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Steel against steel, silver-gray shining as it clashed against gold-
The sound of iron reverberated throughout the arena. Hornet dug her heel into the ground, pivoting quickly to the left to avoid being gouged by Lace’s pin.
A delicate, dangerous dance, even though they were fighting with their blades dulled and inhibitions lowered. Lace had recovered gracefully, leaving no window of overextension for Hornet to punish, the way a less skilled fencer may have. Hornet narrowed her eyes. Good. She was learning. Earlier, the silk-child had offered to tip her pin, an offer which Hornet promptly rejected.
What was even the point, if there was no possibility of pain? Besides, she wanted to reduce the number of excuses the child could have when she lost.
To a less skilled observer, it would seem their fighting styles were much the same. Slashes, swings, parries and counters- Hornet’s blade caught the side of Lace’s bonnet, nicking the silk just barely- But the favoured weapons of the two champions had two key fundamental differences.
One: the needle was sharpened all around, capable of cleaving cleanly through smaller foes, and leaving long, weeping gashes through larger. A swing at an enemy leveraged the weight of the weapon to provide the momentum, allowing a practiced wielder such as herself to cut through even the toughest exoskeletons with a sharp enough blade-
But a slash pierced but flesh, rarely ever enough to create a mortal wound, and certainly not enough to reach vital organs. Driving a blade like that through someone required time, precious nanoseconds that she could never spare in a proper fight. She could study the anatomy of her foes all she liked, and prioritize blows to the soft necks, stomach, chests- but the blunt force of a swing lacked the decisiveness of a stab. Hornet’s needle, though not as heavy as the nails of her siblings, was still too heavy to make consistent stabbing viable, except for when it came time to land the killing blow.
A sharp contrast to the deadly effectiveness of Pharloom’s chosen weapon. Wind whistled past as Lace’s pin again rushed towards her, and Hornet was slow on the parry, wincing once she felt its sting erupt beneath the shell of her chest. Kicking back against the ground, she was able to grab a few meters of distance to recover.
The second difference was that Pins were light. Dull along the entire length, and sharpened only on the tips, pins were designed to skewer. The Forge had carefully mastered the craft of forging these weapons to be durable, flexible, sharp. The focused tip and rounded breadth of the weapon meant that they could pierce entirely through all but the toughest of shells. Earlier warning blows characterized themselves as quick, painful jabs, while more deadly attacks drove nails as deep into flesh as they could possibly reach.
A clean stab from the light weapon meant certain death for most common bugs.
Lace had explained before how Citadel writings generally encouraged warriors to target the hearts, providing a quick, painless death. Lace chose to do it for efficiency’s sake, or so she had claimed. When Hornet had asked why she didn’t immediately pierce clear through her heart upon their first encounter, so many years ago, she had laughed.
“Where would be the fun in that? I was trying to savor the delicious thrill of striking you down-“
And fun she was having even now, Lace sneered at her from across the Greymoor plains, flicking Hornet’s hemolymph from her pintip.
“Have you had enough of my blade? Or do you desire another taste?”
Ignoring the taunt, Hornet leapt towards her enemy. Blade swished through the air, towards Lace’s midriff, only to be stopped by gilded metal. Hornet ducked under Lace’s counterattack, claws outstretched to grapple at her legs, only for her foe to leap over her.
Dammit. Hornet spun around quickly, to face her foe, cloak billowing around her as she made her recovery.
Circling, stalking. Both duelists eyed the other, one a bit more wearily than the other. Lace was still haughty, drunk in the confidence granted to her by her earlier, successful strike.
“We can call it here, if you’d like. Then we may return home, nurse your wounds… while I reap the fruits of my victory.”
Because while Hornet trained herself to steel, muscle and athleticism molded painfully from decades of practice, Lace never had much interest in things of the sort. At most, she would agree, ‘if only for a bit of entertainment in this dull, dreary town.’
Tonight's prize was a tin of pickled Verdanian petals that Creig had graciously gifted them for a holiday several months back. Hornet had no idea what either of them were going to do with it.
Sensing an opening, Hornet struck once more. Lace missed the parry this time, and Hornet was able to successfully land a blow (with the flat of her blade) against Lace’s hip. Lace yelped, twisting her pin to knock her needle away.
Hornet didn’t allow her a chance for proper recovery. On the offence now, she pressed forwards, clinks and clanks of weapon on weapon burning in her ears. Her arms trembled, eyes sharp, waiting for an overextension of any sort, any opening she could punish with a final, definitive blow.
Lace’s pale eyes were narrowed in concentration, feeling the pressure from her attacks. Retreating was the less favorable option for her: it meant that Hornet was setting the pace.
Lace faltered in a step, foot catching on soil. Unbalanced, she was one second too late in her parry. Though she was able to catch the attack with her blade, she was still recovering from the recoil when Hornet swung down, determined to incapacitate her with a strike to the knees-
Schink-
Her weapon was wrested from her hand. Lace had smashed her foot down into the flat of the blade; away from Hornet’s grasp. A kick sent the needle out of reach.
Disarmed, Hornet laughed.