[Day 3] Epee Round 2: Chastmen vs. Rowe

Cilla Rowe --

She'd won her first round. She didn't understand it, she would probably never understand it, but part of her was secretly relieved. It meant one step closer to winning and winning meant her dad wouldn't hit her and her mum would be kind. Just as long as she came home with a medal they'd be nice. And for once she'd be able to sleep without fear, maybe even take a day off training. But she'd never been good with a one handed weapon and only now did the competition improve remarkably. She was scared, if only slightly, but there was fear no matter how she phrased it.

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Cilla Rowe --

He spouted some nonsense, asking her some rubbish, which she ignored. She wasn't one to talk when she fought, she could remember when she had gone up against Sol, staff's flashing, he had been so fast and beautiful, and the conversation had been limited. She liked that. She didn't like people who talked. Especially when she was wielding a weapon she wasn't comfortable with, it was all distractions and annoyance.

"Shut up." She said through gritted teeth.

She was sure mother would have smiled at that.

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Cilla Rowe --

He said some more things and Cilla ignored them this time. She'd grown up surrounded by egotistic bastards, just like this guy. They thought they were the best and they had that stupid blood lust, it was so typical and cliche, a bloodthirsty career, who'd have believed it? It was annoying, it was one of the reasons she liked Sol, he was different, when they had fought their had been this frenzied craze in his eyes, but it hadn't been that kind of blood lust that filled the boy before her, it had been one created from a nightmare, one that could be cured, whereas this kid was all cliches and typicalness. How boring.

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Cilla Rowe --

For a moment she wondered how many times her dad would hit her, or how many hours her mum would stand outside the door to her room and scream. She'd try and run, maybe get to the door before her dad blocked her escape, if she was lucky enough she'd got out front and maybe scale a tree before he caught up to her. But she knew what running meant, it meant when she got back down he'd do more then hit her, and she'd end up at the training centre the next day with a face so swollen and bruised she'd be crushed in every practice match because she wouldn't be able to see. Well fuck this guy, fuck her mum, fuck her dad. Screw them for being so cruel and heartless, screw them for making her do something she couldn't do, she was an archer, a duel wielder, she didn't swing some pathetic, flimsy sword. She was better then this form of fighting.

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Cilla Rowe --

This could would be a horrible archer, or well, duel fighter, he was designed for these kind of fights, where you focused your energy on wielding the single weapon, using one arm alone. However, every time he saw an opening she could see the subtle change in his facial expressions, like some maniac realising they were near their prey, so he would move and that would give her enough time to slip under his guard and get a hit in. So that was how she had managed to get every hit in, thus far, every flicker of triumph that showed on his face was a sign for her to attack and she did. Your ego was always a dangerous thing, after all.

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