Re: [Part 1] Dance of the Warriors (5/?)
anonymous
June 19 2011, 07:43:19 UTC
Greece gave a short, breathy laugh, not missing the equivocal snark in the other’s voice. He raised the Xiphos blade over him, almost as if he were holding a spear, and fell into an offensive stance. Japan held up the katana before him, his eyes never leaving Greece’s and he continued to watch as Greece circled him silently, slowly and then-
A flurry of movements and Greece lunged forward, swinging the Xiphos in a swift downward strike. Japan deflected the blow with the katana, wincing a little from the strain in his wrist as the blade scraped down the length of steel noisily. He drew back just as the Grecian lunged again, parrying the second blow and turning, reached for the sheath at his hip with his free hand and rammed it under Greece’s armpit.
Greece grunted in shock and before he could react, Japan spun on his heels and drove the pommel of his sword right into the other’s solar plexus. Greece coughed, staggering backwards, but not before he struck out, nicking the top of Japan’s shoulder. Japan hissed in pain, leaping away just as he felt his shoulder throb. Both opponents watched each other, their breaths short and sharp, sweat trickling from their temples. They could feel the blooding rushing in their ears, coalescing with the pit-a-patter of their racing hearts -doki doki, hara hara- in a strong, rhythmic beat. A moment’s respite and then they came at each other once again, lunging, striking.
Step, step, cut-
Step, step, parry-
Greece pivoted on his heels as he swung the Xiphos left-right-left, dipping the blade in short, slicing movements.
Troy. Thermopylae. Issus.
He did not witness these battles with his own eyes, but he remembers them like lullabies told to a child; stories his mother sung to him as he curled up in her lap, half-listening and half-asleep. He remembers them, and could almost hear the battle cries of those warriors long gone as he moved in steady, calculated steps, instinct driving him forward. Greece knew he would never be the glorious empire his mother once was, but her warrior blood still runs through him and he moved just like how she must have once did.
Step, step, slash-
Step, step, block-
Like a whirlwind breathed to life by the gods, Japan spun and twirled, dodging blows as deftly as he returned them. He had felt the raw power of Greece in that first punch and he knew it’d be unwise to receive another. So he kept up his pace, moving swiftly, nimbly.
Sekigahara. Toba-Fushimi. Shiroyama.
He remembers those days clearly - the cries and shouts of the men; the crash of blades and armour resounding together like a symphony of steel. He was there, fighting alongside his people, his warriors of honour and valour and loyalty. He was there, fighting against some of them, during a time of rebellions and civil wars. He remembers them and always will, as long as his people never forget who they truly are - sons and daughters of Nippon.
And so they attacked and deflected, driving their swords hard at one another, dancing in circles over and over.
Dance of death. Dance of life.
Twirling, spinning, cutting, blocking; each movement fluid and forceful at the same time. Faster and faster they moved, until they were almost chest to chest to each other and with a final clash of blades, they come to an abrupt stop, panting heavily. Greece had managed to slip his blade past Japan’s defence and to the side of his ribs where he’d landed the first punch before. Japan, in turn, had his katana held just below the left side of Greece’s neck.
A flurry of movements and Greece lunged forward, swinging the Xiphos in a swift downward strike. Japan deflected the blow with the katana, wincing a little from the strain in his wrist as the blade scraped down the length of steel noisily. He drew back just as the Grecian lunged again, parrying the second blow and turning, reached for the sheath at his hip with his free hand and rammed it under Greece’s armpit.
Greece grunted in shock and before he could react, Japan spun on his heels and drove the pommel of his sword right into the other’s solar plexus. Greece coughed, staggering backwards, but not before he struck out, nicking the top of Japan’s shoulder. Japan hissed in pain, leaping away just as he felt his shoulder throb. Both opponents watched each other, their breaths short and sharp, sweat trickling from their temples. They could feel the blooding rushing in their ears, coalescing with the pit-a-patter of their racing hearts -doki doki, hara hara- in a strong, rhythmic beat. A moment’s respite and then they came at each other once again, lunging, striking.
Step, step, cut-
Step, step, parry-
Greece pivoted on his heels as he swung the Xiphos left-right-left, dipping the blade in short, slicing movements.
Troy. Thermopylae. Issus.
He did not witness these battles with his own eyes, but he remembers them like lullabies told to a child; stories his mother sung to him as he curled up in her lap, half-listening and half-asleep. He remembers them, and could almost hear the battle cries of those warriors long gone as he moved in steady, calculated steps, instinct driving him forward. Greece knew he would never be the glorious empire his mother once was, but her warrior blood still runs through him and he moved just like how she must have once did.
Step, step, slash-
Step, step, block-
Like a whirlwind breathed to life by the gods, Japan spun and twirled, dodging blows as deftly as he returned them. He had felt the raw power of Greece in that first punch and he knew it’d be unwise to receive another. So he kept up his pace, moving swiftly, nimbly.
Sekigahara. Toba-Fushimi. Shiroyama.
He remembers those days clearly - the cries and shouts of the men; the crash of blades and armour resounding together like a symphony of steel. He was there, fighting alongside his people, his warriors of honour and valour and loyalty. He was there, fighting against some of them, during a time of rebellions and civil wars. He remembers them and always will, as long as his people never forget who they truly are - sons and daughters of Nippon.
And so they attacked and deflected, driving their swords hard at one another, dancing in circles over and over.
Dance of death. Dance of life.
Twirling, spinning, cutting, blocking; each movement fluid and forceful at the same time. Faster and faster they moved, until they were almost chest to chest to each other and with a final clash of blades, they come to an abrupt stop, panting heavily. Greece had managed to slip his blade past Japan’s defence and to the side of his ribs where he’d landed the first punch before. Japan, in turn, had his katana held just below the left side of Greece’s neck.
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