Captive Pride

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Wraithlike tendrils of fog clung tenaciously to the trees surrounding the clearing, lending an almost spectral aura to the moment, and not even the pale clarity of the rising sun could dispel the mood as the cold, deadly sounds of the clashing steel blades rent the early morning silence.

Bodies tense with expectation, weapons held in readiness, the two men engaged in the duel faced each other, each trying to anticipate the other’s next move. In a graceful dance of death, they moved about the clearing…testing…probing…each searching in his own way for his opponent’s weakness, but each failing to find that fatal flaw.

They were the best of the best, these two. Equals in the fine art of swordsmanship, they were peers of the realm and dashing figures of men. One, tall and dark, his body tightly muscled, his movements lithe and sure, was hawklike in visage. His gray eyes were sharp and glinting as they reflected his intense concentration, his chiseled mouth firm in his determination to win. The other was blond and as tall as his rival, but his body tended to fat rather than muscle. His aristocratic features reflected a love for excess in the puffiness there. His full lips were curved in a taunting, confident smile. His pale blue eyes, still bloodshot from his intemperance the night before, shone with an almost maniacal light as he strove to prove his superiority over his foe.

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