Garble twisted his neck left and right with soft pops as his hands worked a rag over his blade, shining it in preparation. He could hear the cheers outside, roaring in approval of the battle to come. But, on some level, he had already won the day.
His master had accepted the challenge, given little choice as he had been. The humans would see the awesome skill hiding in front of their stupid eyes. Win or lose, it would be a fight worth seeing, and it'd be a demi fighting it out in the real arena, in front of everyone, against someone they knew was worth the time.
Not that it meant he intended to lose.
He heard Smolder’s story from the guy she fought, more experienced than she was, Tabitha’s old teammate that Garble remembered fighting when he and Tabitha fought him and Spike. He was good but he couldn’t beat someone who had hit floor 70. So his teacher would go the same way. Garble had been hit by his sword before, it was good, but you couldn’t get floor 70 good without going to floor 70.
The gate began to grind open and Garble returned his sword to his long sheath, picking it up. He was going to discard it almost immediately, but drawing the sword was important, dangit!
He went out into the arena to the renewed cheers of the crowd, and he smirked holding a fist above his head, the crowd cheering wildly.
After a moment, the crowd died down, and finally Garble’s mentor, the Felisurra poet slicer he learned all his moves from, walked through. There were not cheers, but in fact the whole area fell quiet, as if they were waiting for something to be said.
So, the felisurra obliged. “A bold challenge, this. The sprout challenges an oak, to expose its strength.”
“That’s right! I was worried you wouldn’t come, but we’re here and we’re finally ready to fight for real, master.” Garble said, using the term that while accurate he had never actually used to refer to the felisurra.
A smile appeared on the felisurra’s face. “At this last moment? Flattery doesn’t suit you, prideful little sprout.”
Garble frowned, remembering how he usually addressed his teacher. “Y-yeah, well maybe I shoulda been using it a little more!” Garble gripped his own sword. “But I’m here now, and I’m gonna school you this time.”
“You, educate me?” The felisurra scoffed lightly, and put his hand to his own sword, with his eyes closed. “Your training is not yet done.” He opened his eyes. “I would teach you now.” His hand went to the hilt of one of his swords, having donned two like usual, but this particular sword is one Garble had never seen him drawn.
Garble drew his own sword, discarding his oversized sheath. “Bring it!”
“Little fingerling.” The man walked to the side slowly. “Are you swimming up the stream, or plummeting down.” With that his hand gripped his sword strongly, drawing it with a clean slice, which produced a white swash buffeted with wind, which Garble brought his own sword across, trying to destroy the energy wave.
The blast of wind, even with the energy cut through, still pressed at Garble and he grit his teeth and planted his feet to stop himself from falling over, and as his master began his advance, the battle was begun.
Despite not being a 70 challenger, or even a tower breaker at all, Garble found his swings were met, even worse, predicted more often than not as he worked with the song playing in his mind. He was sure he was working his dance right, to the tune, working higher and higher, working towards a great crescendo, but his teacher was keeping up, calm and collected.
Garble grit his teeth. “You’re not so tough, and I’ll show you my skill’s enough!” He bat away his master’s sword, attacking it instead of him, then brought it up high, bringing it down in a pillar of electricity, scoring his first direct hit of the fight.
With a bellowed laugh, Garble pressed the attack, “Weren’t you supposed to school me? I strode the tower, I showed my might, I gained my power, I’ll win the fight!” He pressed onward, striking fiercely, scoring another hit or two.
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“Fierce assaults, your power. It suits your sword and manner--”
Garble interrupted his master’s poem. “Where’s this new technique, You promised to teach? Your poetry’s antique, my rhymes have reach.” He said as he swang one more time, a broad stroke that his master had to back out of.
Garble leapt into the air, ready to crash down on his master, only to notice a moment too late his master had sheathed his sword. As if he hung in the air, his master finished his own poem. “But I am the wind.” He drew his sword, striking upward, a blast of wind and energy struck Garble straight on midair. There was no bracing, there was no defense, he only went sprawling back, rolling on the ground as he hit it hard.
“I was an outcast.” His master turned back to him, leveling his sword, battered a little from the strikes but not broken. “Less of a person to them, I carved my own path.” He rushed in brandishing his blade. Garble rolled out of the way just as a cycling pillar of wind and energy crashed down where he was only moments ago, grabbing his blade and wrenching his own bruised body up.
“I strode not the heights, I gained nothing in the guild, I would be unbound.” His master continued his assault, trading blows with Garble even as they exchanged words.
“When I met you you were already in charge of a whole group!” Garble protested. “That’s a shackle forged by you! Which is the real you, and which is the dupe?
"There is the question. Which is the spread blossom and--" He paused to twist his sword around just as Garble struck, cruelly yanking it to the side almost free of the dragon's grasp. "Which is the true plant?"
"What's what I asked," complained Garble with a scowl, regaining his grip as he shoved himself against his teacher. "I don't even know your name. With all the things amassed--" He grabbed for his master's collar, missing by inches. "And still not that? A shame."
The crowd roared with approval at the showdown, deafening cheers greeting their each move as two warriors clearly trained in their profession met as equals there for their enjoyment. Hands came together, furred or bare, in clear admiration for what they were seeing.
The felisurra smiled. “Why don’t you earn it? A flower grows strong in thorns.” He sliced across, a spinning blast of wind buffeting him, pushing Garble back, and his master gave him a very cocky look. “Push me to the brink.”
"Talking smack, Coming attack, you can't feal the heat? Prepare for defeat," he roared, his cadence increasing as he pressed all the harder. "You taught me to feel the tempo, these skills you bestow. I reach ever higher. What's wrong with my supplier." He danced back out of the way of a narrow miss. "You speak of thorns, but it's just a bad smell. Keeping people away, so they can't tell!"
The battle raged on, the two of them trading barbs, but also, astonishingly, trading blows. A blast of energy here, a slice there, a knockback, a body check. As the two warriors continued to fight, Garble realized he was understanding his master’s movements better. Where he’d strike, where the blows would come from, even sometimes whether or not he’d block. His master clearly had this understanding already, and Garble was impressed, despite himself.
But he wasn’t about to give up, and he continued his fierce assault, verbally and with his blade. Ferocity was his strength, his master knew, and he understood. His master was restraint, was careful choice, was calm power, but power nonetheless. He came at his master with hot ferocity, unrelenting rhymes, the things he cultivated in his art.
Finally, the two of them stood across from each other, and his master visibly sheathed his sword, still standing in his ready position, and Garble tensed himself.
“High noon is long past, The battle concludes anon.” And he threw himself forward. Garble could see it, where the blade would go, and put his own sword in the way, parrying the powerful strike. But something was wrong, as he tried to look back, the energy remained, and he struggled against it.
His master replaced his sword, finishing his poem. “One final sunray.” And clinked his blade together, and the energy Garble was struggling with burst open, a torrent of wind and slashes slamming into him, breaking his guard as he went flying once more, rolling on the ground, bleeding and battered.
The crowd first erupted into wild cheers at this flamboyant display of power, and Garble could hear them as he tried to pull himself up, each breath was painful now. He pulled himself up slowly, painfully, bracing himself on his sword, and the crowd grew silent.
Garble did not fall, and he struggled to raise his sword in the ready position, never giving up.
But his master stood there, straight up, no longer bracing himself, no longer ready for a fight, although he clearly was also bruised and battered, and raised his voice. “I am Arlien, of the Windshadow clan of the Felisurra.”
It was, in the end, just an arena match, like many others. But there were several key differences that would not leave the minds of those who had seen it, even lurking there in the deeps of their thoughts. A demi had stood up to a dragon, where a human had failed. A person who has not even challenged the tower had stood up to someone who had reached 70. These things could never be forgotten, not entirely.
The world would not change on a dime, but the seeds had been planted. Perhaps, eventually, things would move in the right direction.