Favian sighed. This wasn't a man he knew well, though he was sure that he'd heard the name of Sir Aslain before. Some knight who'd gone off to war and come through it not just alive but [i]stronger[/i], forged into a beast who could strike men down like a reaper culling wheat. The stories might exaggerate, perhaps, but his choice of that poleaxe as a weapon belied a ruthless and practical mind, and Favian took him at his word when he said there would be no quarter.

[i]Men like us are beneath God's sight, Sir Aslain.[/i] But he kept that part quiet, and spoke only out of obligation. "I could ask for nothing more. I only hope my sword can offer ample challenge." 

This kind of fight suited him well enough, he supposed. It was simpler this way. An icy calm was settling over him, the sounds of the crowd fading away into a dull murmur in the distance, and as the marshal called for the match to start he was already shifting from man to warrior, leaving all pretense of mercy and empathy behind.

He advanced, and brought his sword-point up as he moved, settling into a fighting stance. As he stepped within fifteen feet of his opponent, he was in a steady middle guard with his right leg leading, sword held to the left of his body at a shallow upward angle. The pommel rested just below hip level, and the point was aimed roughly at the middle of Sir Aslain's chest, following the other knight's movements with a careful accuracy.

Keeping his eyes on his opponent, and adjusting his own steps as needed to control the distance between them, Favian continued his advance, slowing down slightly at twelve feet and finally pausing about eight feet away from Aslain, watching and waiting for one or two seconds without closing further. Would that fearsome griffon take the initiative, and strike him first? Or would it fall to Favian to make the opening move...?