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The floor of the arena is oval in shape, stretching near one hundred fifty feet along the east-west axis and seventy-five along the north-south. The floor is made of slate set so precisely that it appears to be one solid piece. Five sparring rings are cut into the stone floor, three along the northern wall and two staggered with them along the south. Each of these rings is twenty feet in diameter with perhaps ten feet separating each from the other. A wall ten feet high surrounds this oval. A gate at the end of the north axis is the only entrance. Rising around the wall in a bowl shape are the stands, plain bleachers for the most part, although the east, west and south cardinal points have small areas separated off from the bleachers, filled with comfortable chairs apparently set aside for the nobility. On the floor of the arena at the east end of the long axis is a table with three chairs for the judges of the event.
Sholanna sits herself down on the judges table and takes out her crocheting with a semi-interested look around the area.
Sheldon is already here, standing on one side of the yard and doing a few stretching excersices to keep himself loose until his opponent arrives.
Cordell opens the gate and steps into the arena. A dark scowl covers his face as he makes his way towards the nearest weapons rack, undoing the clasp on his cape as he moves. With a flourish, he whips the cape off and hangs it on the edge of the rack. He grabs the nearest wooden hilt and pulls a practice sword out. He gives the weapon a few absent practice swings as he turns to walk towards the sparring circle where a moderator stands waiting along with his opponent. As he steps inside the ring, the dry little man standing just outside of it says,'Lord Feneval. Master De'Narr. I expect a clean spar. I will drop this scarf to signal the start of the match. When it touches the ground you may begin. When I call time, I expect you to both stop immediately. Any dishonorable attacks after that point will disqualify you. Understood?'
Sheldon nonchalantly picks a bundle of lathes up out of the rack, as if at random although he had preselected the one he wanted beforehand. He tests its weight and balance quickly by bobbing it loosely in his hand a few times before he walks out to the center of the yard. He has no flash, pomp or desire to put on a show, his 'commonness' a contrast to Cordell's flourishes. When the judge gives the instructions, he nods firmly his understanding, his dark eyes then turning toward his opponent.
Cordell squints up at the sky while the moderator speaks and then absently wipes his brow with the back of his right sleeve. When the man finishes, Cordell nods his acknowledgement and readies himself, spreading his feet shoulder width apart, the right one slightly forward and the left slightly back, practice sword held firmly in both hands, the hilt several inches in front of his left hip and the tightly bundled lathes that make up the blade angled across his body so that it passes perhaps a foot in front of his right shoulder. His golden eyes focus on the middle of Sheldon's chest and he waits. The moderator raises up a bright red silk scarf and drops it. It flutters slowly towards the ground as a judge behind the man turns a small sandglass over.
Sheldon readies himself as well, taking up a stance that is somewhat similar to that of his opponent, with feet shoulder-width apart, his knees slightly bent, and his weight forward on the balls of his feet. He holds the practice sword with both hands on the wrapped wooden hilt, holding it at his waist with the point tipped up and slight outward. He embraces the void as the scarf begins to drop, his face becoming cold and hard like stone.
The instant the fluttering piece of red silk touches the ground, Cordell says softly in that crisp, musical accent,'Let's dance.' He steps forward, right foot gliding just above the slate floor and hands coming up and to his left as he allows the wooden blade to go horizontal, then snaps his wrists, slashing from his right to his left just as his foot touches back down with a soft click, aiming to "cut" across Sheldon's upper chest, just beneath the shoulders.
Sheldon snaps his lathe straight to his right with a quick turn of his wrists, a loud 'thwock' resounding across the stadium as his sword connects with Cordell's just at his right shoulder. He then steps and leans forward and uses the added force of his weight to push Cordell's lathe back away from his shoulder and further to his right a short distance before he abruptly moves his sword back the opposite direction, pushing off of Cordell's weapon and making a hard slice straight across from Cordell's left shoulder toward his right, raising his arms a little in the process.
Cordell flows with the momentum instead of trying to stop it. He lets his wooden blade continue it's leftward trajectory, dropping slightly, and ducks hard, a soft curse not quite fit for mixed company escaping his lips as Sheldon's weapon passes over his head close enough for the wind of its passing to stir his hair. He stumbles another quick couple of steps in that direction and spins around, bring his hands hastily back up and to a spot in front of the middle of his right ribs, wooden blade angled across his body to his left and slightly downward.
Sholanna watches with mild interest as her hook takes yarn and turns it into an afghan.
Sheldon abruptly stops the follow-through of his slash with muscle alone, planting his right foot and pivoting so he can face Cordell straight-on once again. He lowers his arms back down, moving them diagonally and to his own right to close the gap he had left, bringing his lathe down with them. He follows through on that though, stepping forward and curving the motion of the blade a little, trying to take advantage of Cordell's unblance to try to hit Cordell on the neck from the other man's right side.
Cordell backpedals a couple of steps to buy time and regain balance. As he moves backwards, he slashes in an arc, up and to his right, connecting with Sheldon's practice sword just shy of the tip and just before it would have connected with his neck. Then he glides forward and to the left, stepping forward with that foot and bringing his bundle of lathes back down into its original defensive position, hilt out in front of his left hip and "blade" angled up and in front of his right shoulder, his balance finally regained. He mutters somewhat sarcastically as his amber eyes warily watch Sheldon,'I do believe you are trying to hit me.'
Sheldon smirks coldly at Cordell, bringing his own lathe up and back to a ready position, again with the tip up and pointed outward, his hands at his left hip and the tip of the sword pointed toward his right shoulder. 'That's the plan, though I'll be nice and let you go first again.' he says in an emotionless voice made cold by the void.
Cordell brings his right foot up even with his left, allowing the tip of his weapon to droop to horizontal as he moves. Then he thrusts just as his foot stamps down hard, a straight, but tentative stab towards the center of his opponent's chest, the softness of the blow well out of character for the footwork accompanying it.
Sheldon pulls his arms to the right as he plants his left foot and pivots back with his right foot, catching Cordell's thrust at the crossguard of the lathe with a soft crack of wood on wood. Only his left shoulder faces Cordell now, and the thrust of his opponent's blade catching a bit on the cloth of his shirt, which would have made an open hole were this live steel. Once Cordell's blade passes by where his chest used to be, he raises his hands, using the crossguard to try to push Cordell's blade out and up before he twists his wrists and makes a hard backhanded slash from Cordell's left to right from shoulder to breastbone.
Cordell jerks his blade back from the tentative thrust, sliding off his opponent's crossguard as the man tries to push his "blade" out of line. His feet remain planted shoulder-width apart as he pulls the hilt back to his left and up, the point angled slightly downwards, twisting his upper body slightly with that motion and raising his weapon to catch the slash in middle of his own wooden blade. A loud thwack resounds at the contact, Cordell's weapon recoiling back and down slightly from the impact. He doesn't bother to raise the weapon back up, merely thrusting on that line towards Sheldon's left hip, stepping his own right foot forward and reversing his upper body rotation to add strength to the intended blow.
Sheldon growls and bends over as he thrusts his hips back, or stick his ass out depending on one's perspective, his arms coming down quickly to protect his family jewels just in case he doesn't get away in time, slamming the bottom of the hilt of his lathe down on Cordell's thrust as he scrambles back a little more. Still unbalanced from the sudden shift in weight, he keeps backing off as he raises his weapon back defensively once more while he regains his balance.
Sweat streams down Cordell's face as the afternoon sun beats down on the stadium. He pays it little heed, though. He shows his teeth, but the expression when combined with his yellow eyes looks predatory instead of amused. Without hesitation, he moves forward, attempting to keep up the pressure from his previous attack. Bringing his weapon back up from the blow landed on it by Sheldon's hilt, he makes another quick thrust towards the same hip he tried to hit before, sacrificing power for speed in an attack that looks more designed to keep the man backing up than to actually land.
The move works to keep Sheldon moving back, scrambling out of the way of the thrust by moving back and to his right. He then launches his own attack, his shout ringing through the arena as he lowers the point of his lathe to the level of the bottom of Cordell's breastbone, and closes the distance rapidly as he starts to run straight toward the other man.
Cordell plants his right foot hard to stop his forward momentum, the leather sole sliding perhaps an inch before it gains purchase. Then he pivots on that foot, pulling his left back and spitting out through clenched teeth,'Ashes!' The rotation pulls his chest out of the way of the blow. Instead, it catches on his left sleeve just above the elbow, tearing a small hole in the silk. The jerk on his arm before the fabric tears throws off his balance slightly. He releases his left hand from the hilt, throwing it out to his side to help steady himself as he slashes back wildly to his right with the weapon held only in his right hand, attempting to "cut" across Sheldon's stomach.
Since Sheldon can't stop on a dime, the man lowers his hands and swings the tip of his lathe upwards and to the right, his lathe smacking into Cordell's with force, a loud crack resounding through the arena, the force being enough to shove the back of Sheldon's lathe back onto his right shoulder as he continues to move forward. He turns slightly to put his left side forward as he completes his charge, sticking his elbow out and trying to plant it firmly in Cordell's stomach.
Cordell lets out a loud "ooph" type noise as the elbow impacts with his stomach and stumbles back slightly, blade rebounding upwards from the impact of the parry. His left hand remains extended out to his side for balance as a judge in the distance calls out,'Time.' Immediately, the moderator standing outside the ring repeats it, loudly. Cordell starts to slash back downwards with a one-handed blow just as he hears the judge. Combined with the backwards movement from the elbow to the gut, the attempt to stop the blow sends him stumbling back to land hard on his butt.
Sheldon takes a second to straighten himself as the judge calls time, finally coming to a halt. He lets go of the void after he stops, his dark eyes turning to look down at Cordell. With the void gone, Sheldon's lips quirk upward in a mocking grin and his own lilting Cairhienin tones are apparent as asks, 'Did you need me to help you up, my Lord?'.
Cordell shakes his head curtly and tosses aside the bundle of lathes. He clambers back to his feet and dusts himself off, although there is little need. The slate floor of the stadium is clean. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with his right sleeve again, then suddenly goes very still, eyes fixed on the hole in his shirt. He lets out an exasperated sigh, then raises his gaze to Sheldon to say with way more politeness in his tone than one should rightly expect from the expression on his face,'Thank you for the exercise and good luck in the tourney.'
Sheldon nods curtly to Cordell, then replies, 'And to you as well, My Lord. It was a good fight.' He then turns around and walks back to the edge of the arena, tossing his lathe back in the rack then striding out of the arena.
Cordell sighs loudly and shoots a brief glare at the moderator before turning and walking towards where he left his cape on the weapon rack. He makes no move whatsoever to pick up the practice sword he left on the floor of the arena.
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