(Holden d’Alnharte, Fort Paline, Praelium)

With an exaggerated bow, Holden then stepped to his end of the circle, and brandished his blade; during which the leather guard slid off. His hips sank, and his cordial demeanor melted off. With each breath, a dozen thoughts came and went through his mind. The grip on his blade tightened as his arms  grew limber. His heartbeat remained steady as he began to circle Jameson.

[color=f26522]“Where I come from,”[/color] Holden began, [color=f26522]“we sparred until our officer pulled us apart. There’s a scar across the palm of my hand, where I pushed my partner’s blade to her own throat.”[/color] The wind tugged at his cloak, threatening to steal it. While he waited for the Sergeant to make the first move, his mind let go of the current situations weighing him down. He was not a criminal, nor a refugee; he was a warrior, dancing an aeons-old duet with steel and vigor.

Then, without warning he lunged into his strike. Aiming low, he brought his blade into the motion of an uppercut, but carved through the ground itself; flicking up dust before he brought the flat [i]Yusil[/i]'s steel towards the Sergeant's gut. While he was not aiming to kill, he certainly was not going to be gentle about it.