Foil Round 1: Parrish vs. Ghram

Monty Parrish

Despite my thorough abhorrence of most things athletic, there had been one pastime that I had never given up: the art of fencing. As a child, my father had introduced me to the craft as a gentleman’s sport. He’d never truly been about violence—he believed there to be something more artistic and beautiful about the way two men could dance around and with a flick of the wrist perform in a deadly ballet. He’d dedicated works of art to the subject that sat in a gallery somewhere in district one. My mother still thought it a brutal practice—violence was always shadowy and morose in her works—but she did delight in seeing me perform. It got me out of the studio a few nights a week, at the least.

Then it came as no surprise when I registered and gained entrance to the event for the District Olympics. I’d settled on foil, as it was more dramatic, forceful, and altogether my strongest suit. I’d drawn a competitor foreign and unknown to me. It was no matter, really. I didn’t see it so much a competition as a chance to test my skill. Competition to me was… it was an abstract concept. I created with my hands. I made sculptures, pieces of art, not physical and temporary things. Competition was an invention of the mind, a concept that had no value upon its deconstruction. And therefore it would be of no consequence what the result of the match would be.

And yet… there was a personal satisfaction of performing well. I’d quite career training some time ago in favor of my artistic pursuits, and therefore was limited in such adventures. This was a chance to remedy that, if only for a brief period. For a win in fencing would be akin to anything I could show through training—and better yet, I wouldn’t have to kill anyone. It was all enough that when I stood in front of the boy I was atwitter. Of course, he got the first strike in my hesitance. But I would not be undone by my nerves. I was cool as a cucumber.

[dice=20]

The tap against his fabric and the flick of the light signaled my aim was true. I positioned myself again and raised an eyebrow. It is not pride, but confidence in my abilities. I could win, if I stayed cool enough.

Monty Parrish

There’s another touch against the fabric of my suit and I’m impressed by my counterpart. He’s landed two in a row now, which means that I have to be on better guard. I took position again and swiveled my sword. It was times like these when I tried to clear my head and think of the feeling of creating—of being able to tune everything and anything out—so that I may gather myself. It’s a quiet confidence that I have, not bold or obtrusive like some of my district mates. I think it comes from knowing that I depend on myself, that I am my harshest critic. Because the words of others can only direct us, not control us.

I eye him warily as the time starts again, and I move my feet in a clockwise pattern. I feint forward before trying to lash out against his frame again. If it were to the death—if it ever were—I’d find a way to meet the target. To finish what I started… I always finished what I started. I never believed in leaving anything undone, not in art, not in life.

[dice=20]

I glance his shoulder again. I raise my eyebrows as the sound buzzes and we are to reset. Keep calm, carry on. And so I edge my feet into position and wait.

Monty Parrish

Another tap against me and I know that his skill is beyond impressive. “Nice,” I say in surprise. I’m not frustrated; in fact, I’m gratified that I’ve been given such a quality opponent. It’s a challenge I must rise above, hopefully through strategy. I might be fast enough to outmaneuver him, if I can make a good enough pass. It’s a hope that I carry with me—I’m nimble enough, though the tar in my lungs from my dabbling in cigarettes does not help in short bursts of speed—and I reposition myself.

In another instant I’m slashing my sword toward him, hoping that I can leave more than a mark. The early momentum has not dipped one way or another, and this could change quickly depending on a misstep. I see an opportunity to move forward and I lunge, pressing the attack.

[dice=20]

Alas, my aim isn't true. Instead I find his leg and the buzzer sounds. Looks like I'll have to refocus if I want to have a chance.

Monty Parrish

There’s a moment where I’m caught off balance, and I see the sword come at me in slow motion. The buzzer sounds as the tip touches my chest. Just another misstep, hopefully the last. I give a salutary bow to my opponent, moving a step back against the ring and adjust my helmet. It’s another moment before we start, and I circle around once again. It only takes a moment for things to change—for the world to come crashing down, for a star to streak across the sky—and so I know that all of this could go the other direction if the odds swayed.

[dice=20]

It's funny how life works that way. I suppose I could've gotten frustrated at myself for having messed up before, but what would've been the point of that? Anger doesn't get anywhere in this world, as far as I'd learned. And so I re-position myself and raise my sword. "Shall we?"

And it takes two, baby, to filler!

wip wip wip monty thinks that this guy is cool and maybe they should talk after? wip wip wip