---

The Prince of Hahral stood at the center of attention, which at least lasted for as long as his demonstration of his skills lasted until the next would come and show him up. It was a disgusting way to treat these trials but it was something that Zyran had to make peace with. For however long he remained the focal point of those around him, he would bask in the glory that was watching him show everyone what a true archer looked like.

And it was a beautiful thing to witness. He knew it. They knew it. Everyone in the entire world knew it. The way that he held his bow, tight yet gentle, as was the way he was taught, Zyran took that position, dead center, in front of the practice dummy. It was a hideously-made figure. Doubtless a showing of Atutania itself, the prince thought. The mana flowed through him. It felt warm and assuring at first, like the feeling he got whenever he ordered a slave around, but then it shifted. Crackled. The energy took shape as the Hahralian pulled at an arrow from his quiver. It was properly made from the finest material with the heads from a high quality iron. This would be impressive had he just taken the shot as he would've, but he wouldn't be who he was if he didn't add a certain kind of flare.

So mana was applied. And with it came the element of lightning. As gold as the jewelry he wore, it snapped and crackled and popped with the electric energy that Zyran embodied perfectly. It only lasted for a split second because that's all was needed.

Four arrows were fired. Four speeding bursts of electricity shot after another dead center into the practice dummy, splitting each other until the fourth. Zyran could have done it all day. This was just like breathing to him. The most natural thing ever. Even if the year of training hadn't granted him much in the way of abilties, he could do that with his eyes closed.

But even the fun for a prince — and the attention that came with it — came to an end as others took their turn. One person created a dust cloud reminincant of those one might find in the dessert of his homeland from a mighty swing. Zyran was actually impressed. No trace of fear crawled up his spine from it...well only for the small amount that literally made him worried about making that person angry. No, he was merely impressed by the show of strength. There was a redhead who had impressive footwork and swordplay, but the concentration needed some work.

And then there was the elf. Zyran half-wondered if they felt shame that they didn't use a bow and arrow? Were they a disappointment to their people? Everything about the elves that Zyran had heard from stories told him about their skills as an archer. Part of him even wanted to see it in action, to see exactly what one of the few who could call themselves a "true archer" might look like. Alas, he found himself in a constant state of disappointment. Impressive as it was, it wasn't enough to hold his attention.

What did and what he had completely overlooked for a brief moment was the wannabe archer with the false bow, otherwise known as a crossbow, had. Zyran was observant enough to see that and he smiled in only the superior way someone like him would. "Certainly!" He obliged stepping closer. "What I have—" The Prince lifted up his golden bow, the craftsmanship undeniable."—This is genuine Hahralian excellence. Much like me, it was made from only the highest of materials. My arrows are also made with the best materials. But more importantly...well just look at you. And then look at me!" With arms spread out, Zyran actually gave her a moment to actually bask in his glory. "I am what a true archer looks like. And you saw, didn't you? You saw that I am clearly the best archer to exist in the entirety of ever!" Zyran smirked and finally gestured to her crossbow. "Besides, do you really think your little crossbow actually compares to what I have?" Of course she can't because there wasn't any comparison. Only fools and idiots would compare, let alone think crossbows were superior.

But it was the weapon of the peasant, so maybe this one did think so. Pity.

---

It took a while for her to find an opportunity. She perused the dummies, the applicants, searching for people who were neither the most skilled nor the least, but rather those with something…else. Less discernable. She wanted to avoid people who were clearly favored for spots regardless of their performance, of which there were a few—herself, shamedly, not excluded—but neither did she want to propel someone who wasn’t ready for knighthood into a life of danger. It wasn’t an easy life, not everyone could do it. And even of those who could, many still shouldn’t.

Eventually she meandered to the lesser populated dummies, where those of lower stock or from houses of little consequence batted at the dummies like cats at a post. Under the disappointed gaze of the instructors, most gradually dispersed. Only a few remained, and those, Ionna determined, were the kind of aspirant she was looking for. Unnoticed, unlauded, and undeterred. As deserving of a chance as anyone else in the courtyard. All she had to now was wait, and not for long, either.

There were distractions aplenty at the other dummies, be they for melee or archery. A thunderous crash, a small clamor as a particularly brawny aspirant obliterated his dummy and gave her the chance she needed. While attentions turned to the hammer-wielding lad, bless him, Ionna scurried over to the furthest dummy and drew her sword. A quick glance around to ensure there were no eyes upon her, and then…

It’s fine, she told herself. Just one swing. You can handle one swing.

Ionna tensed, felt a charge well in her chest, skitter across her skin and onto the blade. Inhale, and—

A thin crack, a keening electric squeal, and a click as her sword slapped back into its sheath, all in the span of a blink. Exhale. The dummy still stood, the seam of her cut too thin to see without looking for it.

See? Nothing happened.

She jogged away as people began returning to their posts, but indulged herself a glance back in time to see one of the peasants square up to the dummy under the skeptical eyes of an instructor. He clutched a simple but well-kept sword in both hands, reeled back, and swung, perhaps hoping to chip the wood or carve a chunk off the body. When instead the whole dummy split in half, both the peasant and the instructor shared a look of surprise. The former inspected his sword like it was some ancient, blessed relic, the latter walked away much more impressed than he must have expected to. Ionna grinned.

She was rewarded with a lovely display at the more populated areas. A red-haired girl made quick but expert work of one of the dummies with a sword in each hand. She didn’t catch as much of the swordplay as she would have liked, but what she saw was brutal, efficient, and utterly lovely. The style was unique, but the heart of it was familiar: wartime swordsmanship, the sort found in military families. On a proper battlefield, the girl would be quite a terror.

When she was done, Ionna half expected her to salute the crowd and march away. Instead, she hopped down with the bounce and pep of a girl attending her first dance, and made a quick line directly for her.

“Ooh! Are those Hahral date-sugar candies? I've never had one, can I try?”

Ionna blinked, looked down at the bag in her hand, then smiled right back at her. “After a show like that? Help yourself!” she said, and tossed the bag to her. “That was great! You really know what you’re doing, guess you’ve got nothin’ to worry about, huh?”

Then she saw the sheaths, and the crests, and after a quick sifting through her memories of the Itenaian houses, everything suddenly made sense.

“Ooh! Ariesca! No wonder—you guys really don’t mess around with this stuff. That’s awesome, I love seeing people dual-wield. Are the swords weighted differently? Are you good with both hands? Oh! Oh! Can you show me—can you do that part again, with the—where you like, you stabbed, and you blocked, but then you swapped and I don’t know how you—it was like…”

And she tried to mime a small section of Lina’s display, gripping imaginary swords, pointing one hand forward and angling the other as if to deflect an invisible blow from the side. Ionna wished she had the mind for two swords, but her attentions were gobbled up by just the one—and her magic. Still, that didn’t stop her from wanting to learn. She’d figured that out early on into her apprenticeship; there was always someone who knew something you didn’t, and it never, ever hurt to learn.

K A Z R A N
K A Z R A N

---

"I believe we're alike. Two peas in a pod, as old Dorcas used to say. Two strangers, both adventuring in the unknown."

Alike?

Kaz looked down at the gleaming armor wrapped around his chest and suddenly felt its weight. He knew the instrument Annifer bore well. Part of him wished to reach for it, yearning for salt and citrus to soak the tines. He had made a few pitchforks early on as an apprentice, and had used one well before then when working in stables for scraps. It had been years since he struggled as he did then. And it felt clear, then, as Kaz's eyes drifted up to the wild displays in front of him, just how alike they were in all but one way.

She was stronger than he was.

“Are we over our heads? Maybe, but perhaps that is what makes this all worth it."

He knew, for certain, that this struggle had be worth it. His cause was noble and pure, at least that is what he told himself. His love’s locket felt warm pressed against his breast. This Annifer seemed impressed by his display, and the looks from others around certainly meant that he was noticed if not seen. That attention was fickle and fleeting.

Kazran was distracted from Annifer’s request for a name by a torrent of red hair and sharp steel that cut into one of the practice dummies. A remarkably toned archer loosed a bolt of lightning from their bow. He even caught the briefest glimpse of another flash of electricity from someone he barely caught a glimpse of. Of course, this all paled in comparison to the display from a particularly sharp-eared individual. While others had displayed an affinity and control over magic that Kazran could not yet visualize for himself, this elven stranger was an entirely different beast altogether. Her sword seemed to blaze with an entire world foreign to the blacksmith’s apprentice. His mind raced with questions about the nature of the weapon, before a creeping despair grasped his throat.

He did not belong here, and he was a fool to dream of standing alongside folks like these. Annifer was right, for he was truly braving the unknown. Kazran turned his gaze to the stranger. Her calm demeanor was less a comfort, and more a challenge to his own composure. He could not fathom her nonchalance, as his own gaping jaw attested. This hospitable stranger seemed to regard it all with some level of normalcy, for a moment at least. And then came the urgency.

"I have some matters to attend to, but I look forward to meeting you again. Perhaps later you could teach me that move from before. What say you?"

"I pray to see you on the morrow, as contenders. I fear my move may be incompatible with a fork… but I would be happy to clean off the rust!”

His words rang with a strange bravado that betrayed his own anxieties, or perhaps were instead just a reflection of her well-wishes. His final offer was met with a few strange looks from passers-by. As Kazran stood alone once again, he felt his heart race in his chest. He had to prove he belonged here, through whatever means necessary. He prayed the Wardens had need of a resident Blacksmith, if nothing else. His thoughts thrummed at the same speed as the beating in his breast. He replayed his display and the conversation, before a dawning horror left him frustrated.

^{"Fut, Kazran, you never shared your name.”}

She almost missed it.

Bootlaces tied, Sarnai had twisted her body to start adjusting the belts around her waist, making sure all her pouches and bags were where they ought to have been, when all the hairs on her neck stood up on their ends. The smell struck her first, the air burning, transforming, as a golden resplendence scarred the atmosphere. She swung her head up, dark eyes squinting towards that radiance. She had seen lightning during the flood months, slicing across the sky, bolts of blue that left only an impression in her gaze as it faded away into green. But this lightning, tamed by the will of a princeling, was held with just as much surety as his arrow between his fingers. An impossible color, held for a half second that extended into an eternity.

An entirety that then was reduced to an instant.

Lightning struck four times with unerring accuracy and control, each arrow splitting its predecessor until the shattered shafts resembled a blooming flower, still crackling with warm sparks. There was no doubt in her mind, indeed, that he could have pierced through four different targets instead, such was the power he commanded, and yet, the restraint indicated a discipline beneath his well-deserved pride. An archer who could not only slay evil, but also simply stun and disable petty miscreants.

Sarnai swallowed. It felt easier to accept now, in a way. It wasn't about hard work after all. Wasn't about the years wasted, the opportunities lost from her meandering and hesitation. There was simply the immeasurable gap of talent and wealth, scarred into her gaze like vestigial lightning. Against such towering capacity for mercy and destruction, it was almost like...

...she got closer to those 'regular, capable prospects', simply from the new heights that had been demonstrated here.

Her heartbeat slowed. She finished securing her belts. She rolled up her sleeves. Loosened her corset. Stood up, patting the hesitation out of her dress. She turned towards her superior kinsman, gaze pointed downwards slightly in respect to his higher station, both as a warrior and as a person.

"Though I can't say you're the best ever, you certainly are doubtlessly the best amongst those taking the trial," Sarnai spoke. "Thank you kindly for your display of skill. There's no doubt of the quality of your bow, and only fools would think that a crossbow in the hands of a commoner would surpass a masterwork of a bow in the arms of an archer."

She set her crossbow to the ground, her boot sliding into the stirrup. Seizing the string with both hands, Sarnai drew in a breath, then let it out as she pulled up, her back muscles extending beneath her blouse. The bow bent, the string set.

"But this is what I can afford and what I have used my whole life. So I do beg your pardon."

T O M A & A S H R A F
T O M A & A S H R A F

Collab with @Eisenhorn

Mentioned: Ynga @Asura

---

Toma was going through the motions of the drills he was trained on, every evening, during the escorted trip when someone finally seemed willing to take him up on his open offer, though one could be forgiven for calling it a challenge, which brought the young man to a pause. A calculating once over, and no doubt his soon to be sparring opponent would get the feeling of being not just sized up, but analyzed. Not only shorter than him, but shorter than many men around their age, but the only thing that meant was a difference in reach. Loose fitting attire, ideal for warmer climates, and practically radiating confidence, likely well trained with his weapon of choice at the least. A spear, compensating for any innate difference in reach, and deceptively fast, something he had drilled into his head, but he wore a confident, though much more reserved, smirk as he squared off with the fellow seeking to become an initiate.

”I was going to be immensely disappointed if no one felt confident enough to join me in the ring.”

The minor noble, in comparison to Ashraf, was incredibly overdressed for anything approaching a warm climate. It was safe to say that even in a mild place like this, one might suspect his clothing would restrict his movement, though enough drills and training had proven otherwise to Toma himself. He fixed his sparring partner with a calculated, guarded look, gleaming cyan eyes continuing to take his measure in every way that could matter. He was about to offer to begin when they were interrupted, causing him to glance at the newcomer with an expression that was a mix of confusion and, more significantly, agitation that was quickly replaced with a briefly baffled one. Did she... genuinely question not only the smaller man’s appearance down to the skin but behave as if it was completely natural? All the years of training and instruction on the political maneuvering back home had not prepared him for this in the slightest, and he gave the man a glance before speaking up.

”...I must say I would not know how to even begin to respond to that.”

To be fair, Ashraf was nearly at a loss himself. When the girl had first approached with starry eyes and open curiosity, he had assumed she was interested in watching a spar. She was small, about the same age as the twins if he were to guess. On the younger side of warden initiates, with a sword on her hip and an intonation to her speech that Ashraf had never heard before. It was easy to think she wanted a look at how other, older, initiate hopefuls fought, especially if she'd never seen fighting styles outside of wherever she was from... but that didn't quite seem to be the case. Like many girls her age, aesthetics appeared to catch her eye instead.

His skin- was there something strange about it? It had yet to develop sun spots under the desert's harsh daylight, and likely wouldn't for many more years. He also didn't have any noticeable scars; all of the cuts he'd suffered in the past were either small or covered up, and burns were never bad enough to leave permanent marks even when he was a novice.

Pretty- ah, yes. He'd been called that before, especially when he was young. Some combination of the mole high on his cheek, citrine eyes and sapphire hair he imagined, which stood out against his warm brown skin. Skin that his younger sisters liked to test topical ointments on, which made his face clear and smooth. Ashraf could certainly forgive the girl for calling him pretty, though he would have much preferred 'handsome,' or at the very least 'beautiful.'

And then she finished speaking.

"Did what hurt?" Ashraf asked with some exasperation. His bright eyes narrowed at the girl, flicking from her head to her boots and back again. What sort of backwater region of the world was she from that she'd never seen someone with dark skin before? Among this year's initiates there were certainly many more light skinned people, but the populace of the other realms of the world outside of Hahral, including up north in the more central Atutania and Itenaire, were not uniformly pale - just as the peoples of the desert were not all bronze and brown. Even Ashraf, who had only left Hahral once before in his life, knew this.

He then held his free hand up, palm open and facing the newcomer. "Never mind, do not answer. I have something more important to attend to."

And if the girl did happen to stay and watch, he would deal with her afterward.

Ashraf turned to face the other man in the ring once more. He drew in a breath through his nose and then refocused. Just earlier he had felt the noble's assessing gaze, pleased that he was being taken seriously even for a practice match. Hopefully the distraction wouldn't change things. As for Ashraf, he would better learn what his opponent was made of by engaging him, rather than trying to suss it out from staring alone.

"When you're ready."

Toma could hear the exasperation in his opponent's voice as he questioned the girl in what she meant about something hurting before second guessing and asking her not to explain, not now. All for the better, as far as the minor noble was concerned, he hadn't come here to gawk at social faux paus between people from vastly different regions. If he wanted to gawk at high society he would have stayed at home and been an ever so loyal second fiddle to the family lineage, no he was here to show his worth and earn his place. As a gesture of good will he allowed his sparring partner to regather himself, and then he was given the duty of carrying out the first blow. A shame that, Toma considered, he would have preferred his foe take up the offensive so he could begin to gather some further idea of the details of his method of a spear. No shield meant he probably was far more aggressive than a rank and file man-at-arms, but there was only one way to confirm that.

"Very well, let us begin."

Toma dropped into a low, neutral stance as he lunged forward, a right to left swing aimed not for his opponent, but for his weapon in particular. Spears had reach, so naturally his ideal would be to get in as close as he could and not allow the distance to open up, and a safe way to open up the advance was to strike the weapon aside. He kept his off hand close in, ready to brace his mace should the need arise, whether on the defense or offense as the situation dictated. His movement was pragmatism manifest, his teacher having thoroughly drilled and beaten any showmanship or needless tricking out of his initial thinking. To an attentive opponent he betrayed his training had not come from a duelist or noble, something that could possibly be taken advantage of.

Fortunately for Toma, his impromptu sparring partner was not the type of man who could easily distinguish such things. Unfortunately, his previous experience in the grueling trials that awaited them had given him a sharper eye and a willingness to rely on more than just his weapon in combat.

An opponent with a low stance was just perfect to catch with a kick. Ashraf stepped forward to meet Toma with his left (proving his thought that the Hahral native was the more aggressive type), and with his right flung his leg out in an attempt to send the minor noble to the ground. His spear he swept in the same direction as Toma's mace, passing it from one hand to the other to avoid having it knocked from his grip. Then, with a flick at his elbow, lashed it back overhead at Toma himself, using it more like a staff rather than trying to strike with the piercing spearhead.

Toma's mind raced ahead of the trading of blows, quick to analyze while reacting to what was coming. Fast, aggressive, and showed a level of experience and familiarity that said more than enough as far as the minor noble was concerned. He was to be outclassed in a fair fight, if he had the measure of the Hahral native correct. The kick threw out his right leg, fortunately (and it was only luck he suspected) he was already shifting his weight to the left so he kept from being thrown to the ground fully. It robbed him of his ability to follow up on the offensive, and the overhead forced him to come from left to right with his mace, intercepting the downward strike with a blow to throw it off course as he kept his forward momentum going, springing upwards into the defensive strike, recognizing the low stance was more a hazard than a boon at the moment.

More importantly, he could use the natural momentum of both swing and kicked out leg to throw a left hook for his partner's side, aiming to knock the wind out of him with a body blow, or at least throw off the offensive footing to give him an opening. He didn't look like he was wearing much armor, so if he was lucky it would buy him a moment to reset his stance and approach fresh. If not, he would have to keep improvising.

As milliseconds passed, it was looking to be the latter scenario. A break away and chance to regroup would surely have been beneficial to the dark skinned man as much as it would have been for Toma - but instead of stepping back or blocking Ashraf swiftly pressed in even closer, and the body strike became only a glancing blow caught in his ribs; painful, but not debilitating.

"Interesting!" Ashraf said through a grin. He felt fortunate that this noble wasn't the foppish, cowardly kind, despite how he may have looked at first. His opponent had the look of a highborn man, what with the stuffy tailored clothes. Even the ribbon that tied his hair back looked like quality fabric. And yet, he wielded a brutish mace and even struck out with his bare fist! And Ashraf could already tell that he was smart, too. This was going to be a proper match, one that would give Ashraf the chance to really see where he stood among his peers.

But where he physically stood was nearly chest to chest with Toma, intending to show the other man -and any onlookers- that even with a longer weapon, he would not be outdone in close combat. So close it would be an awkward angle for either of them to attack from, but if the nobleman retreated as Ashraf assumed he would, then he would be met with the shaft of a spear at his ankles that threatened to send him stumbling.

"Took the words out of my mouth..."

Toma was not nearly as loud as the skilled opponent who, rather than create space, only pressed in closer. He felt the fist glance off the ribs, which stung more than he would admit, and did less than he would have hoped. Clever, and left little room to properly strike with weapons. Another, more seasoned soldier might have resorted to grappling, but Toma was far from being able to claim as such. Instead a brisk upwards knee was aimed to create space between them, pushing himself backwards while trying to buy himself time to reset his position and stance, expecting another shift to blunt the worst of the strike. Close in grappling was a skill he had not been drilled on, and his instinct was to create a short gap between them. Unfortunately the haft swing would not be visible from his position, and he gritted his teeth from the shock of the strike taking his left ankle clean out from underneath him. The good news was the knee strike had brought his right leg out of the swing's path, meaning he could catch himself and not go down fully, but he would waste precious moments recovering.

Toma gritted his teeth, and exaggerated the stumble rather than try to force himself to recover as quickly as he could. He was feinting to bait a proper strike from his opponent, because it was quite apparent that martial skill alone would not carry the day. He had not wanted to bring any magic to play, but that was not a luxury he could keep from showing the rest of those observing the sparring duel. He deliberately guarded low again, practically inviting another strike to follow up on the successful leg sweep, in line with how someone who might not be the most skilled fighter would act. He knew it was a dangerous gambit, but he had a feeling his opponent was out to prove something. Strictly smart fighting would have broken away from the closing mace, and instead he pressed in to show off. If he had a read on the situation right, he could take advantage of that. If he didn't, well, he'd have to rely on a backup plan.

With the noble off balance and the power behind his knee lessened, Ashraf was able to catch the strike with his free palm in a block. He did not even need to shove before his opponent slipped. At the very least Toma had succeeded in creating a little gap between the two of them. All the better for the shorter man to capitalize on though.

There was a glint in Ashraf's eyes, the kind of tell that a veteran warrior would have been able to disguise. It said one thing and one thing clearly: he was going for it. A decisive strike. Oblivious to the feint. With practiced fluidity Ashraf flicked the spear's position with just his fingers, and suddenly he was holding the shaft much closer to the weapons' head. He thrust the spear forward, his other hand taking position to steady the weapon as it drove towards Toma's shoulder.

Toma kept his expression guarded as he watched his sparring partner take the bait, metaphorically speaking. The knee strike hadn't accomplished much, but he was able to break away a little bit, which only opened the advantage further in his opponent's favor. Seeing the spear strike finally come in, he only allowed himself a low, telling grin after the thrust was too committed to be pulled back. Rather than bring his mace into a guard, he simply thrust his hand towards the spear. In that instant, the temperature in the sparring ring plummeted, absolutely frigid in comparison to the previous ambient temperature, and hoarfrost crept across his left arm as he flash froze as large of a chunk of ice onto the head of his opponent's spear as he could muster in that moment. Clenching his fist, he intensified the frost into a layer of ice, deflecting away the frozen spear with his now ice guarded arm.

To say Ashraf fell for the set up would be a bit of an understatement. His eyes widened as goosebumps rose all across his skin at the sudden chill, and though he kept a tight hold on the spear it -and he- were thrown off center.

From his low position, Toma followed up with a heavy handed swing towards his opponent's side, though deliberately aiming to hit with the shaft of his mace rather than the flanged head. Much like how a spear strike would have only been a relatively minor wound to the shoulder, hitting with the shaft would be painful and leave a lingering bruise, but it would not have any long term consequences like the flanged mace head would leave. Pushing off his foot, he put speed and force behind the swing. Unfortunately his position did leave his torso exposed, but he was banking on the frozen spear being enough of a shock that it would create an opening he could keep following up on. The low grin was still on his face, despite the rapidly sinking cold into his arm.

The handle cracked against Ashraf's side, drawing a sharp exhale from him. It was immediately followed up by a harder inhale, and then, "tsk." A quick and quiet click of Ashraf's tongue signaled his dissatisfaction.

The noble had gotten him. It had been a foolish move not to anticipate that the man would have something up his sleeve. Many Warden hopefuls had already awakened to their magic, even if he had yet to - he should have expected it. And now the weight of his weapon was all wrong and his stance was broken!

Ashraf was not in a good position, but when he saw that sly smirk and met his opponent's gaze, his own mouth spread into a toothy grin. Toma may have gotten a leg up on him, but if the man thought that he had the match in hand he would be sorely mistaken. There was a loud splintering noise as Ashraf slammed the head of his spear against the makeshift arena's floor, shattering off a chunk of the ice at the same time that he shifted away from Toma. Though there was still frost encasing the spearhead it was good enough for now. Ashraf turned, flipped his grip on his weapon so that one hand held it reversed, and then bodily swung it back at Toma's center mass.

Whether the minor noble drew back or gave chase, blocked or ducked, it wouldn't matter; Ashraf spun with the spear after his attack and pulled it back in close, shifting into a more traditional Hahral stance for spear fighting. The distance between them wasn't quite mid-range, but Ashraf could work with it. He had practiced hard over the last two years, sometimes with a trainer and many times not, and had found that adaptability was an important trait. One that he fortunately had.

He struck out, and struck out again, straight, swift, and manifold. The ice that still clung to the spear made each strike a little less accurate, but with the benefit of blunting the tip Ashraf could aim at more vital areas to wear his opponent down.

There it was, however slight, the quiet click of the tongue, that Toma had been looking for. He'd gotten in, however slightly, against a more skilled martial opponent, and the blow with the shaft of his mace had struck true. Part of him wondered how much damage he could have done with the flanged mace, but this was neither the time nor place. Rather, his opponent did a commendable job at recovering, the hard crack of a strike breaking the heaviest of the ice off the spear tip signaled his foe didn't plan on bending the knee, not by a long shot yet. Good, if he was going to have to work with other hopeful selects he would want them to be at least competent. The reverse strike was aimed for his core, though his low stance let him duck it, the momentum of his duck forced him to open the space back up to something that would inevitably suit the spear wielder more. The spearhead being freed enough to use again meant the advantage of an off balanced weapon was less applicable, and during the shift he focused more ice into his arm, pooling into a large sized block to give him a better means of defense against thrusting attacks, taking a defensive stance while sizing up his opponent once more.

Different stance, still off center from the unaccustomed balance and weight, but deceptively fast. Toma blocked, deflecting but unable to get a counter strike in as the follow ups were faster than he could close the distance or strike. A slight narrowing of the eyes as he could feel the ice in his shield chipping away slowly, the ambient temperature steadily recovering from the sudden onset of ice magic, and each deflection wore down his arm, and his ice shield, steadily. He couldn't stay on the defensive, then, and with the next impact he willingly shattered the shield, throwing the mix of ice and mist from the parts that had melted into water at the point of breaking, directly towards his foe's face. He felt the frozen spear slam against his arm in the process, sending a sharp pain through his arm that was met with a quiet hiss, though he didn't think any blood had been drawn. Rather, he lunged and swung low and hard, aiming to sweep one of his opponent's legs out from underneath him to throw him off balance or at least out of stance for a follow up.

When it came to the magic, this time Ashraf was more prepared. The combination of feint, expression, and fighting style so far implied to Ashraf that his sparring partner was guileful, and so he thought there was no way he would stick to the shield alone. He was looking forward to whatever the ice user would try to throw at him next, he just didn't know when it would come - which gave him precious little time to react when the block of ice all but exploded. Ashraf released the spear with one of his hands and raised his arm, and couldn't help but sweep it outward dramatically and surge forward after he felt the shard spray cease. In the moment he'd been blind he still struck out again at where he expected Toma would be, but when the spearhead met no resistance he knew his opponent had started his counter attack.

Golden eyes flicked downward just before he felt the mace make contact with his leg. He let it, lessening the blow by moving with it instead of bracing against it, having grounded himself for just long enough to push off the floor with his other foot. Ashraf twisted around left while Toma swung right, another spin not for flourish but necessity to stay on his feet. The move was not as graceful as he would have liked (the art he practiced was not dance after all), but it served its purpose. With the spear swung around with him for counter balance, Ashraf ended up just to the side of Toma. He raised his eyebrows at the man in a cheeky, silent challenge, and wasted no time at all in trying to punish the low stance and pin the noble to the ground with a hard strike to his back.

Toma could feel the relative lack of resistance in his strike, giving him a moment to note his opponent had chosen to spin with the strike rather than evade or block outright. Realizing the danger of his low position, given the spinning speed of the spear, he chose not to try and arrest the mace's momentum, instead letting it twist him into a roll, feeling the blunt end of the spear glance painfully off his back as he turned his momentum into a roll, springing to his feet with a modest distance between the two of them. He didn't want to overexert himself with magic too quickly, too soon, and his arm was still relatively numb from being encased in ice for as long as it had been. Still functioning but, fortunately, not needed as he flourished the mace and a flick of his arm throwing the remaining bits of ice and frost off his arm and onto the ground of the sparring ring. The roll had been a mix of impromptu evade and chance to reset, and he met the cheeky expression with a slight smirk, not so easily baited into staying and fighting in an un-ideal position. He could feel where he would be bruising later, and they would be incredibly sore, but they were hardly done yet. Making to advance again, one of the observing Wardens who had taken to monitoring the sparring match called out since the two were untangled.

"You two have had your fun, don't hog the sparring ring. Other hopefuls are looking to make names for themselves."

Ashraf had twirled his spear in his hand, shucking the last of the melting ice from it, and already taken steps to close in on Toma again when they were interrupted the second time. He paused, glanced sideways at the warden and the small gathering of future initiates now emboldened by the first pair to cross blades, took in a deep breath... and then released it, loosening up easily. "Ah! Of course, you're right," he said, smilingly at the woman in a way he hoped was disarming, or maybe even charming.

Now that the spar was over, even if it hadn't ended with a victory for either participant, Ashraf let himself catch his breath. He exited the ring, scooped up his bag and slung it over his shoulder, and then rounded the arena. He approached Toma with his spear still in one hand, though his open body language made it clear he held no more aggression.

"That was good. There was much more to you than meets the eye," he told the nobleman, and held a calloused hand out towards him.

Toma fixed the Warden who had chimed in with a guarded, outwardly neutral expression before exhaling, letting the combat tension drain from him as he noted the growing group waiting to take turns in the training ring as well. So be it, he supposed he would have to leave things at a stalemate, though he was confident that they were both putting in a good showing. Lowering from the combat stance and looping the flanged mace back into his belt, turning from the arena without a word to the Warden and stepping down, vacating the ring for the other's to begin fighting. However, his sparring partner seemed interested in continuing to speak, which was fine enough he supposed. A compliment and extended hand, and he saw no harm in playing nice with someone who was martially capable, doubly so should they have to rely on one another in the future.

"All the better to surprise with, though you performed quite well to say the least."

Toma accepted the offered hand, lacking the callouses but having a firm grip, shaking as an equal. For what it was worth, this individual had earned it, though he didn't let the handshake linger needlessly. There was no fight or grudge that was apparent, as far as the minor noble could tell, which suited him fine. The more open, the more he could learn, which would help him in the future when dealing with others he might be working with. He glanced at the onlookers, whoever they were, as well as whether or not the one who questioned his sparring partner on their skin color, of all things, and made an off hand remark, sounding slightly amused as he commented back towards the start of the whole sparring match they had.

"Going to go entertain your adoring fan's intrusive questions further, now?"

Ashraf blinked and then groaned, having nearly forgotten about the girl. Had she even stayed to watch the spar? He'd find out soon enough when he made his way back to the other side of the ring, if she didn't find him first. It was just as likely that something or someone else had caught her eye, though.

"We'll see..." he said, playfully feigning trepidation. He would leave the other man to his own devices either way, but first, "Your opponent today was Ashraf, from Akoth. Make sure to remember that, if you're chosen for a training squad!"

"I don't envy you at all, there, Ashraf of Akoth. Would be poor form not to introduce myself in kind, Toma, of House Morriss. It should be interesting to see how you proceed."

Toma turned from his sparring partner at that point, choosing to head towards the archery targets rather than electing to strain himself further in a brawl. There was much to do to demonstrate the full capabilities of his skill set, and he wasn't able to perform fully to his satisfaction during the sparring match. Ashraf had proven a skilled opponent, dangerously so, and if he was fortunate that would be the extreme of what his competition would be capable of. For now though, he had a few more tricks to show off prior to the inevitable point of no return, where hopefuls were selected and the rest sent home, though for him he would not be going home no matter what, he did not have that luxury to crawl home in defeat.

As he rounded the dueling circle, Ashraf's bright eyes flickered over the crowd. They moved from the spectators to the next pair that had stepped in, over the proctors and what he assumed was a healer waiting in the shade of an overhang recently nailed to the fence that roughly encircled the spot. He was headed out of the area, towards other places he might prove his worth.

In the open space between the separate practice stations he saw her approach. The pale girl with dark hair. He would have had to purposefully avoid her not to see it, raised up over the crowd as she was. She moved like a soft breeze, in a way that could not be attributed only to her small build, and Ashraf stopped to wait for her. He wasn't the kind of man to run from anything, least of all an awkward conversation. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately given the topic she had changed to, he wouldn't have to educate her on the relationship between skin tones and sunlight.

"Lost?" he repeated, taken aback. Then he bristled. He hadn't lost! If he had held back, it was only because he wasn't looking to drive the head of his spear into a stranger's guts, but even so that didn't equate to a loss! If anything he and the noble, Toma, had drawn, but it was more accurate to say the results were inconclusive.

If they'd been allowed to continue, he would have decisively won, sorcery or no.

Ashraf didn't have the chance to get a word in edgewise before the girl was talking again. She didn't seem to think at all before speaking, and worse, took her assumptions as fact. Ashraf let out a heavy sigh through his nose, setting his weight on his heels. He felt ripples of annoyance wash over him, though not as strong as the earlier spike when she'd confidently stated that he'd lost.

"I am well aware of the strengths of the wind," he told her blandly. He had never had the same ability to appear placid and pleasant when dealing with troublesome customers, which is about what he was equating this girl to, but at the very least he could stop himself from snapping his words out. "Ferocious windstorms are a fact of life in Hahral. But wind isn't my element."

He had an inkling that she would try and keep guessing at it, so before she could jump in and do so Ashraf fixed her with a pointed look and said, "I have no element, yet."

Some might have kept that information to themselves, either for pragmatic reasons or because they were ashamed. Ashraf was not ashamed. He'd had no tutor for coaxing his magic out nor cruel, pushy parents to force an awakening, and though he had felt the chill of ice and movement of air, could hear cracks of lightning in far ends of the training grounds, he knew he was far from the only Warden hopeful with no sorcery to speak of. Some, especially highborn people, may look down on those without it. Ashraf tilted his chin up slightly, almost daring this girl to do the same.

"But that's no reason I lost, because I didn't lose. What even makes you say that? Did you watch with your eyes closed?"

Clearly he was still hanging onto her very first words after the match. Ultimately he didn't care what some strange girl thought of him, but he couldn't have her going around ignorantly spreading lies about him! ...and, honestly, he was at least a little curious as to what had led her to such an incorrect conclusion in the first place. Hopefully whatever it was existed only in this airhead's mind, and not in ones of watchful Wardens.

---

Lina caught the bag that candy-lady threw her with a deft hand, electing instead of immediately replying to her question to pop one of them into her mouth and--instead of letting it sit there as hard candy would dictate--bite down on it with a loud crunch. Her eyes leapt open, and the smile on her face somehow grew even wider. Palming another candy for later, she passed the bag back over to the other girl (even if she'd been given the go-ahead to have as much as she wanted, it still felt wrong to take more than one or two!), gave the candy another loud chomp, swallowed, and finally spoke in a chirpy, bubbly voice that sounded like it was coming from someone half her age.

“Oh, that's tasty! Wish I'd been allowed these at home, I'd have never eaten anything else!” Then, after, “Yep, Ariesca! Lina Ariesca. Nice to meet you!”

Upon being asked about her swordplay, she unsheathed the two again, checked around her to make sure she wasn't about to cut some poor innocent person, then performed what she thought the girl was referring to in steps: lunging forward with her right hand, she flicked her other sword up to ward off an imaginary blow to the neck coming from her right--which positioned it almost perfectly for a quick swipe to follow up previous one, which in turn made room to bring the first hand up again in a more traditional block.

Bouncing backwards out of her stance, she shifted her grip on the right-hand sword far enough down to expose enough to grip, then held it out in offer. “Feel free to take a look!” Upon making the handoff, she tossed the other up and down in her hand once or twice before holding it out in front of her with both hands. “Weight is shifted juuust a bit closer to the hand for easier maneuverability, and...” she ran her finger down the fuller, and the bevels lit up for the briefest moment with flickering firelight before snuffing themselves out again, “...it's specially made so that heat doesn't destroy the temper!”

With that she sheathed it again, clasped her hands behind her back, and rocked back on her heels, eye passing to the crest she spied emblazoned on the brooch that pinned the taller girl's shoulder cloak. She peered at it, eyes narrowing a moment and mouth quirking in confusion as she thought back over her lessons on nobility. No, it wasn't Itenaian, she knew that, so it was probably Atutanian. Which...she knew a lot less about, since she'd never actually paid attention to those lessons. Another moment passed before she gave up trying to remember and her gaze returned to meet the other girl's.

“Can't remember my lessons on Atutanian families, so I can't guess your family like you guessed mine. Something knightly, I think? But I'm not quite sure, sorry!”

The open, guileless smile returned to her face and she stood up tall again, cocking her head slightly as she flipped her long ponytail behind her. “So, miss knight, wanna tell me your name?”

---

There were fewer eyes on me after my little display than I had initially feared -- a realization that brought me both relief and some degree of irritation, as it took very little of my genius intellect to deduce the focus of the crowd's attention. Upon one end of the field, that braggart noble had unleashed several arrows sheathed in lightning, before boasting in an even louder voice than he'd used to make his initial introduction of his own self-perceived perfections.

Idiots that they were, the spectators ate it up and never thought to question the truth behind his little display.

Though I had seldom received the opportunity to speak with the spirits of lightning, I knew full well their tendency to move and act as one. When enough of them gather on the ground to meet their kindred in the sky, their true power is unleashed and a bridge forms from heaven to earth. Though even my own Elvish eyes were not quick enough to follow the movements of the lightning he birthed, I had no doubt that the manner of their flight must surely have been the same.

It was indeed a feat of surpassing skill for an archer to strike the same spot four times, unaided. One might even call it a miracle. But when each arrow drew in and guided the one that followed after, it was nothing more impressive than a single bullseye -- and a miracle, thus explained, seemed positively boring to one wise enough to grasp the trick behind it.

My attention thus just as quickly left the arrogant charlatan behind me, and turned to the opposite end of the field, where a significantly more authentic display had likewise drawn something of an audience. A clash between two initiates unfolded in short order, one wielding a spear and the other a heavy mace. Of the two, the latter seemed the more skilled, readily controlling the flow of the fight from beginning to end. Yet his opponent caught my eye all the more, as despite his slighter stature and his opponent's magic, he charged bravely forward again and again, not shrinking or recoiling when he was struck, nor hesitating even when his adversary entrapped his weapon. Martial prowess was rare, yes, but such resolve was rarer still -- and even in defeat he earned a certain degree of respect I would have been reluctant to give to his betters.

No. Perhaps "respect" was the wrong word. Rather, what I felt soon became clearer to me as I heard the words of "consolation" heaped upon him by the first person to approach him afterward. The girl's tone was cheerful and innocent, yet the words that escaped her mouth found nothing but fault. "You tried your best, though!" indeed. If there was naught to find praiseworthy in his "best," what were those pretty words but a polite way to express one's own condescension while playing dumb?

It seemed even among humans rather than my own kind, some things never changed. It was hardly any of my business, but something, whether sympathy for one or contempt for the other, moved me to approach regardless of my intentions to remain aloof and impartial. Perhaps it was simple boredom, even.

"To retreat before a magus is to invite ruin. What good would a longer reach do against an adversary free to fling spells with impunity?" I interrupted casually, flicking my hair back with a gauntleted hand and craning my neck in an attempt to stand at least a little taller. I had long since accepted the shortcomings of my stature, but at the very least I did not want to be looked down upon by someone so diminutive. Turning my attention to the dark-skinned man who had just exited the sparring ring, I acknowledged his efforts with a curt but respectful nod. "It seems you are aware of the disadvantage you faced, yet that does not seem to have stayed your hand in the slightest. A fine display of valor."

Huh? Why wasn't he leaving?

Sarnai wasn't expecting him to keep conversing with her after she had responded. On one hand, he had certainly finished displaying his own skills so he doubtlessly had time to chat, but on the other hand, why was he complimenting her? When all she did was draw a crossbow? What did it even mean, to draw a crossbow as if it were made of top-shelf materials? She did it this way because she wouldn't be able to do it without respecting proper form and all that! Should she say it though? Should she mention that fact to him? Should she shoot first and then speak after? No, time was ticking away now, Sarnai, and he was smiling too. Better not do anything to turn that smile upside down then. Take two breaths, and speak. One, two.

The peasant girl returned his smile with her own, polished over years at the tavern. A smile on the borderline of genuine, one that was meant to be polite and yet still contained a core of true happiness towards this 'patron'. Keeping her crossbow pointed down, she maintained a steady gaze just below his nose, for of course eye contact remained a faux pas no matter how cordial a higher-class individual appeared and the tone she adopted was gentle but clear, tinged with the flavor of wistful nostalgia. "It's my mother's. Despite the changes I've made and the parts I had to swap out over the years." A crossbow that a ten year old could use was not the same as one that a twenty year old could use. "I treat it the way I do because it can't be replaced, and if it broke now, I doubt the people here would be willing to lend me another." She paused. She didn't think herself as much of an archer either, so she offered another denominator that he could use. "I suppose it's been ten years since I began hunting with it, and it's kept me better fed than I would've been without it."

Another pause, slightly more awkward.

"May I proceed to the targets now, young master?"

---

As Toma walked away from the sparring ring, he could hear his partner getting pestered by a variety of critiques and backhanded remarks. Easy to judge and critique from outside the ring, especially given the several bruises he could feel forming under his formal attire, significantly dustier now than before his sparring match. Had the match continued on, he had every suspicion that Ashraf could have simply outlasted him, closing whenever he brought magic to bear and opening the distance whenever he brought his mace into the fray. Though, again, it was easy to critique and consider what ifs after the fact. Toma did not consider it a victory, not in a militant sense, though the number of eyes and follow up chatter to such an event certainly implied it had done what he had hoped and gotten attention on him. Ashraf as well, though that was far from a concern of his when it came to earning his place in the hopefuls.

Upon arriving at the archery targets, the commotion and noise Toma had caught before having to focus fully on a skilled opponent was explained. A lightning wielding archer, likely from the same nation as Ashraf though a completely different cloth entirely, metaphorically speaking of course. The wrecked remains of the target said it all, as far as the noble was concerned, though it seemed the archer was intent on chattering at some lowborn woman with a crossbow. Most of the estate guards carried crossbows when on patrol, they were relatively easier to use and just as effective in the right hands, if not more so, than a proper war bow. The addition of lightning magic did tilt the scales, but that was not due to the effectiveness of the base used to deliver said magic. Would be like crediting a frozen spear head to the fact that a flanged mace held more value than a studded truncheon. Different tools and use, but same end result, a caved in skull for whoever was on the receiving end.

The ambient temperature dropped again, though not as intensely as in the arena, as Toma willed several shards of ice into existence. Unlike the bolts or arrows of the other two, these had the weight and potency of daggers, balanced to be thrown, or magically launched, rather than used in a melee. Ignoring the numbness settling into his arm again, he would begin practicing once more, launching the frozen shards into the target he had elected to use, several down from the lowborn and electric foreigner. Each strike lacked the overt, flashy nature of the lightning arrows, but there was something to be said for a subtle, well placed strike. Should the lowborn wish to make a point, he would have suspected the best way to do so was to place her first bolt where it would have left a real target dead. Several lightning strikes were flashy and made a spectacle, but if the end result was the same, who was the wiser. The showboat, or the professional?

Given where Toma chose to practice his magical attacks at range, however, it gave him an ideal spot to listen in without being overt about the matter, not waiting for anyone to comment or interrupt before he could get to his magical drills. It was also a demonstration that, sometimes, one must simply carry out what they intend to do and not wait to be granted permission by someone who insists on chattering after making a grand display. Poor form to make a strong opening statement and then try to grant someone no chance to make their own reply, however meek it may turn out to be, though he made no overt comment on the matter. Not with how little he knew about either, or their overall intent on how to demonstrate their worth as future Wardens. Still he kept an ear out in case something worth learning came up in the conversation, Toma had no intention of surrendering a chance at gathering information about his peers, and possible rivals, while he had the chance.