Text Box: One moved in sharp jerking motions.  Stepping in…stopping…stepping back.  Eight feet away, a spear was his weapon.  His feints were reckless, bewildered and unnerved by her calm resolve.  His weapon, though lethal, had no artistry in his hands.  For blood, he was eager; but cowardice ruled him.  He would not strike first.  He would await vulnerability before seeking opportunity.
The second cast his impatience first to one then to the other metal shod boot.  He rocked back and forth, his weight straining the sands beneath him, crushing the grains together.  His armor groaned.  Each shift was exaggerated.  His boots slipped so slightly to each side.  He carried a heavy weapon, its sway bearing his cadence beyond his center of balance.  He would be slow when he attacked but, within the radius of his assault, devastating.  Once committed, he would be overborne and without grace.
Hot desert air shrieked in shrill defiance around the blade of her third opponent as he paced.  He was arrogant and venomous.  He wanted her to hear his sword cleave the wind around him.  Mercilessly, he whirled his weapon as he walked.  Each step was impatient.  There was no guard in his steps, no subtlety, no misdirection.  It was linear and angry.  His skill was hard-won, the conditioning of an animal forced to fight to survive.  But it was not trained.  Unrestrained, he would move to her with abandon, his blade swirling; a surge of viciousness and violence.  His weapon would deliver his hatred even if his body was sacrificed.  And yet he held his distance.
Her fourth adversary held his leash.
This one did not flourish a weapon.  He did not disturb the sands idly.  There was no creaking of strained leather or ring of grating steel betraying armor.  About him no brazen fanfare carried his convictions or demeanor.  He stood, unmoving and focused.  He watched the girl before him with respectful insight.  He gauged her.  He marked the slender blade that extended from her right palm and studied its careful motion across the sand at her feet.  He noted the perfection of the arc it drew.  The blade’s twin waited behind her lithe form.  It, too, was poised, the tip waiting only a few inches above the sand.  She was centered.  One graceful leg extended a half step forward, resting on the ball of her foot.  Each half of the arc mirrored the symmetry of the other.  There was neither fear nor zeal in her.  She was balanced.  Could she really be that good? he wondered.
As the music within her surfaced, the four that surrounded her joined her in it.  Their parts were enfolded into the melody.  In the motion of Next Page ahlandra crescent_moon H. Shane Alford Author ProfileWorld of Narianna Home World of Narianna About World of Narianna Gallery World of Narianna Maps World of Narianna Contact World of Narianna Links title author_name World of Narianna Gallery World of Narianna Home World of Narianna Links World of Narianna Maps World of Narianna About World of Narianna Contact