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By the time their meeting had concluded, the pale moonlight was illuminating the shore and trees framing the clearing swished to the soft breeze. Two men situated themselves at the scene, brought together by a strain of trust for one another and their mutual lust for blood.
“Hey, Spar with me for a moment.”
Ewron, who had been crouched upon the grass and messing with the various items in his backpack, turned back towards Ash, standing tall with his hands resting idly on the sheath of his sword. It truly made the man look like the leader he was, elegant, confident, and ready for anything even when his guard was supposedly down.
“Huh? like, right now?”, Ewron had stopped fussing with his backpack, seemingly having abandoned his relocation of junk for a less strenuous journey home.
Ash’s eyes crinkled, a smile situated on his face, goading Ewron onwards, "What's wrong with wanting to test the sharpness of my blade, hmm?”
Whether he was referring to his partner or the man's own sword, still held in its silver-encrusted confinements Ewron did not know, but ever the confident man he took the bait. Hook, line and sinker.
“Of course,” As he stood, dusting off his knees from where he had been on the grass just moments prior, “I hope you're prepared to be floored, my assassin.”
A short laugh resounded from Ash, the noise rich to Ewron’s ears, “Confidence can be an insidious killer.”
“Ah, but so am I.”
Ewron drew his blade, the metal glistened under the light, beautiful and yet oh-so dangerous, his grip was steady and came to him naturally after many years of practise, thumb resting under the crossguard like it belonged. A worthy blade and a worthy assassin.
Ash rolled his eyes though his lips curled into a smirk, betraying his seeming annoyance, “Yeah, I’m sure you are.”
Promptly, the man before him shed his coat, dropping it upon the ground and kicking it to the side as if it was of no import at the moment. Left clad in only the remainder of his dark regime uniform, he took an anticipating stance and shifted his weight onto his back leg. He knew Ewron well enough to know his plan for the duel. He kept his sword, now drawn in a long guard position trailing behind himself.
The red panda hybrid’s pupils narrowed, taunted, it always felt as though Ash knew what he was about to do before he even did it like he were an open book for the other man to enjoy as he pleases.
They circled one another to the tune of the night wind, blades in hand, a dance so familiar to the two fighters. Ewron kept low, as if ready to pounce and cut down the other man while Ash kept his amethyst eyes trained on the other man, face now blank and unreadable. Birds rested on branches like spectators, a crowd of beady eyes observing from the comfort of their woodland home.
One bird gave a caw, a random noise in the song of the night, and Ewron dashed quickly as if on que, aiming his strike at the man's shoulder, hard enough to cut but not to cause serious harm. Ash blocked with the blunt edge and pushed forward, utilizing the weight he put in his back leg to try to knock Ewron off balance but the red panda had seemed to anticipate the action and strafed back swiftly.
Ewron got low and struck the other side, this time Ash went to block early and meet the swing with force but the sound of metal meeting metal never came, just the swing of Ewron redirecting his hit, a feign it seems. Ash barely had the time to block with a loud clang, the force of the blow echoing up all the way to the shoulder of his sword hand, pacing a few steps back while Ewron gave a small chuckle.
“Come on! You fight like an old man.” He taunted, tail swishing behind him, excited and mesmerizing, a stark contrast to the state of the man it was attached to, “Remind me again which one of us is older?”
Ash adjusted his stance to one of offense, blade at shoulder level, pointed directly at the man playfully mocking him, two can play at this game. “Why’s it matter? I can keep pace with you just fine.”
“Not for long, I’m sure.” Ewron punctuated the sentence with a flourish, ever the show-off, “I’ve been wielding swords before you were even born.”
He laughed, while Ash doubted the validity of the statement, picturing little Ewron; all wide-eyed, gripping a sword that was much too tall and too heavy for his stature, it was frankly adorable. Doubtlessly, some of the scars on his hands came from his younger days - probably from attempting to look cool and flourishing his blade and nicking his fingers.
This time, as soon as he shook off the mental image, he leapt towards Ewron, their blades clashing with swings exchanged back and forth, echoing through the empty night, what wildlife hadn’t been scared off at the noise eagerly watched with baited breath. Their blades swing simultaneously, stuck between the strength of the two assassins, ocean blues staring into purple eyes, sweat glistened on their respective brows, the aching in their bones lay forgotten in their performance.
Parrying the next attack, Ash pivoted and aimed to push his blade downwards above Ewron's, drinking up the momentary shock on the man's face, he landed a blow to his face with the hilt of his sword, connecting right above the red panda's chin.
Ewron stumbled back, dazed. Ash could’ve followed the movement, walking towards him with the tip of his sword pointed, an easy victory, checkmate, but that was much too simple. For the first time in a long time he found himself enjoying the heat of the battle, no more tiresome worries about the regime and conflict between the many factions that bore fret to him.
A tiny stream of crimson trailed down from Ewron’s busted lips, the warmth of blood igniting a fire within the man who bore his teeth, flecks of red upon white. He charged at Ash, all tact simply forgotten and replaced with an animal-like frenzy.
Before Ash could react, his back met the dirt with a groan, dust kicked up with the sheer impact, grass doing naught to soften his fall. His sword clanked against the ground somewhere besides him, unseen and forgotten. Futilely, he attempted to raise his head but the tell-tale sharpness of a blade hung above the flesh of his neck, a dangerous promise if he dare move a muscle, he instead chose to grab at the hand holding it, clucking the white sleeve of the man who was now straddling him.
Above him, Ewron had a pleased expression upon his reddened face, ginger hair adorned with streaks of pale white dishevelled, hood having long since come off in the midst of battle, his breath was ragged, close enough to mix with Ash’s own, chest heaving with effort. His thighs pinned his mid section to the ground, a steady weight.
“Do you yield, my assassin?”
Ash pondered for a moment, the position he was in was rather bothersome, Does he yield? An idea suddenly popped into his head, once again he smirked.
While one of his hands was holding Ewron’s wrist, the other lay limply by his side - seemingly forgotten by the man above him, he grazed his hand on the soft curve of Ewron’s waist, the man's eyes widened in response and his ears twitched. The soft caress sent a shiver down Ewron’s spine, he tried not to let his resolve waver, digging the blade into the dictator's neck, threatening to split the skin open.
Then the heat of the man's hand left, moving further behind his waist and- Wait a minuet-
“Ash! Don't you fucking-”
Grabbed the base of his tail and yanked backwards.
Ewron’s groan caught in his throat, in his moment of breathlessness Ash reversed their positions, the ache in his back at being thrown against the ground and having his sword arm pinned to the ground. He tried to pry the man looming above off of him but his other hand soon joined the one pinned to the grass below, moisture seeped into his clothing but he didn’t care.
He made the mistake of looking at the man above him, his assassin, black curls hanging down from his face, mouth parted in deep breaths, only then did he feel his exhausting catching up to him - no doubt Ash felt it too. Ash’s gaze, which was trained at his face, flickered downwards and lingered on his lips, busted and covered in the blood that he himself had inflicted. He wondered for a moment, how his blood would taste, a strong flavour of iron, strong like the man, his blade, pinned below his weight.
Ewron remained silent save for every breath that stung his throat, uncharacteristic of the man he had come to know intimately.
Ash leaned down, they were only separated by mere inches, he caught the scent of the man writhing below him, sword-oil and dew, almost intoxicating.
“Do you yield, my blade?”
The man remained stumped, eyes wide and pupils blown, trying his makeshift bounds once, twice, then falling limp with no reply. His face was warm, whether from heat or battle he was unsure, likely a maddening mix of both.
He sputtered, “I- Uh,”
The other man took it as a sign, he smiled and got up, granting the man underneath him freedom. Ash looked down at his clothes and sighed internally, the fabric was cut and torn in places, likely bloody too though the dark colouring of the garments hid it quite well, dirt caked his pants and quite frankly, he didn’t want to know how awful it looked from the back.
He glanced back at Ewron, who had sat up by now yet remained dazed, clothes asunder and about as worse-for-wear as himself, (he almost pitied the poor man, there’s no way that much dirt would wash out of his white uniform.).
Gathering his coat and sword, which had found a home under a nearby tree trunk, he spoke, “It seems I win our little duel then.”
It seemed to knock Ewron out of his stupor, face crumpled in annoyance and ears downcast, “That was hardly a victory! You played dirty!”
He rubbed the back of his head, easing the pain of his previous fall.
Ewron added under his breath in a whisper, “At least buy a man dinner first before you go for the tail…”
Ash laughed softly, offering Ewron his hand so he could stand.
“All is fair in love and war, my blade.”