Samuel vs Narciso
A dark-haired woman in a firebird mask takes Samuel and Narciso to a ring of red roses: Fencing. The musician nearby strikes up an anticipatory note in the song she plays.
“Begin,” says the firebird.
(Samuel Blackleaf takes first post.)
The man is clad in a dazzling parabolan-linen tailcoat, each thread a brilliant shade of dreams and light. He unbuttons it, revealing a waistcoat of the same fabric adorned with scarlet red patterns, and beneath that a deep amber coloured shirt. As he removes the tailcoat he reaches for a scabbard that hides a dulled foil. Soon the brilliant tailcoat hangs on a nearby pillar and the man steps across the roses, carefully observing the size of the ring.
Although masked it is easy to see that he looks neither at the crowd, opponent nor judge as he raises his arm into the air, seemingly measuring some sort of distance in his mind. After a few seconds he lowers it with a content sigh, resting the hand on the grip of the foil. The face adorned with a Volto mask briefly looks at the judge, but then focuses on the opponent. The mask that he wears covers the face above the bridge of the nose and is adorned with shards of cosmogone glass. It’s a difficult veil to describe. Perhaps they glimmer like the rays of the sunset, or maybe they look more like a broken mirror to another individual.
“Salve, Narciso. With fashion and presentation like that I rather doubt you are an impostor, you might just be our city’s bearer of that particular alias.”
The fingers reach around the grip, waiting for his opponent to respond or draw their blade. “This will be intriguing. Your reputation is far told, and I didn’t expect that I would have the luxury of facing you as my first opponent.”
“You flatter me, my friend!” Narciso’s mask is a thing of gold leaf and sheet music, a song written on his smiling face. Over his fencer’s jacket he wears a mantle of white raven’s feathers, which he removes for the bout with a whirl, the better to draw and test his foil. “Don’t stop, of course. Only let me return the favor – that mask is an inspiration –”
Blackleaf hold his position on the far end of the circle, carefully positioning his feet. “I think we should be unimpaired as it is, no need for further undressing.” He reaches to straighten a white cravat, the hand running across his chin. “Ready?” The man asks with his baritone, right hand on the grip of the foil and a swift pull releasing the weapon. He gestures a salute with it and stands in a neutral position, waiting to adapt to Narciso’s response.
The mutual respect and shared fondness for dramatics between the contestants is keeping the crowd and the judge in suspense.
