Fight among careers[Jimmeh, maybe open pm me]

For once, Indrik had actually bothered to grace the sword station with his presence. He hated swords. Or more precisely, he hated your typical sword. Straight blade, broadsword type weapons. In terms of blades, his favourites were, true to form, the rapier and the sabre. He was, truthfully, quite a deft fencer. He enjoyed the less brutal, more finesse driven elegance that surrounded the sport, and the actual combat applications surrounding it weren't all that different. Only, obviously, you had less rules. And it hurt a lot more. Indrik had decided today that instead of simply fencing with a tribute, they would free spar, and Indrik was allowing the use of any sword. Immediately, his first opponent had rushed headlong for a greatsword. Indrik had selected a rapier and a sabre, working on his already considerable ambidextrous combat abilities. A few of the more insubtle Careers had mocked him for his stance and the somewhat flamboyant flourish he had given with his blade to assume it. His eyes narrowed on his opponent, who decided a frontal approach was the best course of action, a simple over head arc. Indrik had read this, naturally, and promptly parried the strike with both blades, pivoting out of reach again, waiting for the next strike.

He'd swung the blade in a horizontal arc, again, telegraphed so blatantly because of the sheer grotesque size of the weapon, Indrik ducking under the blade, before once again spinning into a fresh position. His opponent, frustrated, jabbed with a weapon not designed to be thrust. And consequently found himself in some degree of pain, as with a simple flick of the wrist, Indrik parried the attack, spinning inwards, his rapier striking the small of his back, before following through with a single vertical strike down the length of his spine. Simple. Clean. Elegant. A disabling strike and a killing blow. He shook his head, because a commotion began to make itself known by the practice dummies. Indrik smirked, sensing the chance to raise some more hell. He strode over to the station that the shorter, obviously younger, and obviously irate youth was shouting from, shaking his head at him.

What? So because you can stab a motionless practice dummy, you think you're some sort of fighter? Please. He smirked at him, the room silent now except for him. He rested the twin blades on his shoulders, looking at the stocky youth. For someone young, he was pretty well built. But that could be said of most of the more capable potentials. You've got confidence, I'll give you that at least. But wow, what a temper. He was deliberately poking at him, trying to provoke him. It was what he did. He stood on the mats, between two of the dummies, almost tempting him to try his luck against him. I'd be careful. You might get a nosebleed.