#face edit

[Male Hound Version]

One could always tell to what extent a swordsman had honed their skills by the way they held their sword.

A true and tested one would always be mindful of how strong their grip was, how they would shift their stance and weight with each changing thrust and strike. Grip the sword too firm, and you'd lose fluidity as well as balance with each movement. Grip it too loose, and you'd risk losing not just your blade but your stance even by the tiniest bit of contact against your opponent's blade.

Clearly, the knight in pale armor knew all this. Yet, for one who had been hailed as the most promising recruit of this year, all theory and practice seemed to flow out of the window the moment he stood inside the ring of dirt.

His posture was way too rigid, both of his hands clenching and unclenching on his sword's hilt, his feet stiffly planted on the ground. The eyes that peered from behind his helmet were narrowed, and the wisps of fog that formed around the lower half of his face was a tell-tale sign that his breathing was getting uneven.

And this was the result of merely trading two blows with you.

The cold, damp air of early winter was marring the morning, but it seemed that the temperature was not going to get in the fun of House Venegard's employed hands. Cheers and shouts from onlooking squires and knights were all that you could hear. The crowd was pushing the young knight before you to take another chance, to take another launch. The rowdy bunch standing just outside the makeshift dirt arena had been nothing but loud and boisterous, yet the young knight ignored them and chose to stand still. Playing defense now, weren't we?

No, matter. You were never one to indulge in new recruits' antics anyway.

With three swift steps, you aimed your strike in a wide blow to the knight's left. He managed to parry it well without flinching. Good strength, you supposed. Good eye, too, if only a little bit too easy to fool.

You retracted your blade mere inches away from your opponent, then bent the tip upward. A sharp slash from below almost threw the knight's balance off, and haphazardly he took a step back to right his grip and stance before you could go for another take.

"Go easy on him, Lord Gwenvael!" shouted a squire. Despite his plea, his voice cackled with too much glee.

A young knight beside the squire cupped his hands around his mouth and screamed, "Don't lose, Rowan! I'm betting a round for everybody on the tavern tonight!"

Were there no layer of steel to obscure Rowan the young knight's face from you and the crowd, fear would undoubtedly have been the first and most apparent emotion to be etched there. Trepidation would be a close second, you presumed, when you saw Rowan uneasily bouncing his weight from one feet to the other.

Unlike Rowan, you were wearing no helmet, and so, your face was for everyone to see. Even so, nothing betrayed the blank expression you wore.

"Give him three more strikes else I lose my purse, My Lord!" shouted a senior servant, one whom you recognized to have been directly employed for years under your eldest sister. "I bet him to last at least seven blows against you!"

Seven, huh? Well, that was generous.

You let your head tilt to one side to inform the crowd that you were in on their game. This was, after all, not a duel to the death to prove who was stronger than who. What was it, then? Truthfully, this had started merely as a jest, proposed by the knight himself and his new batch of friends upon receiving their title a mere fortnight ago. Drunken with pride and enthusiasm, newly appointed Rowan and his peers had declared that they, the new blood, could surely stand on par with the Seventh-born of Venegard himself.

To cut long story short, what had started as a drunken boasting travelled to the barracks, and some senior recruits considered it proper to grant these so-called "blessed new blood" a chance to cross blades with you. Training new flesh was rarely ever included in your duty, but after a long season of campaign that had carried you away from home for almost half a year, your eldest sister found the idea to be amusing enough to entertain.

"Goad them a little, Gwenvael. Humor the senior knights," she had said. There had been a rare, coy glint in your sister's steely blue eyes. "Let the younglings know what it truly means to serve under our banner."

This was supposed to be your much-deserved resting period, your time to recuperate from exhaustion and heal, but you had not tried to oppose. Your sister's words, just like your parents', were rules in the Venegard household.

You had only tilted your head in response, knowing that your sister would be able to read your question though it was not signed. "How do you want me to handle it?"

A cold grin had spread on your sister's lips. "However you see fit."

The merry shouting around you brought you back to the present moment. Your opponent, Rowan, had not moved a single step from where he stood, and as you refocused your gaze on him, you could see how he had trouble controlling the rhythm of his breathing. Despite being similar to you in build and height, he appeared to have shrunken several inches due to the way his shoulders were hunched.

You jerked your chin curtly towards the apprehensive knight. "Come."

You wouldn't expect him to understand Sign language, but a simple, universal gesture of taunting like that should serve as well.

Tentatively, Rowan took a half step forward. Another step, then he lunged at you, bringing down his sword in a vertical movement.

Steel met steel once again. This time, you didn't withdraw or deflect. You had given this young knight too many chances to recollect himself.

So, letting a measured burst of magic flow through your arms and legs, you side-stepped into his range in what would have looked like a blur of motion, towards his unguarded side, and connected your steel-gloved fist to his waist. Rowan was taken aback and spluttered a cough at the unexpected rebuttal, and you wasted no time to bash your sword against his.

You let go more of your restraint with this one attack, and a poorly defended Rowan was instantly blown back by the the burst of your magic-induced strength. He collapsed butt-first against some onlookers who were too surprised to steer out of their way, collective gasps and "oohs" resounding from all around you.

"Twelve times," you signed.

The crowd went silent as a boy, your personal squire and translator, voiced your words aloud.

"I could have bested him and taken his life twelve times in this short while. Should we go for another minute, that number could easily go up to twenty and only a handful of you, fresh recruits, would even know it." Poor defenses. Rigid posture. Uneven stance. The list could go on. "Yet I chose to end this early for your sakes as well as his."

You let your gaze travel from man to man, surveying the now silent crowd around you impassively. "New blood or old, you should aim to always prove yourselves with skills instead of jests."

With that, you turned around and directed your steps towards the barracks. The crowd parted their way to let you pass without as much as a word, and from a distance, you could spot your eldest sister standing near a window. She'd been watching, you knew.

Your sister's head moved in an almost imperceptible nod.

Well done.

You let tension fall off your shoulders. All good, then.

Now that the game was over, you could go back to your rest before another season of contest started. You didn't know how many days you may have, but you would try to enjoy whatever moment of respite that was given to you.

Half-running to match your stride, your boy squire appeared beside you and you handed your sword to him. He delicately put the blade back into its sheath. "My Lord, if I may..."

You glanced down at him.

"You were being lenient on Sir Rowan, correct?" the boy asked. His voice was unsure, as if he was afraid of crossing a line. He'd been assigned to you only for less than a week as your translator. But at the subtle nod you gave him, the boy gained courage and decided to continue." Umm, I'm just wondering... How many blows would it take you to defeat him if you were to put in your all..."

You looked at the boy for a moment, at the wide brown eyes that were full of wonder and innocent worship, at the way he was cradling your sword in his hold. Had you also been like him back then? Starstruck and entranced at the idea of merely wielding a sword not made out of wood? Had you also looked at your brother, Saraah, with the same eyes each time he'd come home from a prolonged season of fighting?

It didn't take long for you to ponder an answer. "Three, if he was less nervous than he was," you signed. "One, otherwise."

"One," the boy breathed, eyes getting impossibly wider.

"One blow. To the neck," you affirmed. "He might have fared better had he not let his nerves control his every movement. The way he stood and held his blade were lousy, and he let his left shoulder exposed. I would have gone for his neck to take advantage of that opening."

At your explanation, the boy slowly nodded and grinned, unconsciously hugging your sheathed blade closer to his chest as if it were some precious trophy. "One fatal strike to the neck... Amazing. Just like a hunting hound."

You almost paused in your tracks. "Pardon?"

"Like a predatory hound charging in for its prey," the boy exclaimed. Brown orbs were now positively gleaming, and you knew not what to make out of it when the boy directed his star-glazed eyes upon you. "That, you are, My Lord."

[Female Hound Version]

One could always tell to what extent a swordsman had honed their skills by the way they held their sword.

A true and tested one would always be mindful of how strong their grip was, how they would shift their stance and weight with each changing thrust and strike. Grip the sword too firm, and you'd lose fluidity as well as balance with each movement. Grip it too loose, and you'd risk losing not just your blade but your stance even by the tiniest bit of contact against your opponent's blade.

Clearly, the knight in pale armor knew all this. Yet, for one who had been hailed as the most promising recruit of this year, all theory and practice seemed to flow out of the window the moment he stood inside the ring of dirt.

His posture was way too rigid, both of his hands clenching and unclenching on his sword's hilt, his feet stiffly planted on the ground. The eyes that peered from behind his helmet were narrowed, and the wisps of fog that formed around the lower half of his face was a tell-tale sign that his breathing was getting uneven.

And this was the result of merely trading two blows with you.

The cold, damp air of early winter was marring the morning, but it seemed that the temperature was not going to get in the fun of House Venegard's employed hands. Cheers and shouts from onlooking squires and knights were all that you could hear. The crowd was pushing the young knight before you to take another chance, to take another launch. The rowdy bunch standing just outside the makeshift dirt arena had been nothing but loud and boisterous, yet the young knight ignored them and chose to stand still. Playing defense now, weren't we?

No, matter. You were never one to indulge in new recruits' antics anyway.

With three swift steps, you aimed your strike in a wide blow to the knight's left. He managed to parry it well without flinching. Good strength, you supposed. Good eye, too, if only a little bit too easy to fool.

You retracted your blade mere inches away from your opponent, then bent the tip upward. A sharp slash from below almost threw the knight's balance off, and haphazardly he took a step back to right his grip and stance before you could go for another take.

"Go easy on him, Lady Guinevere!" shouted a squire. Despite his plea, his voice cackled with too much glee.

A young knight beside the squire cupped his hands around his mouth and screamed, "Don't lose, Rowan! I'm betting a round for everybody on the tavern tonight!"

Were there no layer of steel to obscure Rowan the young knight's face from you and the crowd, fear would undoubtedly have been the first and most apparent emotion to be etched there. Trepidation would be a close second, you presumed, when you saw Rowan uneasily bouncing his weight from one feet to the other.

Unlike Rowan, you were wearing no helmet, and so, your face was for everyone to see. Even so, nothing betrayed the blank expression you wore.

"Give him three more strikes else I lose my purse, My Lady!" shouted a senior servant, one whom you recognized to have been directly employed for years under your eldest sister. "I bet him to last at least seven blows against you!"

Seven, huh? Well, that was generous.

You let your head tilt to one side to inform the crowd that you were in on their game. This was, after all, not a duel to the death to prove who was stronger than who. What was it, then? Truthfully, this had started merely as a jest, proposed by the knight himself and his new batch of friends upon receiving their title a mere fortnight ago. Drunken with pride and enthusiasm, newly appointed Rowan and his peers had declared that they, the new blood, could surely stand on par with the Seventh-born of Venegard herself.

To cut long story short, what had started as a drunken boasting travelled to the barracks, and some senior recruits considered it proper to grant these so-called "blessed new blood" a chance to cross blades with you. Training new flesh was rarely ever included in your duty, but after a long season of campaign that had carried you away from home for almost half a year, your eldest sister found the idea to be amusing enough to entertain.

"Goad them a little, Guinevere. Humor the senior knights," she had said. There had been a rare, coy glint in your sister's steely blue eyes. "Let the younglings know what it truly means to serve under our banner."

This was supposed to be your much-deserved resting period, your time to recuperate from exhaustion and heal, but you had not tried to oppose. Your sister's words, just like your parents', were rules in the Venegard household.

You had only tilted your head in response, knowing that your sister would be able to read your question though it was not signed. "How do you want me to handle it?"

A cold grin had spread on your sister's lips. "However you see fit."

The merry shouting around you brought you back to the present moment. Your opponent, Rowan, had not moved a single step from where he stood, and as you refocused your gaze on him, you could see how he had trouble controlling the rhythm of his breathing.

You jerked your chin curtly towards the apprehensive knight. "Come."

You wouldn't expect him to understand Sign language, but a simple, universal gesture of taunting like that should serve as well.

Tentatively, Rowan took a half step forward. Funny, you idly thought. So much indecisiveness against an opponent who was merely half his size. Another step, then, tensing up shortly, Rowan lunged at you, bringing down his sword in a vertical movement.

Steel met steel once again. Any other combatant who was ignorant of your reputation would not have expected a woman of your stature to fully block against such raw strength, but you were not most women. Magic had begun to thrum in your veins.

This time, you didn't withdraw or deflect. You had given this young knight too many chances to recollect himself.

So, letting a measured burst of magic flow through your arms and legs, you side-stepped into his range in what would have looked like a blur of motion, towards his unguarded side, and connected your steel-gloved fist to his waist. Rowan was taken aback and spluttered a cough at the unexpected rebuttal, and you wasted no time to bash your sword against his.

You let go more of your restraint with this one attack, and a poorly defended Rowan was instantly blown back by the the burst of your magic-induced strength. He collapsed butt-first against some onlookers who were too surprised to steer out of their way, collective gasps and "oohs" resounding from all around you.

"Twelve times," you signed.

The crowd went silent as a boy, your personal squire and translator, voiced your words aloud.

"I could have bested him and taken his life twelve times in this short while. Should we go for another minute, that number could easily go up to twenty and only a handful of you, fresh recruits, would even know it." Poor defenses. Rigid posture. Uneven stance. The list could go on. "Yet I chose to end this early for your sakes as well as his."

You let your gaze travel from man to man, surveying the now silent crowd around you impassively. "New blood or old, you should aim to always prove yourselves with skills instead of jests."

With that, you turned around and directed your steps towards the barracks. The crowd parted their way to let you pass without as much as a word, and from a distance, you could spot your eldest sister standing near a window. She'd been watching, you knew.

Your sister's head moved in an almost imperceptible nod.

Well done.

You let tension fall off your shoulders. All good, then.

Now that the game was over, you could go back to your rest before another season of contest started. You didn't know how many days you may have, but you would try to enjoy whatever moment of respite that was given to you.

Half-running to match your stride, your boy squire appeared beside you and you handed your sword to him. He delicately put the blade back into its sheath. "My Lady, if I may..."

You glanced at him.

"You were being lenient on Sir Rowan, correct?" the boy asked. His voice was unsure, as if he was afraid of crossing a line. He'd been assigned to you only for less than a week as your translator. But at the subtle nod you gave him, the boy gained courage and decided to continue." Umm, I'm just wondering... How many blows would it take you to defeat him if you were to put in your all..."

You looked at the boy for a moment, at the wide brown eyes that were full of wonder and innocent worship, at the way he was cradling your sword in his hold. Had you also been like him back then? Starstruck and entranced at the idea of merely wielding a sword not made out of wood? Had you also looked at your brother, Saraah, with the same eyes each time he'd come home from a prolonged season of fighting?

It didn't take long for you to ponder an answer. "Three, if he was less nervous than he was," you signed. "One, otherwise."

"One," the boy breathed, eyes getting impossibly wider.

"One blow. To the neck," you affirmed. "He might have fared better had he not let his nerves control his every movement. The way he stood and held his blade were lousy, and he let his left shoulder exposed. I would have gone for his neck to take advantage of that opening."

At your explanation, the boy slowly nodded and grinned, unconsciously hugging your sheathed blade closer to his chest as if it were some precious trophy. "One fatal strike to the neck... Amazing. Just like a hunting hound."

You almost paused in your tracks. "Pardon?"