20: Duel
“I will not accept ‘no’ for an answer, old friend. Here. Catch.”
Storm looked up and reflexively caught a long, cloth-wrapped package as it came flying at her, thrown by a red-clothed Miqo’te with an absolutely aggravating grin on his face. She didn’t need to ask what the object was, not when she’d made it herself decades ago. Not when it hummed in recognition already. “You’re insane, Rhun. You know I hung up the Red twenty-two years ago. I don’t even carry the stone anymore.”
X’rhun’s grin turned into a smirk as he tossed a small jeweler’s box at her. “Well, ‘tis a good thing your teacher anticipated that little problem, isn’t it?”
“...you and Papa are such assholes,” Storm muttered, tucking the package under an arm for a moment so she could open the box. A brilliant, teardrop-shaped stone of blood-red caught the sunlight and shimmered, then shone and sang in harmony with the package as it came in contact with her aether. She closed her eyes and hummed as she took the stone out of its cushion of velvet, her thumb gently rubbing the stylized rapier etched on its surface. The soft music continued as she tucked it securely into the pocket where her Dragoon stone was kept, and surprisingly, both began to harmonize with each other.
-Well, then. Grumpy Jumpy is about to have a litter of kittens,- Hekaarn mused, tilting his head curiously, ignoring Estinien’s annoyed glare.
“You’re stalling, Spark.” X’rhun flicked his tail and crossed his arms. “Unless, of course, you’re finally admitting I’m the superior duelist…”
That pricked her pride and finally drove her to unwrap the long object, the fabric falling away to reveal a long, deceptively simple rapier, with elegant golden swirls making their way down the blade. The handguard was a pair of stylized red bird’s wings, and the pommel nut looked like the empty prongs of a jewel setting. As Storm took it in her right hand, it flared to fiery life, with feathers of flame exploding around her, briefly manifesting in a pair of ephemeral wings at her back before subsiding. A matching focus hovered over her left shoulder, and, unknown to her, her eyes were also replaced by flame as she took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.
“I–hold on–what?!” Alisaie shrieked, staring at Storm. “Estinien? Hekaarn? Are you seeing this?”
“She never could resist being a bloody showoff,” Estinien grumbled from where he stood by Hekaarn.
As the flames on her body died down, Storm opened her eyes and regarded X’rhun. He wore the classic attire of the Crimson Duelists; she wore sturdy black boots, everyday black trousers, plain black gloves, and a deep-red blouse. Tradition versus commonplace. The past versus the present.
Without thinking about what she was doing, Storm threw Fyrhaerz skyward, shook her shoulders loose, and slid into position, effortlessly catching the rapier as it tumbled back to her hand. She brought it up in a salute, and a grinning X’rhun did likewise. There was a heartbeat of silence before the duelists dashed toward each other, sparks flying as their blades flashed and clashed too quickly for their stunned observers to follow. Spellwork followed swordwork, until it became impossible to tell whether the whipping wind carried the sounds of magic detonations or laughter and the taunting banter between two very, very old friends.
Perhaps both. Likely both. Alisaie watched her mentor with delight, and Estinien stared at his former rival-turned-close friend with baffled amazement. Hekaarn was simply delighted, glorying in his Dragoon’s infectious joy.
