Blades of Grass, and Blades of Men[Duma][Open]

[Mizuyuki]

Morning came swiftly. Even in sleepless meditation, and the waking slumbers that followed within that resting poise, Mizuyuki couldn't help but welcome the warmth when the sun crested over the hills to engulf Sacae in a new day. His fingers cracked as he broke them free from the webbed interlacing grip they'd wound around one another while rising from his sitting state. The oaken hued steed he rested near was still sleeping. Likely recovering the impressive levels of stamina which the horse expended when traveling to find the great Sacaen host. Now however, with his message delivered, he could give the creature much needed rest. That did not mean that Mizuyuki would give himself rest though.

No. Wicked could gain no rest. Especially the wicked who allowed innocents to perish. With his stomach far more full than in passing days, he found the energy that followed a welcome change. Sluggish thoughts and mental cognitive functions were replaced with a spur to move. His blade was tended first. The metallic sheen of the weapon given care with him sharpening both sides of the blades edge. From the base near the hilt all the way to the tip where the katana's tooth like edge ran sharpest. However once the blade was prepared, so to, was the body ready to be primed. Every morning, time was spent to further perfect his art.

Even as the slumbering landscape slowly basked in soft orange glow of the suns first light, his silhouette dotted the hill-side. With the cool kiss of the night's chill still permeating around, and a faint warmth from the rising sun, it created a perfect environment to train. With this, he felt not the strain of intense heat or the slightly off-putting rays of sun hammering down upon him as if he fought at highest noon. Instead, he found an environment where he could focus purely on improving his movements. Ascending from natural actions to thoughtless reaction. It all came out in pattern.

Form I

He held his weapon high. Steady strokes that came down directly from over-head. Each one maximized the swing with both hands directly clasping the blade. The momentum generated from gravity's force exerting down combined with every ounce of might his shoulders and forearms could muster made the killing blows of Form I easy. As was it's intent. To maintain such wanton combative exertions required great stamina. It was not a perfect form, but the easiest to practice. It was emphasized through repeated motions. Increasing the speed through great repetition of that one act without compromising power or control. A balance of the three. Every time he moved through the motion, he practiced the same gesture. A slow rise of the blade to rest atop his head inches above, fingers tightening before exhaling sharply as he brought the blade down to an inclined angle ascending away from his torso. He held the blade in place, imaginary foe slain with a split skull, before rising it over to practice once more; each time inhaling sharply to fill his lungs with crisp morning air.

Form II Similar to Form I, it emphasized lethal strikes. However these were designed more for armored enemies or enemies with a skilled defensive stance. The blade was held parallel to the ground, with the hilt level a few inches away fro the right cheek. Hands clasped the blade at the hilts base with palm, and fingers grasping the hilt with opposing hand tightly. Each motion was a slash at various angles. To strike beneath the arm-pits. To slice the neck and cut into the jugular. This stance also dealt with indoor combat, holding the blade reverse grip and performing powerful slashes through the air. The length of the katana wasn't great enough to impede this but made it impractical for open combat compared to the restrictive confines of a hallway. His body spun, brown long strands of hair trailing and whipping about at his shoulders while he did so, blade slicing through the air while dancing with his arms as if an extension of his figure.

Form III A more traditional swordsmanship stance. It focused on the relative location of the opponent, keeping within the same proximity and basing movements and actions around the way an opponent struck. Largely based on countering and out-maneuvering, it relied on a traditionally faster Sacaen fighting style. This one also relied on the vivid depth of an imaginary foe. It's seamless strikes and shifting movements with feet sliding along the ground, made it a more artistic and graceful style. It was easy to transition from the reverse grip of Form II into the fluidic poise of Form III, and he was far more apt at these two. He had even begun to develop a finesse at transitioning stances and combinations mid strike to create form-alternating combinations of attacks. The sequences were difficult at first, but every day created a more defined muscle memory. In combat, his goal was to get to a point where his reactions were reflexive purely. No thought required.

Form IV A dangerous form, both for wielder and practitioner. It was an art that left the blade in sheath, only drawing it to defend and retaliate before re-sheathing the weapon all in one swift motion. It was more about the presence of mind. The swift execution of it required great control. It emphasized an unwavering will power, and the solid grasp of a decisive strike. It was similar to Form I in this regard, and training was very close. Single strikes of motion before returning to the same gesture. However where it became ideal, was at the beginning of a fight. Especially against enemies who replied on power in moderation with speed, as its style of pure speed often caught them off guard.

So he practiced. Until the sun had climbed to about half it's full golden body broke over the landscape, and a faint veil of sweat adorned his flesh. He'd removed his Yukata, wearing only his Hakama and continued his training. For countless lapses in time, until he required a breather. Muscles throbbed, limbered up and his blood boiled within his veins at the surge of energy. He did not labor in breathing though, and his muscles did not hurt. It was as if he'd stretched thoroughly and was now ready for almost any challenge.

Amidst the rising sun of Sacae he gazed outwards. Blade resting upon his shoulders lightly, and sun-kissed skin exposed with the twin dragons inked upon his flesh alight with golden and crimson ink basking in the orange light of dawn. He turned to stride slowly back to his campsite, knowing that it would likely be soon best, that he left once more. A true direction and path, out of sight, and out of mind.

[Naran Batkuyag]

Rising at the crack of dawn was not a foreign concept for Naran. In fact most of her duties began before the sun peaked over the green expanse that surrounded the lands of the Batkuyag. Hunting and training alike were done before the animals were too alert, or before the heat was too great. At least when she was with her father. Any hunting or training she did on her own was done whenever she pleased, and Naran had really come to enjoy exercising her freedom whenever she could.

Hence why she rode across Sacae in the first place. She had denied accepting an escort, confident enough that she could hold her own against most encounters. Had she been the first or second born this would be unacceptable. It was an odd feeling, knowing that on an objective level her loss was not as great to her parents as the loss of her elder siblings would be. Regardless Naran did not focus on that, and simply enjoyed riding on the mare, Alseyu, beneath the orange sky.

Riding, however, grew old swiftly. Sacae was as beautiful as it was repetitive, for the most part. Plains, grass...the odd forest and hills every so often. At least the Batkuyag territory was by the mountains, offering some visual variety in that regard.

Speaking of visual variety, however, Naran spotted what looked to be a small camp. Strange, there were no major tribes currently set up in the immediate vicinity, far as Naran could tell. There was that rather large gathering of warriors and tribal representatives some few hours ride from there, but surely they hadn't moved just yet.

Curiosity over came the Sacaen, and she steered Alseyu towards the campsite in question. Sure enough she found a man, blade in hand, walking towards the campsite. No doubt it belonged to him, but how to approach the man was the immediate question Naran needed to answer. A lone Sacaen out like this? Unless he was a hunter this was curious indeed. Perhaps an exile?

“Greetings, and good morn to you.” Naran spoke loudly, raising her right hand as she slowed Alseyu to a halt. Best to come right out and state who she was. When it came to Sacaens honesty was the best policy, at least at first. She had no business proper with the stranger beyond her own curiosity, but she needed to speak to him to get a read on him. “I am Naran Batkuyag, of the Batkuyag-Onstetseg. Would care greatly if I took a quick rest here at your camp?”

[Duma]

Dawn.

Waking up at the crack of dawn was not a new phenomenon for Duma. He woke, tended to his necessities, dressed himself, and polished his swords before the first bell rang for breakfast. He exited the ger he had spent the night in. A communal ger he shared with other men of the Quazvin tribe. He himself was not born to them but rather he was adopted by them in the late years of his teens. He spent many years away from them. And now that the various tribes of Sacae had converged and formed a great army to beat the Eturian threat, he had reunited with them. He was slowly readjusting to a lifestyle that resembled a family. He ate with them. Hunted with them. Worked with them. Trained with them. Some had even started to call him brother despite him being different from them. And yet, now he found himself leaving them. He had a light breakfast with the tribe and then dismissed himself. This trip was temporary. When he was asked about it he merely explained that was something he wanted to do.

He wanted to challenge the man with the dragon tattoo. The tattoed man's arrival in the Sacean unification army had intrigued him. He knew of only one tribe that adorned their son's with dragon tattoo's like that one. And while the name of that tribe escaped him, he knew that they made excellent fighters. Duma wanted to test the mettle of that fighter. He wanted to learn how he fought and wondered if he could incorporate the tattooed man's style into his own. And so he set off. He knew where the man was staying. He was far away from the encampment. Out towards the hills. He would have to borrow a horse to arrive there in a timely manner.

Duma was not the best rider. He only knew a few basic commands. But, that would not stop him from meeting this individual. He managed to borrow a steed from the clan and set off towards the hillside. By the time he arrived there it was already mid-morning. He had found the man with the dragon tattoo as well as another rider.

"Good morning you two."

[Mizuyuki]

He'd only taken a few steps when the soft sound of muffled horse hoofs clomping down upon the ground reached his ears. Initially, caution set in as he lowered his blade from his shoulders. He did not turn in the moments of the approach, but slowly and subtly shifted his blade in-front of him while his palm cupped the bottom of the hilt with his other hand gripping the hilt square along the base center. Fingers tightly coiling in preparation to defend and retaliate, but still masking it with natural steps and a non-alerted pace through his miniature campsite. Prepared, that was, until he heard the soft feminine tone within the voice that instantly lowered his guard.

"Greetings, and good morn to you."

The Sacaen instantly eased the tense grip his curled fingers had upon his blade while turning around. Dark auburn hair of various lengths trailed behind him while the Sacaen turned on his heel to face the young woman who rode upon her steed to a closer approach. His whip flicked gracefully as he sheathed his blade in a single fluidic motion. The sharp precise metallic click as his weapon clacked into the sheath all the way up to the hilt guard preceded the woman's request. His thumb and index finger rested idly atop the tip of his blades hilt while he examined her briefly. Assessing. Gauging. Even if she was an assassin, he wouldn't need his weapons. He would never knowingly kill a female. Even if armed. He did not speak initially, but quietly nodded in greeting to her as she approached and slowed to a halt. The hair along the back of his neck slid along the length of his shoulders, almost blending in to the copper and gold ink of the dragon coiling over the flesh near his collar bone.

She wished to rest? His campsite was as best a rest-point as she would find along the barren fields and hills, until she found the large gathering. His haunting, steeled gaze idled on her no longer however as Mizuyuki turned partially to look past the woman and back to his camp-site. It was small, but it'd be good. A place for to simply recoup. None could fault her for wishing this. He nodded once more before speaking in a hollow tone of voice, low pitch bringing additional weight to his words.

"I am Mizuyuki. You may rest here."

He dared not speak his tribes name. Not with the fire that threatened to burn too brightly within. No. He would not expose this in-front of others. He would guide it. Nurse it. Sculpt this desire to reap vengeance. This burning cold fury. He would ensure it somehow, became productive.

No sooner had Mizuyuki turned his back on the woman once more, he heard another horse approaching. This time however, the voice was male. Instantly, Mizu's right hand latched onto the hilt of his blade with thumb clicking it open by half an inch and out of the sheath while he pivoted his body to fully address the approaching man. This man who as well, seemed Sacaen. The cautious wandering swordsman met this new individual by facing him directly as he wished the two of them good morning.

"Greetings."

He had little to say, and often lived in almost absolute silence when in solitude. It was clear though, by the curt tone and more serious nature implied through his lack of words, that he wasn't one for great speeches or flowery conversations.

[Naran Batkuyag]

The man studied Naran for some time, his eyes sharp but his voice silent. This was not overly uncommon. The average Sacaen was serious, but ultimately friendly. If he was alone he likely had reason to be extra cautious, and Naran was used to being scrutinized by this point. She simply kept confident under his intense gaze, eyeing the tattoos on his shoulder. Were they the markings of a specific tribe?

It seemed Naran would not get the answer to that question, though she did gain the man's permission to rest at his campsite. Before Naran could even thank him the man, who had named himself as Mizuyuki, turned his back to her. That was...oddly rude, but Naran was not one to huff at such a small slight. She was a guest at his camp for the moment, and he had no obligation to have her as one.

"I thank you, Mizuyuki." Naran said as she dismounted Alseyu, gently stroking the mare's face before walking further into Mizuyuki's camp. His gaze was now fixed on another, though, and he had noticed him long before Naran did. She mentally chided herself for it and tensed ever so slightly before the green haired visitor greeted the two, opting not to name himself right away.

"Ah, and good morning to you as well." Naran spoke with a smile, striding closer to Mizuyuki's side. This man bore a scar on his face, his deep green hair long. The way he spoke and dressed...most certainly Sacaen. Well, she might as well give another introduction. Naran crossed her arms and spoke with the same confident tone as she did before. "I am Naran Batkuyag, of the Batkuyag-Onstetsteg."

[Duma]

He dismounted off of the horse and held the reigns, so that the animal wouldn't scamper off. He turned his attention to the woman first and responded to her greeting. His mind went through a mental checklist of all the tribes he knew by name.Naran Batkuyag, of the Batkuyag-Onstetseg. Nope. I do not know that one.

"Well met, Naran Batkuyag. I am Duma." He didn't bother naming the tribe he was associated with. He highly doubted either of these two would appreciate him saying that he was "technically" Eturian.

"I'm sorry, Naran but I do not recognize your tribe name." He took a moment to study her. Her clothes, appearance, and speech certainly screamed Sacean. He did like the blue dress and found it to be a good look on her. Perhaps a homage to father sky?Or maybe her tribe was close to water? It didn't matter. The girl was not his primary concern. He then returned his gaze back to the man with the dragon tattoo. His pose, his style, how quickly he went for his blade. Yes Duma liked this man already. Hopefully he would give him a great duel. Now he just needed to ask for it.

"Sorry If I am interrupting anything. But, I've a question to ask of you swordsman." He kept his expression neutral and his gaze firm.

"I saw you within the camp of the grand meeting. And you've.. piqued my curiosity. I know men marked with that of the dragon are warriors of the finest caliber. I wish to have a duel. Non-lethal of course. We both must be well enough to strike at the opposition."

[Mizuyuki]

Mizuyuki gazed to the young woman who had sought refuge at his camp-fire. Though his steed still rested near it, he trusted her. Sacaen's..usually, did not steal. Nor lie. As if to answer her thanks, he quietly nodded before briefly relaxing the grip of unyielding iron upon his weapon's hilt as the verdite haired male announced himself. Here once more, the Sacaen quietly nodded his head before taking a few steps away from the man and now facing his back towards the other. To many, this might've been an insult. For Mizuyuki though, it was a sign of trust. The man had hints of Sacaen accent within his tone, and though he did not look entirely Sacaen he had enough of an air of Sacae around him. This point of comfort came when the man mentioned having seen Mizuyuki at the gathering. It meant he was there purely for Sacae's benefit. No one elses.

Sweat still faintly trickled down the exposed torso of the Swordsman's torso from his training. Blood flowed freely through his limbs and every muscle was fully stretched. Each step he took in perfect sync. So when he heard the proposition of a duel, he briefly pondered it. His mood lately had been dashed of anything that did not involve the absolute revenge he craved deep down. Even he saw the danger in this. The consuming need for murder was not how a Sacaen should live. He had no home. No family. That did not mean he had stopped living. That he had stopped breathing. He could not cease being who he was. He could not stop being Mizuyuki Jinogua, of the Liusai. This meant he would have to live once more. Even if it meant relearning it. He knew not how to do this entirely. Perhaps though, babysteps. A spar was something he understood. A duel. A test of skill and to hone them further. He'd had many of these prior.

His lips never parted. His gaze continued to retain that glossed over steel that gave him such an unwelcome look. However, as he turned to gaze squarely at the branded swordsman before him, he nodded once more in affirmation of his request. His hand clasped his blade firmly as resolution filled him. His wrist flicked and in a motion of grace and speed he unsheathed his blade while sliding his left leg backwards slightly while adjusting his right forward and to the right more so; simultaneously. He lifted his blade while clasping the width of the hilt with both hands. The right hand higher and left lower with the last two fingers cradling the bottom of the hilt. The blade rested parallel the ground running lengthwise with it hovering only a few inches from his face and level to his cheekbone. His elbows bent in such a way that he could snap his arms forward to strike or defend, and quietly, he waited for the long haired swordsman's advance.

[Naran Batkuyag]

The green haired swordsman, Duma, honored her introduction with his own. Naran found it to be a strange name, not entirely...Sacaen, in truth, but she paid that little mind. He was obviously Sacaen, at least in her eyes. Duma continued to state that he had not heard of the Batkuyag, and likely the Onstetsteg as well. Naran could only smirk a bit at this. She could imagine her father's brow twitching, taking it as a small slight but doing his best to play it off. Sacae was a vast land and the Batkuyag were a young tribe. Naran knew this, and took no slight to this. Rather she appreciated Duma's honesty.

"That is fine Duma. The Batkuyag are a young tribe, and for many years we have been small, but we are going. Hopefully our fighters will make Sacae proud when they arrive at the camp." Though Naran spoke, she did notice that Duma's attention shifted to the quieter swordsman. Hm, she rather liked having the spotlight. Not so much losing it. But she was not so immature as to pout about it.

Instead Naran watched and listened as Duma spoke to the silent swordsman, issuing a challenge for a duel rather swiftly. This was not all too strange. In fact it was almost infamously common. Naran had heard tales of Sacaen sword masters meeting each other on the fields, merely making eye contact before trying to see who could end a duel at first draw. Most of the specific tales she heard were of myth and legend, of Sacaen heroes who may or may not have ever existed, but the practice itself was very much real. At least it was once.

So Naran's eyes lit up when Mizuyuki met Duma's challenge in the most straightforward way imaginable: he drew his blade and took a stance. The chieftain's daughter did not expect to be witness to a duel. However she was curious as to how this would play out. Evidently the dragon tattoos on Mizuyuki's shoulder were meant to be symbolic or a sign of his prowess in combat.

...That said, she would be lying if she did not admit on some level that part of her excitement stemmed from how attractive both warriors were. This was certainly quite the treat after a long ride.

"I assume you men know the rules of a duel." She stated simply, taking a step closer before sitting down on the grass, crossing her legs. "But I shall referee, just in case."

[Duma]

It seemed that the young woman didn’t seem to mind that Duma did not know about her tribe. That was a relief. The last thing Duma wanted to do was accidentally hurt a young woman’s feelings. He nodded softly at the young woman’s sentiment of hope for her tribe. Sacae needed all of her warriors to defend her, tribal size was no issue. The important part was that each tribe would come together to beat the common enemy. In this case it was Etruria and the mad prophet.

“Your tribe would be welcome at the meet. Sacae needs all her children together in order to defend her borders and people.” He was trying to be friendly towards Naran. Even though she wasn’t his primary concern. Duma returned his attention back towards the man with the dragon tattoo. His response to the duel was obvious. The dragon tattooed man stared at him and drew his blade. Duma kept his expression neutral. He needed to learn more about this man and his behavior. This was difficult as the pair of them had literally just met a merely a moment ago. The green haired swordsman nodded quietly at the tattooed man. Even though Duma had kept his expression neutral, this was merely a means for him to mask his true emotions. Duma was actually happy he was about to go into a duel with someone of this skill. Excited even. He needed to steady himself and his emotions. This man was to be his opponent. He needed to be serious in both mind and body.

Duma took a small half step back and drew his own blade. A katana like blade made of hard iron. The blade itself was nothing fancy. A simple but sturdy iron sword that had seen him through many battles. Duma flipped the sword over so that the blunt edge faced the bottom and the bladed edge faced upwards. This was his manner of ensuring some sort of safety in duels. He had no intentions to kill the man. No, he wanted to see this man fight with everything he had. He wanted to learn from this man. He wanted to use the knowledge of this duel to further his own sword skills.

“Yes, Naran. I believe we are both well versed in the rules of duels. I accept you as a referee.” He did not really have much of a choice. Naran was the only one here to watch this spectacle. Duma spent a few moments clearing his mind. The emotions of the duel were slowly pushed away. His mind emptied and he could focus solely on the man in front of him. Once he felt that he was truly ready, only then did he raise his blade upwards, and took a common stance.

[Mizuyuki]

Each inhale was steady. His chest rising slowly at a uniform rate through out his body while he held his blade in tightened grasp. His poise still that as if he were ready to fight a foe to the death, blade pointed at his sparing partner while he briefly reveled in the gentle caress of the sacaen wind along his slightly sweat laden frame. His skin still heated from his morning exertions, and the sun-kissed torso of his feeling a wave of minuscule shivers traverse the length of his spine from the mixture of heated flesh and cooling gales. Feet slowly spread apart, wordlessly readying himself and entering that important state of mind where almost every minute detail became distinguishable. He ignored the world around him. Reality collapsing inwards and darkened as his sole focus became his immediate environment and that of his foe.

His brown hair lightly clung to his face, and his gaze so normally stained with darkened emotions was almost perfectly devoid. Calm. At peace. As if eternal balance had been attained and the struggles of life washed away, carried by currents of a mighty river. Mizuyuki's steady exhales through his lips, which barely parted to release such, flowed seamlessly from composed inhalation while he readied himself. The slightest of warnings for his advance came in that hanging lapse of time when he abruptly, for a fraction of a second, leaned backwards before he took his first step.

Grass rustled beneath him as Mizuyuki began to take a few steps forward. Each one, confident. Purposeful. Strong. Each one faster than the other. Until after the fourth step, his body lurched forwards and he briefly flipped his blade mid-air and adjusted it to the underhand grip of Form II, while pivoting his wrist as he snatched it so that the dull edge of the blade became the facing one. His darting speed utilized by a mid-twist while sweeping the dull end of the blade to the mid section of Duma's knees even as he pivoted his feet so that he slid to the left within the verdite silken Sacaen grass. His fingers now coiled around his hilt and brandished it with a fluidic grace, as if wielding an extension of his own hand. The diagonally left faced angle of his blade while he swept it would easily allow a transition into Form III if needed while also retaining the abstract striking direction of assault.

[Duma]

(OOC-I'm so sorry this took so long.)

Duma watched the opposing swordsman. He was watching. Waiting. Waiting to see if he could spy any sort of little visual cues that would give away what sort of attack the brown haired man would use. But, the opposing swordsman was well disciplined. Weaker or inexperienced swordsman would have acted with more gusto. They would have cracked the knuckles of their sword hand or let out some sort of cocky taunt. This swordsman did neither. Duma briefly felt the corner of his mouth twitch in a motion that might have resembled a smirk. The nameless swordsman ran forward with cold calculating steps. He made a motion with his blade and flipped it into a reverse grip style. If Duma wasn’t so focused, he would be relieved at the motion. It meant that he wasn’t going to get sliced by a blade.

The brown haired man struck at him. A simple yet effective diagonal slash. A sweeping move intended to disable his knees. Duma wouldn’t let that happen. A swordsman needed his foot work in order to survive the battlefield. Duma swiftly rotated his wrist so that his blade faced downwards to parry the blow. He turned the blade slightly so that the broadest side faced forward, thus giving him a bit more defense. Both his hands were on his sword. One on the hilt of the blade to grip, the other on the flat end to provide a bit more support. Once the two blades met Duma began to move. He pulled his sword back and took did a half circular stepping motion. He swung his blade upwards towards his opponent. His intention was to use the movement of his opponent against him and attempt to disarm the foe with powerful calculated movements. Duma was quick but not as quick as some of the other swordsmen out there. His style while it resembled that of the Nomads wasn’t as refined. His was more of a hybrid of strength, speed, and defense. It had the ability to adapt to the battle that lay in front of him. And he hoped that this adaptability would be what helped him win this duel.

[Mizuyuki]

The longer haired male was definitively skilled. His precise response. The speed and power blended into a balance that conveyed as Mizuyuki spun his left foot to the side and danced around the male reflexively while he advanced with striking blade. His body twisted while he maintained that very strict distance and proportion to Duma as per his form. His blade briefly colliding into and deflecting the swordsman's strike before Mizuyuki rebounded off the strike as if using his opponent's force to direct his own momentum. It allowed him to spin to the right around Duma and step back three times before he flipped his blade back from reverse grip to proper grip while facing the dull edge still towards his dueling partner.

His pulse quickened. Pupils dilated. Chills traversed the length of his spine, and his breathing though steady, quickened in intervals. An energy rushed through his veins as Mizuyuki's adrenaline sky-rocketed. The sheer thrill and rush of a duel with actual steel had been lost on him for some time. With his body rested, and fine-tuned through previous fatigue into his rejuvenated point, he felt like he was more clairvoyant. This was a phenomena that most swordsmen experienced. Mizuyuki relished it. This duel had only just started, and he was already beginning to find a constructive outlet in it. Pale hands gripped his blade's hilt while he slowly lifted it out and to his right, straight out as if he was currently attempting to split the sky. His legs briefly adjusted into the stance best known with Form III, and swept once more into the bout with a particular style of combat guiding his hand. A pre-created and taught move within that point, one of his styles many "dances."


Crescent Dance- Waning


Mizuyuki swept his blade in a large arc that trailed from downwards while sweeping past Duma. In a clockwise motion both hands guided it with his left foot extending as he swept his leg out as well to attempt a hook behind Duma's leg with the blade's flat end (which was in turn symbolic of the blade's edge) to catch against his side if the leg sweep failed or to rise up and meet the bisecting point of his upper and lower torso via his southern most base of the spine. It was a move that relied upon him fully utilizing his speed. Mizuyuki was far more gifted in agility and dexterity than actual power, relying on the edge of his blade in lethal combat to do the true damage. As with any sword wielder, his blade was his truest strength.

[Duma]

This opposing swordsman was truly skilled. One whom lived, breathed, and would probably die for the sword. The power and strength of one born, raised, and trained upon the plains. But, he would show him. He would show him the power of his questionable roots how he could bend and sway as well as any Sacean. The brown haired man swept his sword at him, a downwards to upwards diagonal strike. One that resembled a crescent moon, he knew a sweeping motion of some kind was on it’s way.

Duma was forced to spin on his heels and jump. He was forced to bring his blade downwards to meet his opponents. Duma did not want to get hit with any part of his opponent's sword. His swing was just as hard as the last one again with the intention to disarm his opponent. Or at the very least wear him down so as to slow his movements down. But, this duel was in it’s infancy he doubted the young man would buckle so easily. He was forced to jump back shortly afterwards so as to gain some distance. He exhaled hard before he ran forward. Both hands on his blade with intention to strike at Mizuki with a simple horizontal slice. Duma needed to keep up the offensive if he wanted to win. He suspected that Mizuki did not have much stamina as most Saceans he met were forced to rely on their speed and agility to kill their foes before they were killed themselves. All that speed and agility took tolls on the body. Tolls that he’d have to find a way to exploit. If he could find it.. find that one moment of weakness he could win this.

---

Per cbox moving on to another thread.