had a piece of wisdom to which he adhered quite a lot: that if you insulted someone, you better have steel to back it up, and if someone insulted you, you better had it to defend your honor. He was a man that knew how to use the lyre and the sword in equal measures, and made sure that the young man from Phossis became one as well.
Over the years, the bard had been in countless duels. He had won a lot of them, and lost some, and all of them left a myriad of silver scars adorning his olive skin. That’s why he walked with all confidence behind the soldier, sure about his victory. His hands were flexing, ready to take his twin swords and drive them into his handsome flesh.
He knew who the man was. Achilleas of Mikaelidas, an undefeated warrior, blessed by Ares himself with strength in battle. Men cowered before him, and no one dared look at him funny. Not Hesiodos, too, first of all because he was too handsome to not to look – which he explicitly told him over wine earlier – but because he was sure that he was just bluffing. After all, he knew a thing or two about the power of legends and bullshit.
He had to try his best to not to laugh like an utter buffoon when people gasped and looked in horror as Achilleas and him traded insults, and then decided to settle things down with sharp bronze. Now the bard walked behind him with a swagger that suggested he owned the place, something normally reserved for the very brave, the very powerful or the very stupid. The truth was that he was also quite drunk, but it was hard to notice… he had quite endurance, and could go on after a lot others passed out. Fighting while inebriated was nothing new to him, and he knew how to do it well.
The bard smiled widely as he saw his opponent draw his longsword; sunlight shone brightly on the bronze. He replied in kind by drawing two twin blades from his belt, and making a theatrical flourish, “As you command, my Lord. You will soon see that a bard’s swords are as sharp as their tongue…”, his tone was full of confidence, as he was sure that things would go on his favor…
The bard had managed to get thoroughly under Achilleas’ skin in the few hours since their arrival at the Dimitrou Manor. He was brash and loud and seemed to have been invited along just to facilitate all of things that the eldest son of Irakles sons made a point of avoiding. Add to that his irritation at the fact that they had not been invited at all and it made for a rather tetchy Achilleas.
Not just that though, he admitted, as he watched the other make a spectacle of arming himself. Hesiodos was an unashamed flirt, and whilst Achilleas watched his comments roll easily off the shoulders of his brother and cousin, he was uncomfortable in the manner the bard looked at him, the presumption of the man in being so familiar.Or perhaps more truthfully, he was uncomfortable with the interest it kindled, and it was that, that long denied part of him that saw him take greater umbrage at light hearted jibes, be more easily riled into a confrontation than was ill-befitting of a man of his station.
And now he found himself irked by the man’s swagger, his confidence. Did he not know who he was facing? Achilleas’ smile faded into a stillness that spoke of intense focus, and the sword was brought forward into a mid guard. He blinked, tested his grip and then without warning strode forward, drawing out the blades of his opponent in a strike meant only to test, to gauge the mettle of the other.
He could feel his blood rise, the familiar promise of battle calling his muscles to life, remembering their roles in this well learned dance. There was a slight sluggishness that he did not recognise though, and Achilleas thought absently that it must be the wine, dulling his edges a little.
Not the blade though. The sword that arced down toward the bard was beautifully crafted and killing sharp. The Lord Mikaelidas did not play when it came to fighting it would seem.
There was the clash of metal upon metal and then Achilleas pulled back, lighter on his feet than might have been expected for a man of his height and build. Quick as a snake he struck out with the flat of the blade, looking to let it smack the bard neatly and harmlessly. He wanted to goad Hesiodos into an attack, to learn the way the other moved so he could end this quickly and be done. Perhaps then the bard would not be more careful in his words and manner.
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The bard had managed to get thoroughly under Achilleas’ skin in the few hours since their arrival at the Dimitrou Manor. He was brash and loud and seemed to have been invited along just to facilitate all of things that the eldest son of Irakles sons made a point of avoiding. Add to that his irritation at the fact that they had not been invited at all and it made for a rather tetchy Achilleas.
Not just that though, he admitted, as he watched the other make a spectacle of arming himself. Hesiodos was an unashamed flirt, and whilst Achilleas watched his comments roll easily off the shoulders of his brother and cousin, he was uncomfortable in the manner the bard looked at him, the presumption of the man in being so familiar.Or perhaps more truthfully, he was uncomfortable with the interest it kindled, and it was that, that long denied part of him that saw him take greater umbrage at light hearted jibes, be more easily riled into a confrontation than was ill-befitting of a man of his station.
And now he found himself irked by the man’s swagger, his confidence. Did he not know who he was facing? Achilleas’ smile faded into a stillness that spoke of intense focus, and the sword was brought forward into a mid guard. He blinked, tested his grip and then without warning strode forward, drawing out the blades of his opponent in a strike meant only to test, to gauge the mettle of the other.
He could feel his blood rise, the familiar promise of battle calling his muscles to life, remembering their roles in this well learned dance. There was a slight sluggishness that he did not recognise though, and Achilleas thought absently that it must be the wine, dulling his edges a little.
Not the blade though. The sword that arced down toward the bard was beautifully crafted and killing sharp. The Lord Mikaelidas did not play when it came to fighting it would seem.
There was the clash of metal upon metal and then Achilleas pulled back, lighter on his feet than might have been expected for a man of his height and build. Quick as a snake he struck out with the flat of the blade, looking to let it smack the bard neatly and harmlessly. He wanted to goad Hesiodos into an attack, to learn the way the other moved so he could end this quickly and be done. Perhaps then the bard would not be more careful in his words and manner.
The bard had managed to get thoroughly under Achilleas’ skin in the few hours since their arrival at the Dimitrou Manor. He was brash and loud and seemed to have been invited along just to facilitate all of things that the eldest son of Irakles sons made a point of avoiding. Add to that his irritation at the fact that they had not been invited at all and it made for a rather tetchy Achilleas.
Not just that though, he admitted, as he watched the other make a spectacle of arming himself. Hesiodos was an unashamed flirt, and whilst Achilleas watched his comments roll easily off the shoulders of his brother and cousin, he was uncomfortable in the manner the bard looked at him, the presumption of the man in being so familiar.Or perhaps more truthfully, he was uncomfortable with the interest it kindled, and it was that, that long denied part of him that saw him take greater umbrage at light hearted jibes, be more easily riled into a confrontation than was ill-befitting of a man of his station.
And now he found himself irked by the man’s swagger, his confidence. Did he not know who he was facing? Achilleas’ smile faded into a stillness that spoke of intense focus, and the sword was brought forward into a mid guard. He blinked, tested his grip and then without warning strode forward, drawing out the blades of his opponent in a strike meant only to test, to gauge the mettle of the other.
He could feel his blood rise, the familiar promise of battle calling his muscles to life, remembering their roles in this well learned dance. There was a slight sluggishness that he did not recognise though, and Achilleas thought absently that it must be the wine, dulling his edges a little.
Not the blade though. The sword that arced down toward the bard was beautifully crafted and killing sharp. The Lord Mikaelidas did not play when it came to fighting it would seem.
There was the clash of metal upon metal and then Achilleas pulled back, lighter on his feet than might have been expected for a man of his height and build. Quick as a snake he struck out with the flat of the blade, looking to let it smack the bard neatly and harmlessly. He wanted to goad Hesiodos into an attack, to learn the way the other moved so he could end this quickly and be done. Perhaps then the bard would not be more careful in his words and manner.
When Hesiodos saw his opponent get into guard, he did so as well – right hand sword pointing at the man, dissuading him from getting too close, while the other was held in defensive stance, ready to parry. His footwork was skin as that of a dancer, waiting for his partner to take initiative.
And then, he did: the sword came arching towards him, and with the swiftness of a predator, he blocked the arch with the left hand blade, while the other made an horizontal swing towards the opponent. If it had struck, it would have certainly disemboweled the man, but alas, he evaded easily… this man was good, he noticed, and he couldn’t be happier about the fact.
He returned to his stance with ease, and he flashed his opponent a cocky smile. With steps that would have suggested he hadn’t drank nothing but plain juice during all his life, Hesiodos swung upward with the sword on his right – a telegraphed move, that could have been blocked by a blind man with a stick, but he counted on that. He counted on him to block, so his left hand could deliver a deadly thrust towards his side…
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When Hesiodos saw his opponent get into guard, he did so as well – right hand sword pointing at the man, dissuading him from getting too close, while the other was held in defensive stance, ready to parry. His footwork was skin as that of a dancer, waiting for his partner to take initiative.
And then, he did: the sword came arching towards him, and with the swiftness of a predator, he blocked the arch with the left hand blade, while the other made an horizontal swing towards the opponent. If it had struck, it would have certainly disemboweled the man, but alas, he evaded easily… this man was good, he noticed, and he couldn’t be happier about the fact.
He returned to his stance with ease, and he flashed his opponent a cocky smile. With steps that would have suggested he hadn’t drank nothing but plain juice during all his life, Hesiodos swung upward with the sword on his right – a telegraphed move, that could have been blocked by a blind man with a stick, but he counted on that. He counted on him to block, so his left hand could deliver a deadly thrust towards his side…
When Hesiodos saw his opponent get into guard, he did so as well – right hand sword pointing at the man, dissuading him from getting too close, while the other was held in defensive stance, ready to parry. His footwork was skin as that of a dancer, waiting for his partner to take initiative.
And then, he did: the sword came arching towards him, and with the swiftness of a predator, he blocked the arch with the left hand blade, while the other made an horizontal swing towards the opponent. If it had struck, it would have certainly disemboweled the man, but alas, he evaded easily… this man was good, he noticed, and he couldn’t be happier about the fact.
He returned to his stance with ease, and he flashed his opponent a cocky smile. With steps that would have suggested he hadn’t drank nothing but plain juice during all his life, Hesiodos swung upward with the sword on his right – a telegraphed move, that could have been blocked by a blind man with a stick, but he counted on that. He counted on him to block, so his left hand could deliver a deadly thrust towards his side…
Unsurprisingly, the bard had blocked Achilleas’ first strike with ease. The Lord has not put his strength behind it after all- it was exploratory, testing. And though the man’s follow up strike had been evaded, it was fast, and told the Lord Mikaelidas that to other men, perhaps Hesiodos would have proven a challenging foe.
Other men. He did not outwardly brag about it, he did not need to for his reputation spoke for itself. But Achilleas took great pride in his accomplishments in hand to hand combat. It was was one areas where he would bear no criticism, where there were no flaws to be picked up on. This was his domain that Hesiodos had wandered so naively into and he fully intended to send the man sprawling back into the dirt from which he came with perhaps a bloody souvenir for his troubles. Let him sing a song about that.
With natural confidence bolstered by liquid courage and that very real desire to punish this man for making him feel things he did not want to feel, Achilleas brought the long sword up to deflect the man’s lazy strike, let the blade slide up that of the shorter sword and then he pushed, had enough to unbalance his opponent and buy him the time to circle away from the flash of bronze he could see arcing in from the other side.
Without giving a pause for the other to regroup, Achilleas pressed forward, arced his wrists so the blade slid along those that Hesiodos parried with and then twisted, looking to guide the point of the sword beyond and into the unguarded flesh of his foe.
Not to kill. Not even to wound really. The bard was like some young stripling who needed reminding that he was with his betters, and that such disrespect would not be tolerated. And Achilleas, even as he wrangled with the slight lessening of his usual precision, thought he was just the man to do it.
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Unsurprisingly, the bard had blocked Achilleas’ first strike with ease. The Lord has not put his strength behind it after all- it was exploratory, testing. And though the man’s follow up strike had been evaded, it was fast, and told the Lord Mikaelidas that to other men, perhaps Hesiodos would have proven a challenging foe.
Other men. He did not outwardly brag about it, he did not need to for his reputation spoke for itself. But Achilleas took great pride in his accomplishments in hand to hand combat. It was was one areas where he would bear no criticism, where there were no flaws to be picked up on. This was his domain that Hesiodos had wandered so naively into and he fully intended to send the man sprawling back into the dirt from which he came with perhaps a bloody souvenir for his troubles. Let him sing a song about that.
With natural confidence bolstered by liquid courage and that very real desire to punish this man for making him feel things he did not want to feel, Achilleas brought the long sword up to deflect the man’s lazy strike, let the blade slide up that of the shorter sword and then he pushed, had enough to unbalance his opponent and buy him the time to circle away from the flash of bronze he could see arcing in from the other side.
Without giving a pause for the other to regroup, Achilleas pressed forward, arced his wrists so the blade slid along those that Hesiodos parried with and then twisted, looking to guide the point of the sword beyond and into the unguarded flesh of his foe.
Not to kill. Not even to wound really. The bard was like some young stripling who needed reminding that he was with his betters, and that such disrespect would not be tolerated. And Achilleas, even as he wrangled with the slight lessening of his usual precision, thought he was just the man to do it.
Unsurprisingly, the bard had blocked Achilleas’ first strike with ease. The Lord has not put his strength behind it after all- it was exploratory, testing. And though the man’s follow up strike had been evaded, it was fast, and told the Lord Mikaelidas that to other men, perhaps Hesiodos would have proven a challenging foe.
Other men. He did not outwardly brag about it, he did not need to for his reputation spoke for itself. But Achilleas took great pride in his accomplishments in hand to hand combat. It was was one areas where he would bear no criticism, where there were no flaws to be picked up on. This was his domain that Hesiodos had wandered so naively into and he fully intended to send the man sprawling back into the dirt from which he came with perhaps a bloody souvenir for his troubles. Let him sing a song about that.
With natural confidence bolstered by liquid courage and that very real desire to punish this man for making him feel things he did not want to feel, Achilleas brought the long sword up to deflect the man’s lazy strike, let the blade slide up that of the shorter sword and then he pushed, had enough to unbalance his opponent and buy him the time to circle away from the flash of bronze he could see arcing in from the other side.
Without giving a pause for the other to regroup, Achilleas pressed forward, arced his wrists so the blade slid along those that Hesiodos parried with and then twisted, looking to guide the point of the sword beyond and into the unguarded flesh of his foe.
Not to kill. Not even to wound really. The bard was like some young stripling who needed reminding that he was with his betters, and that such disrespect would not be tolerated. And Achilleas, even as he wrangled with the slight lessening of his usual precision, thought he was just the man to do it.
His treacherous strike didn’t strike the man, who parried it easily. Honestly, Hesiodos would have been disappointed if the handsome man wouldn’t be able to do that… that would mean that the legend behind him was exaggerations. It seems that he was wrong in that regard… good.
His blood was racing and his heart was pounding like a war drum, and his mind was high off the thrill of the fight. When he pushed him back, he stumbled, and could see the point of the longsword coming towards him, between his blades. It would have drawn blood, if it wasn’t for the fact that Hesiodos side stepped, getting out of the way of the blade, while his weapons remained in the same place.
They were at the sides of his swords, so he easily tangled them. With a level movement, he could make him drop the sword, assuming his grip wasn’t strong enough, and he wasn’t fast enough to get out of the trick… for a moment he pictured Achilleas’ face after realizing he dropped his sword, and the mental image made him guffaw loudly.
He assumed that his attitude was making it show that he wasn’t taking this as seriously as the other. That made him laugh harder.
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His treacherous strike didn’t strike the man, who parried it easily. Honestly, Hesiodos would have been disappointed if the handsome man wouldn’t be able to do that… that would mean that the legend behind him was exaggerations. It seems that he was wrong in that regard… good.
His blood was racing and his heart was pounding like a war drum, and his mind was high off the thrill of the fight. When he pushed him back, he stumbled, and could see the point of the longsword coming towards him, between his blades. It would have drawn blood, if it wasn’t for the fact that Hesiodos side stepped, getting out of the way of the blade, while his weapons remained in the same place.
They were at the sides of his swords, so he easily tangled them. With a level movement, he could make him drop the sword, assuming his grip wasn’t strong enough, and he wasn’t fast enough to get out of the trick… for a moment he pictured Achilleas’ face after realizing he dropped his sword, and the mental image made him guffaw loudly.
He assumed that his attitude was making it show that he wasn’t taking this as seriously as the other. That made him laugh harder.
His treacherous strike didn’t strike the man, who parried it easily. Honestly, Hesiodos would have been disappointed if the handsome man wouldn’t be able to do that… that would mean that the legend behind him was exaggerations. It seems that he was wrong in that regard… good.
His blood was racing and his heart was pounding like a war drum, and his mind was high off the thrill of the fight. When he pushed him back, he stumbled, and could see the point of the longsword coming towards him, between his blades. It would have drawn blood, if it wasn’t for the fact that Hesiodos side stepped, getting out of the way of the blade, while his weapons remained in the same place.
They were at the sides of his swords, so he easily tangled them. With a level movement, he could make him drop the sword, assuming his grip wasn’t strong enough, and he wasn’t fast enough to get out of the trick… for a moment he pictured Achilleas’ face after realizing he dropped his sword, and the mental image made him guffaw loudly.
He assumed that his attitude was making it show that he wasn’t taking this as seriously as the other. That made him laugh harder.
Achilleas had been quick to claim the ground that the other had surrendered in his stumble, and when the sound of metal upon metal rang out again he thought perhaps he had done enough, that the bright red blossom of blood over skin would see this bout come to an early finish.
But the bard had twisted lithely away, and the warrior felt the pressure exerted on his own blade, bending his wrist and he saw the move for what it was, pulling back with a sneer that Hesiodos would think him so easily bested. P
The laughter he did not understand, and Achilleas watched the other man warily. Now he was moving, he could feel his his perception was dulled, his movements that much slower than they might have been. Not enough to make him less of a threat to a common fighter, but enough that he noticed.
He stood back a moment, reappraised and refocused. Hesiodos was quick and did not leave much room for error and Achilleas resented him for that. He wanted this to be a definitive victory, a sound defeat that would leave the smirking bard under no illusion as to whom he had crossed.
“ I am glad you are amused” he muttered, looking the other man over. And then he had plunged forwards, faster than he should have been able to, and the metal of the blade was intent on slicing a path clear against the man’s ribs. But that was not all, as Achilleas continued to hammer home the strikes of the sword, powerful and quick and testing every inch of Hesiodos’ ability to defend.
He might have been incumbered by the wine he had consumed but the son of Irakles had been driven hard since he was young to better himself, and much of that effort had gone into his mastery of the sword. Instincts that had been honed over years as a soldier, muscles that had been tested and tried every day in sparring or training fought against the wine fog now, as Achilleas sought to knock the smile off Hesiodos’ -admittedly fair- face. He felt a sudden flare of annoyance at the thought and stepped in again, pushing hard against the twin blades that guarded the other.
It was that, a momentary lapse in concentration where he led his anger rule him rather than his surely superior skill, that offered the bard an opening. A misstep, altogether unlike Achilleas that compromised his stance and left him off balance.
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Achilleas had been quick to claim the ground that the other had surrendered in his stumble, and when the sound of metal upon metal rang out again he thought perhaps he had done enough, that the bright red blossom of blood over skin would see this bout come to an early finish.
But the bard had twisted lithely away, and the warrior felt the pressure exerted on his own blade, bending his wrist and he saw the move for what it was, pulling back with a sneer that Hesiodos would think him so easily bested. P
The laughter he did not understand, and Achilleas watched the other man warily. Now he was moving, he could feel his his perception was dulled, his movements that much slower than they might have been. Not enough to make him less of a threat to a common fighter, but enough that he noticed.
He stood back a moment, reappraised and refocused. Hesiodos was quick and did not leave much room for error and Achilleas resented him for that. He wanted this to be a definitive victory, a sound defeat that would leave the smirking bard under no illusion as to whom he had crossed.
“ I am glad you are amused” he muttered, looking the other man over. And then he had plunged forwards, faster than he should have been able to, and the metal of the blade was intent on slicing a path clear against the man’s ribs. But that was not all, as Achilleas continued to hammer home the strikes of the sword, powerful and quick and testing every inch of Hesiodos’ ability to defend.
He might have been incumbered by the wine he had consumed but the son of Irakles had been driven hard since he was young to better himself, and much of that effort had gone into his mastery of the sword. Instincts that had been honed over years as a soldier, muscles that had been tested and tried every day in sparring or training fought against the wine fog now, as Achilleas sought to knock the smile off Hesiodos’ -admittedly fair- face. He felt a sudden flare of annoyance at the thought and stepped in again, pushing hard against the twin blades that guarded the other.
It was that, a momentary lapse in concentration where he led his anger rule him rather than his surely superior skill, that offered the bard an opening. A misstep, altogether unlike Achilleas that compromised his stance and left him off balance.
Achilleas had been quick to claim the ground that the other had surrendered in his stumble, and when the sound of metal upon metal rang out again he thought perhaps he had done enough, that the bright red blossom of blood over skin would see this bout come to an early finish.
But the bard had twisted lithely away, and the warrior felt the pressure exerted on his own blade, bending his wrist and he saw the move for what it was, pulling back with a sneer that Hesiodos would think him so easily bested. P
The laughter he did not understand, and Achilleas watched the other man warily. Now he was moving, he could feel his his perception was dulled, his movements that much slower than they might have been. Not enough to make him less of a threat to a common fighter, but enough that he noticed.
He stood back a moment, reappraised and refocused. Hesiodos was quick and did not leave much room for error and Achilleas resented him for that. He wanted this to be a definitive victory, a sound defeat that would leave the smirking bard under no illusion as to whom he had crossed.
“ I am glad you are amused” he muttered, looking the other man over. And then he had plunged forwards, faster than he should have been able to, and the metal of the blade was intent on slicing a path clear against the man’s ribs. But that was not all, as Achilleas continued to hammer home the strikes of the sword, powerful and quick and testing every inch of Hesiodos’ ability to defend.
He might have been incumbered by the wine he had consumed but the son of Irakles had been driven hard since he was young to better himself, and much of that effort had gone into his mastery of the sword. Instincts that had been honed over years as a soldier, muscles that had been tested and tried every day in sparring or training fought against the wine fog now, as Achilleas sought to knock the smile off Hesiodos’ -admittedly fair- face. He felt a sudden flare of annoyance at the thought and stepped in again, pushing hard against the twin blades that guarded the other.
It was that, a momentary lapse in concentration where he led his anger rule him rather than his surely superior skill, that offered the bard an opening. A misstep, altogether unlike Achilleas that compromised his stance and left him off balance.
Achilleas was a soldier, and knew how to use the sword well. Hesiodos wouldn’t have been surprised if the man has been trained since childhood. He was hard to hit, and his blows struck like the wrath of the gods. But he made a mistake, one that everyone made: he underestimated him. After all, almost no one expected a smiling, drunk bard to be deadly with a sword in each hand. That mistake proved once lethal.
But now that the cat was out of the bag, he knew the man before him wouldn’t hold back… good. He was having a wonderful time clashing steel with the handsome man before him.
“Thank you!”, he made a flourish with his blades, taunting him, “I’m having a wonderful time! Nothing like having an encounter with an attractive man where we both end up sweating and panting…”, his tone was full of irreverence, one that could easily have his head chopped off in a court. But in a swordfight? He was the kind of man that say such things.
Then the blows came, and Hesiodos blocked and parried them with ease; no matter where the blade came from, his twin swords caught it with sound of metal against metal, and the blade never came close to hitting him. Meanwhile, he was waiting for something… for him to make a mistake. Admittedly, it was like finding a black cat in a dark room, but he knew that it should appear…
Ahh, there it was. His longsword hit his left sword hard, which he parried, leaving his right side exposed. Like a springing snake, the blade shot forward; it cut through clothes and bit into flesh. Would he had more room, the whole sword would have stuck into him, but for now, drawing blood was more than enough…
After that, he made a graceful step back and allowed Achilleas to realize he had been cut. A thin edge of blood dripped down his right blade into the ground…
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Achilleas was a soldier, and knew how to use the sword well. Hesiodos wouldn’t have been surprised if the man has been trained since childhood. He was hard to hit, and his blows struck like the wrath of the gods. But he made a mistake, one that everyone made: he underestimated him. After all, almost no one expected a smiling, drunk bard to be deadly with a sword in each hand. That mistake proved once lethal.
But now that the cat was out of the bag, he knew the man before him wouldn’t hold back… good. He was having a wonderful time clashing steel with the handsome man before him.
“Thank you!”, he made a flourish with his blades, taunting him, “I’m having a wonderful time! Nothing like having an encounter with an attractive man where we both end up sweating and panting…”, his tone was full of irreverence, one that could easily have his head chopped off in a court. But in a swordfight? He was the kind of man that say such things.
Then the blows came, and Hesiodos blocked and parried them with ease; no matter where the blade came from, his twin swords caught it with sound of metal against metal, and the blade never came close to hitting him. Meanwhile, he was waiting for something… for him to make a mistake. Admittedly, it was like finding a black cat in a dark room, but he knew that it should appear…
Ahh, there it was. His longsword hit his left sword hard, which he parried, leaving his right side exposed. Like a springing snake, the blade shot forward; it cut through clothes and bit into flesh. Would he had more room, the whole sword would have stuck into him, but for now, drawing blood was more than enough…
After that, he made a graceful step back and allowed Achilleas to realize he had been cut. A thin edge of blood dripped down his right blade into the ground…
Achilleas was a soldier, and knew how to use the sword well. Hesiodos wouldn’t have been surprised if the man has been trained since childhood. He was hard to hit, and his blows struck like the wrath of the gods. But he made a mistake, one that everyone made: he underestimated him. After all, almost no one expected a smiling, drunk bard to be deadly with a sword in each hand. That mistake proved once lethal.
But now that the cat was out of the bag, he knew the man before him wouldn’t hold back… good. He was having a wonderful time clashing steel with the handsome man before him.
“Thank you!”, he made a flourish with his blades, taunting him, “I’m having a wonderful time! Nothing like having an encounter with an attractive man where we both end up sweating and panting…”, his tone was full of irreverence, one that could easily have his head chopped off in a court. But in a swordfight? He was the kind of man that say such things.
Then the blows came, and Hesiodos blocked and parried them with ease; no matter where the blade came from, his twin swords caught it with sound of metal against metal, and the blade never came close to hitting him. Meanwhile, he was waiting for something… for him to make a mistake. Admittedly, it was like finding a black cat in a dark room, but he knew that it should appear…
Ahh, there it was. His longsword hit his left sword hard, which he parried, leaving his right side exposed. Like a springing snake, the blade shot forward; it cut through clothes and bit into flesh. Would he had more room, the whole sword would have stuck into him, but for now, drawing blood was more than enough…
After that, he made a graceful step back and allowed Achilleas to realize he had been cut. A thin edge of blood dripped down his right blade into the ground…
Had he been in a different frame of mind, Achilleas might have found some appreciation for the skill of the man before him, might have been glad of the opportunity to test himself against someone who might provide even a small modicum of challenge. But alas, it was not to be.
Instead his stubborness had raised its head, and he just wanted to see Hesiodos humbled. It was a desire that only grew as the bard continued to taunt, and Achilleas set his jaw, wishing that it was only annoyance that Hesiodos stirred with his words.
He was distracted, all of a sudden concerned that somehow this insolent bard knew what he was doing, that the secret he had left buried with a man he thought he could trust had found its way it to the surface. That worry, enough to break through his carefully honed warrior’s focus was to cost to him, he would learn.
A moment of agitation, reactions slightly slowed by the alcohol that flowed through his veins, that was all it took. A stinging slice beneath his raised arm, tracing along the musculature that powered his own strikes, and Achilleas pulled back, increduality in the gaze that rested upon the bard who had somehow managed to draw first blood.
It was sobering.
It was not a deep wound and yet bloomed red to stain the white of his chiton as if to remind him of his folly in allowing such an offence against him, and somehow the sight of it grounded Achilleas, pulled him back to his purpose and reminded him of one of the very first things that had been taught to him by his master of sword.
Emotion has no place on the battlefield.
As he stared Hesiodos down, he realised he had been gifted a very timely reminder of such a lesson, he had had been diverted by his fear, the discomfort this frivolous man provoked in him and had given the man an easy triumph in doing so. That would not do Perhaps then, this breakthrough would be to Hesdiodos’ downfall. For in drawing first blood, he had successfully reawoken the discipline and precision that Achilleas had honed over years and years of dedicated practice. When he attacked this time it was relentless, measured, without misstep.
The swords clashed again and again, and Achilleas used his own sword to push the lighter blades up, twisted beneath his own arms and then pulled back to thrust, intent on returning the honour of spilling crimson in this match.
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Had he been in a different frame of mind, Achilleas might have found some appreciation for the skill of the man before him, might have been glad of the opportunity to test himself against someone who might provide even a small modicum of challenge. But alas, it was not to be.
Instead his stubborness had raised its head, and he just wanted to see Hesiodos humbled. It was a desire that only grew as the bard continued to taunt, and Achilleas set his jaw, wishing that it was only annoyance that Hesiodos stirred with his words.
He was distracted, all of a sudden concerned that somehow this insolent bard knew what he was doing, that the secret he had left buried with a man he thought he could trust had found its way it to the surface. That worry, enough to break through his carefully honed warrior’s focus was to cost to him, he would learn.
A moment of agitation, reactions slightly slowed by the alcohol that flowed through his veins, that was all it took. A stinging slice beneath his raised arm, tracing along the musculature that powered his own strikes, and Achilleas pulled back, increduality in the gaze that rested upon the bard who had somehow managed to draw first blood.
It was sobering.
It was not a deep wound and yet bloomed red to stain the white of his chiton as if to remind him of his folly in allowing such an offence against him, and somehow the sight of it grounded Achilleas, pulled him back to his purpose and reminded him of one of the very first things that had been taught to him by his master of sword.
Emotion has no place on the battlefield.
As he stared Hesiodos down, he realised he had been gifted a very timely reminder of such a lesson, he had had been diverted by his fear, the discomfort this frivolous man provoked in him and had given the man an easy triumph in doing so. That would not do Perhaps then, this breakthrough would be to Hesdiodos’ downfall. For in drawing first blood, he had successfully reawoken the discipline and precision that Achilleas had honed over years and years of dedicated practice. When he attacked this time it was relentless, measured, without misstep.
The swords clashed again and again, and Achilleas used his own sword to push the lighter blades up, twisted beneath his own arms and then pulled back to thrust, intent on returning the honour of spilling crimson in this match.
Had he been in a different frame of mind, Achilleas might have found some appreciation for the skill of the man before him, might have been glad of the opportunity to test himself against someone who might provide even a small modicum of challenge. But alas, it was not to be.
Instead his stubborness had raised its head, and he just wanted to see Hesiodos humbled. It was a desire that only grew as the bard continued to taunt, and Achilleas set his jaw, wishing that it was only annoyance that Hesiodos stirred with his words.
He was distracted, all of a sudden concerned that somehow this insolent bard knew what he was doing, that the secret he had left buried with a man he thought he could trust had found its way it to the surface. That worry, enough to break through his carefully honed warrior’s focus was to cost to him, he would learn.
A moment of agitation, reactions slightly slowed by the alcohol that flowed through his veins, that was all it took. A stinging slice beneath his raised arm, tracing along the musculature that powered his own strikes, and Achilleas pulled back, increduality in the gaze that rested upon the bard who had somehow managed to draw first blood.
It was sobering.
It was not a deep wound and yet bloomed red to stain the white of his chiton as if to remind him of his folly in allowing such an offence against him, and somehow the sight of it grounded Achilleas, pulled him back to his purpose and reminded him of one of the very first things that had been taught to him by his master of sword.
Emotion has no place on the battlefield.
As he stared Hesiodos down, he realised he had been gifted a very timely reminder of such a lesson, he had had been diverted by his fear, the discomfort this frivolous man provoked in him and had given the man an easy triumph in doing so. That would not do Perhaps then, this breakthrough would be to Hesdiodos’ downfall. For in drawing first blood, he had successfully reawoken the discipline and precision that Achilleas had honed over years and years of dedicated practice. When he attacked this time it was relentless, measured, without misstep.
The swords clashed again and again, and Achilleas used his own sword to push the lighter blades up, twisted beneath his own arms and then pulled back to thrust, intent on returning the honour of spilling crimson in this match.
Achilleas blood dripped stained his white clothes, and Hesiodos congratulated himself; not only for being able to hit him, but because of the fact that he made a point of often wearing red clothes. That way, no one could see him bleed… that, and washing blood and wine off white clothes was an absolute nightmare.
His opponent seemed shook about being struck, but only for a moment, because after that he proceeded to attack him. These attacks where different, though – they had not a trace of wine in them, they were precise, brutal, and perhaps most worrying of all, Hesiodos didn’t see him commit any mistakes as he blocked deftly.
The bard of Phossis had to exert his muscles this time… what came over this man? Oh, perhaps he was woken up by the cut he inflicted. This man was fighting with the seemingly purpose of making him suffer, or to prove a point…
Hesiodos gasped when his blades were twisted, and when the blade came going after him, straight to his chest. Instinctively, he stepped aside, just barely avoiding the blade, which painted a long, vertical gash on his chest… blood came out and got lost into the wine red of his modified chlamys. But he thanked the gods nonetheless; that blow was strong enough to have pierced through him and killed him.
He took a moment to register the pain, dulled from the wine he drank. Another scar, he thought, nice. Then he looked at Achilleas and said, “Let’s dance, you son of a bitch!”, and stepped towards him.
Up until that point, his style has been defensive, exploiting weaknesses; now, he was being offensive, trying to wear him down as much as he could, and giving him no breathing room as he slashed with his twin blades. He blocked easily, of course, but he knew it would be a matter of time before he faltered…
Their blades ended up clashing, and Hesiodos pushed forward, up until he was face to face with Achilleas – he could feel the warmth of his breath from where he was. Looking at him with fiery green-grey eyes, he realized the best way to throw him off…
At this distance, they were close enough to kiss… so he did just that. His lips meets the warrior’s in a passionate, long kiss which the bard enjoyed perhaps too much. And for a moment, he forgot about the fight…
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Achilleas blood dripped stained his white clothes, and Hesiodos congratulated himself; not only for being able to hit him, but because of the fact that he made a point of often wearing red clothes. That way, no one could see him bleed… that, and washing blood and wine off white clothes was an absolute nightmare.
His opponent seemed shook about being struck, but only for a moment, because after that he proceeded to attack him. These attacks where different, though – they had not a trace of wine in them, they were precise, brutal, and perhaps most worrying of all, Hesiodos didn’t see him commit any mistakes as he blocked deftly.
The bard of Phossis had to exert his muscles this time… what came over this man? Oh, perhaps he was woken up by the cut he inflicted. This man was fighting with the seemingly purpose of making him suffer, or to prove a point…
Hesiodos gasped when his blades were twisted, and when the blade came going after him, straight to his chest. Instinctively, he stepped aside, just barely avoiding the blade, which painted a long, vertical gash on his chest… blood came out and got lost into the wine red of his modified chlamys. But he thanked the gods nonetheless; that blow was strong enough to have pierced through him and killed him.
He took a moment to register the pain, dulled from the wine he drank. Another scar, he thought, nice. Then he looked at Achilleas and said, “Let’s dance, you son of a bitch!”, and stepped towards him.
Up until that point, his style has been defensive, exploiting weaknesses; now, he was being offensive, trying to wear him down as much as he could, and giving him no breathing room as he slashed with his twin blades. He blocked easily, of course, but he knew it would be a matter of time before he faltered…
Their blades ended up clashing, and Hesiodos pushed forward, up until he was face to face with Achilleas – he could feel the warmth of his breath from where he was. Looking at him with fiery green-grey eyes, he realized the best way to throw him off…
At this distance, they were close enough to kiss… so he did just that. His lips meets the warrior’s in a passionate, long kiss which the bard enjoyed perhaps too much. And for a moment, he forgot about the fight…
Achilleas blood dripped stained his white clothes, and Hesiodos congratulated himself; not only for being able to hit him, but because of the fact that he made a point of often wearing red clothes. That way, no one could see him bleed… that, and washing blood and wine off white clothes was an absolute nightmare.
His opponent seemed shook about being struck, but only for a moment, because after that he proceeded to attack him. These attacks where different, though – they had not a trace of wine in them, they were precise, brutal, and perhaps most worrying of all, Hesiodos didn’t see him commit any mistakes as he blocked deftly.
The bard of Phossis had to exert his muscles this time… what came over this man? Oh, perhaps he was woken up by the cut he inflicted. This man was fighting with the seemingly purpose of making him suffer, or to prove a point…
Hesiodos gasped when his blades were twisted, and when the blade came going after him, straight to his chest. Instinctively, he stepped aside, just barely avoiding the blade, which painted a long, vertical gash on his chest… blood came out and got lost into the wine red of his modified chlamys. But he thanked the gods nonetheless; that blow was strong enough to have pierced through him and killed him.
He took a moment to register the pain, dulled from the wine he drank. Another scar, he thought, nice. Then he looked at Achilleas and said, “Let’s dance, you son of a bitch!”, and stepped towards him.
Up until that point, his style has been defensive, exploiting weaknesses; now, he was being offensive, trying to wear him down as much as he could, and giving him no breathing room as he slashed with his twin blades. He blocked easily, of course, but he knew it would be a matter of time before he faltered…
Their blades ended up clashing, and Hesiodos pushed forward, up until he was face to face with Achilleas – he could feel the warmth of his breath from where he was. Looking at him with fiery green-grey eyes, he realized the best way to throw him off…
At this distance, they were close enough to kiss… so he did just that. His lips meets the warrior’s in a passionate, long kiss which the bard enjoyed perhaps too much. And for a moment, he forgot about the fight…
Dimly aware of the tacky wetness of blood, Achilleas did not let it distract him from his task. He had born worse, and now he was resolved to return the gift in kind to the man responsible. He could commend the man on his ability to stave off the flurry of blows that was launched at him, some sort of grudging respect for his skill if not for his stubbornness in being taught the lesson he sorely deserved.
But the Lord Mikaelidas did not relent, and eventually, broke through the man’s guard, the blade of the longsword catching the bard across the chest even as he stepped aside, preventing any more serious injury. Achilleas had paused then, blinking as he realised that had the man not been so light on his feet, it would have been more than a surface wound inflicted, beyond what he had intended. His instincts as a fighter were honed in battle, and pulling back so as not to cause serious harm was not part of that. He took a steadying breath, prepared to call it over and to rejoin his brother and cousins within.
Until that was, Hesiodos opened his mouth once again.
The Lord’s eyes widened in disbelief at the bard’s persistence, the man seem determined to receive the hiding that Achilleas had been willing to spare him, and he shook his head, raising the longsword again as Hesiodos stepped in. “If you are so insistent on your defeat” he hissed, the words almost lost amongst the ringing of metal as he deflected the bard’s blades once more.
Then his concentration was drawn by the smaller man’s renewed efforts, and there was little room for thought, just reaction. The sun caught upon the edge of a blade and flashed and the twin blades came almost too close as the warrior was momentarily dazzled, but he recovered soon enough to spin out of range before the two came together again, neither willing to give ground so blade scraped against blade. It became a battle of strength then, and this was one Achilleas though he could win easily, there was almost a flash of victory in the gaze that fixed upon the Hesiodos, close now in his attempt to press the Lord backwards.
It happened before he could react, the bard leading forward, pressing his mouth against Achilleas’ own in a move that had the noble freeze. For the briefest of moments, the length of a heartbeat, before his thoughts had caught up with the reality, Achilleas’ lips had parted as if he might kiss back. But then in a rush, he realised what was happening, and any stirrings of a desire were replaced by a white hot fury.
Jerking back, the Lord spat upon the ground, glared at Hesiodos over the swords still crossed between them.He was too angry to speak, though there were a torrent of vile words he might have hurled at the man. For a second he just stared, apoplectic, and then because he was afraid of what he might do if he turned back to the blade in his hand, he arched his neck back and headbutted the bard full in the face.
“Gods..Fuck”Achilleas broke away, sword hanging from his left hand as his right came up to rub at his brow. Hesiodos had a hard face. His vision swam for a moment, but he had not come off worse it would seem, the other man having crumpled to the floor like a puppet with his strings cut. Out cold. The Lord Mikaelidas looked down upon him, and barely resisted the urge to aim a kick at the fallen, yet still breathing -more the pity- body. Head pounding, he stepped carelessly over the bard and went inside. Stephanos could come to take care of his friend, he needed to take a look at whatever injury the man’s blade had carved into his side.
After that, with the memory of the man’s lips upon his still fresh in his mind. Achilleas thought he would not need to be persuaded to have a drink.
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Dimly aware of the tacky wetness of blood, Achilleas did not let it distract him from his task. He had born worse, and now he was resolved to return the gift in kind to the man responsible. He could commend the man on his ability to stave off the flurry of blows that was launched at him, some sort of grudging respect for his skill if not for his stubbornness in being taught the lesson he sorely deserved.
But the Lord Mikaelidas did not relent, and eventually, broke through the man’s guard, the blade of the longsword catching the bard across the chest even as he stepped aside, preventing any more serious injury. Achilleas had paused then, blinking as he realised that had the man not been so light on his feet, it would have been more than a surface wound inflicted, beyond what he had intended. His instincts as a fighter were honed in battle, and pulling back so as not to cause serious harm was not part of that. He took a steadying breath, prepared to call it over and to rejoin his brother and cousins within.
Until that was, Hesiodos opened his mouth once again.
The Lord’s eyes widened in disbelief at the bard’s persistence, the man seem determined to receive the hiding that Achilleas had been willing to spare him, and he shook his head, raising the longsword again as Hesiodos stepped in. “If you are so insistent on your defeat” he hissed, the words almost lost amongst the ringing of metal as he deflected the bard’s blades once more.
Then his concentration was drawn by the smaller man’s renewed efforts, and there was little room for thought, just reaction. The sun caught upon the edge of a blade and flashed and the twin blades came almost too close as the warrior was momentarily dazzled, but he recovered soon enough to spin out of range before the two came together again, neither willing to give ground so blade scraped against blade. It became a battle of strength then, and this was one Achilleas though he could win easily, there was almost a flash of victory in the gaze that fixed upon the Hesiodos, close now in his attempt to press the Lord backwards.
It happened before he could react, the bard leading forward, pressing his mouth against Achilleas’ own in a move that had the noble freeze. For the briefest of moments, the length of a heartbeat, before his thoughts had caught up with the reality, Achilleas’ lips had parted as if he might kiss back. But then in a rush, he realised what was happening, and any stirrings of a desire were replaced by a white hot fury.
Jerking back, the Lord spat upon the ground, glared at Hesiodos over the swords still crossed between them.He was too angry to speak, though there were a torrent of vile words he might have hurled at the man. For a second he just stared, apoplectic, and then because he was afraid of what he might do if he turned back to the blade in his hand, he arched his neck back and headbutted the bard full in the face.
“Gods..Fuck”Achilleas broke away, sword hanging from his left hand as his right came up to rub at his brow. Hesiodos had a hard face. His vision swam for a moment, but he had not come off worse it would seem, the other man having crumpled to the floor like a puppet with his strings cut. Out cold. The Lord Mikaelidas looked down upon him, and barely resisted the urge to aim a kick at the fallen, yet still breathing -more the pity- body. Head pounding, he stepped carelessly over the bard and went inside. Stephanos could come to take care of his friend, he needed to take a look at whatever injury the man’s blade had carved into his side.
After that, with the memory of the man’s lips upon his still fresh in his mind. Achilleas thought he would not need to be persuaded to have a drink.
Dimly aware of the tacky wetness of blood, Achilleas did not let it distract him from his task. He had born worse, and now he was resolved to return the gift in kind to the man responsible. He could commend the man on his ability to stave off the flurry of blows that was launched at him, some sort of grudging respect for his skill if not for his stubbornness in being taught the lesson he sorely deserved.
But the Lord Mikaelidas did not relent, and eventually, broke through the man’s guard, the blade of the longsword catching the bard across the chest even as he stepped aside, preventing any more serious injury. Achilleas had paused then, blinking as he realised that had the man not been so light on his feet, it would have been more than a surface wound inflicted, beyond what he had intended. His instincts as a fighter were honed in battle, and pulling back so as not to cause serious harm was not part of that. He took a steadying breath, prepared to call it over and to rejoin his brother and cousins within.
Until that was, Hesiodos opened his mouth once again.
The Lord’s eyes widened in disbelief at the bard’s persistence, the man seem determined to receive the hiding that Achilleas had been willing to spare him, and he shook his head, raising the longsword again as Hesiodos stepped in. “If you are so insistent on your defeat” he hissed, the words almost lost amongst the ringing of metal as he deflected the bard’s blades once more.
Then his concentration was drawn by the smaller man’s renewed efforts, and there was little room for thought, just reaction. The sun caught upon the edge of a blade and flashed and the twin blades came almost too close as the warrior was momentarily dazzled, but he recovered soon enough to spin out of range before the two came together again, neither willing to give ground so blade scraped against blade. It became a battle of strength then, and this was one Achilleas though he could win easily, there was almost a flash of victory in the gaze that fixed upon the Hesiodos, close now in his attempt to press the Lord backwards.
It happened before he could react, the bard leading forward, pressing his mouth against Achilleas’ own in a move that had the noble freeze. For the briefest of moments, the length of a heartbeat, before his thoughts had caught up with the reality, Achilleas’ lips had parted as if he might kiss back. But then in a rush, he realised what was happening, and any stirrings of a desire were replaced by a white hot fury.
Jerking back, the Lord spat upon the ground, glared at Hesiodos over the swords still crossed between them.He was too angry to speak, though there were a torrent of vile words he might have hurled at the man. For a second he just stared, apoplectic, and then because he was afraid of what he might do if he turned back to the blade in his hand, he arched his neck back and headbutted the bard full in the face.
“Gods..Fuck”Achilleas broke away, sword hanging from his left hand as his right came up to rub at his brow. Hesiodos had a hard face. His vision swam for a moment, but he had not come off worse it would seem, the other man having crumpled to the floor like a puppet with his strings cut. Out cold. The Lord Mikaelidas looked down upon him, and barely resisted the urge to aim a kick at the fallen, yet still breathing -more the pity- body. Head pounding, he stepped carelessly over the bard and went inside. Stephanos could come to take care of his friend, he needed to take a look at whatever injury the man’s blade had carved into his side.
After that, with the memory of the man’s lips upon his still fresh in his mind. Achilleas thought he would not need to be persuaded to have a drink.
