Private Foiled

[Persephone Dashiell]

CITY OF KEREN, NABOO

Keren Select Academy for Young Sentients
​

Compact mirror out in front of her, Persephone expertly swiped a bit of pink lipgloss across, giving a subtle retint to her lips. She snapped the case closed, looking to the boy next to her. Tall, blonde, and regal Elio Hallorand rolled his eyes slightly as her gaze flicked to him. Elio was one of her friends handpicked by her parents - heir to the Hallorand Hospitality Group. Conveniently, Elio went to the same finishing school as she. Both were in their final lessons with the school, aging out within the next several months. Both were eager to be done with this chapter.

"What's with the eye roll Hallorand?" Persephone turned to putting on her sabre fencing gloves on. Finishing touches before taking the floor for their next fencing lessons. Across the way on a separate set of benches, other students were getting ready for their own matches.

"The lipstick. You will have a mask on." Elio motioned to her face, as if to remind her of what she just did.

"Oh. All I need is one of the instructors passing by claiming I don't look 'presentable'. As if we aren't about to be sweating to death." One glove and cuff on, she turned her attention to the other. "Do you know the guest fighter? I haven't heard a word of his name."

Elio shook his head, gearing up himself.

"No clue. Most likely some poor bastard son just found by some noble. Mistress came running back to see that the boy would be attended to. Why else would we not know about him? Rumors of his fighting prowess suggest street urchin found by dear Papa. Otherwise he would have been in our circles."

Persephone shrugged. Elio had a point, although the galaxy was large enough to not know every noble and wealthy family. Perhaps someone from the far Outer Rim - Wild Space perhaps. Either way, she was up first. Rising from the bench, Persephone looked back at Elio.

"Wish me luck."

Putting her fencing mask on as she walked, the teenager moved to the center of the gym.

Lysander von Ascania​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Persephone Dashiell ​

The acolyte's calm demeanor contrasted with the subtle tension in the air. Being sent back to Naboo by his current master was a more calculated move, a mission to gather intel under the appearance of routine. But he wasn't blind, this was just as much a test of loyalty too. Still, returning to this world stirred a lot of memories, some of which still clung to him back on Korriban.

Keren, unlike Theed and its prying eyes, was said to be less risky, being Naboo’s most populated city. It offered a natural cloak for someone like him, someone who needed to move unnoticed. Lysander had only been here a week, and every single step was cautious, further concealing his Force signature, a skill he had honed meticulously since his time in the Outer Rim.

This school, chosen under a forged identity, was a place for him to refine his original lightsaber form, Makashi, even if it no longer carried the allure that Djem So held for him now. But he could not forget the fundamentals, the footwork and balance that were ingrained in him, the very muscle memory he relied on in a duel.

The fencing armor gave the teen a structured look, far more refined than he was used to these days. Every layer fit with snugness, from the jacket to the leggings, morphing him into something proper. Gloves clung tightly to his hands. Beneath the surface of his mask, his eyes now flickered with quiet intensity. Hums of conversation lingered from other students nearby, but his thoughts had strayed to a familiar place. Perhaps it should have called forth the curve of a smile, but he would not allow it. To do so now would be unwise.

Standing at the edge of the training ring, he rotated his saber with a series of fluid circles, the motion not so much to loosen a shoulder, but instead a habit from years of training. A sharp inhalation filled his lungs before stepping into the center, calm washing over him. Lysander allowed his voice, low, to break the silence as he took position. "Whenever you're ready."

But readiness was a lie. No one ever truly was.

 

[Persephone Dashiell]

Foil in hand, Persephone quietly approached the center of the gym, coming to take her place on the strip. One of the instructors was watching her like a hawk-bat. Make a little trouble years ago at the beginning of finishing school and one would never escape the reputation it seemed. Why would she make a scene now? Especially so close to being done. Not with fencing, it seemed to have practical purposes. With the tedious pomp and circumstance. Not that she would escape it, given her family, but from the sharp judgement of her instructors.

Placing her heels together, Persie lifted the hilt of her blade to her chin with the foil pointing to the sky, before drawing down and finishing her salute with a slash. A basic salute to her opponent, a sign of respect for the fight they were about to engage in.

With the grace of someone who had taken ballet for the last three years, Persephone fell into the en garde stance, regarding her opponent. Studying him, looking for any small quirks. She had yet to see anything of note. Not the psychological type, Persie wasn't one who could evaluate on gait and definitively state the person's homeworld. Yet she could easily enough discern body language to some extent. This boy screamed one thing.

Bored.

No matter, she would make the first move. Quickly, she extended her blade out to lunge, stretching out as far as comfortable but allowing for a retreat to en garde, foil attempting to strike the chest of her opponent. As a teenage boy, the other naturally had better reach, wondering how she would fair. Speed would be key for her.

Lysander von Ascania

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Persephone Dashiell

​

Lysander drew a final slow breath beneath the shadow of his mask, gathering the calm. The room around him shrank, all noise dimming to the pulse of the teen’s lungs. And in that suspended moment, he became acutely aware: the ground beneath his feet was the foundation. His spine was perfectly upright, and every muscle was calibrated to perfect balance, clearly a student sculpted by years of discipline.

Only a flicker of attention was needed, naturally threading the anticipation, reading her tells, from the shoulders, and flowing down to the angle of her shoes. Everything promised intent. Whether a slash executed with grace, or a swift strike of the hands, it was the hips that often revealed the most. So, when she committed to a lunge, an honest opening for a duel, he was already reacting.

A dark smile toyed at his lips, the subtlety of this exchange savored as though it were wine. Like a crowned shadow, Lysander pulled back on his rear leg, hips folding, waist hinging, and thus the body transitioned to the side of her dominant arm.

It was no retreat, but controlled surrender, to send a silent message of confidence.

The foil would slide an inch past his shoulder. Perhaps, a reflection of his time among the Sith, he had considered yielding to the first point, a merciful gift that might draw her into a trap of deception.

A second step was given, this time in retreat, high guard remaining high, and the tip of his blade extended as though it were a declaration. Anything but casual, it dared her to close the gap between them once more, but it also held long enough to sharpen the tension. Then he slowly leaned forward, with purpose. This was no bait, no feint, just advance. Lysander’s weight shifted to the front foot; the back followed immediately in one motion, and he delivered a thrust of his own

 

[Persephone Dashiell]

Persephone took note of the ramrod straight posture, looking effortlessly in control. It signaled to her one thing ; the mysterious fighter had extensive training. Herself and Elio had thought street urchin found by their nobility father and with his posture alone that theory was tossed out the window. Perhaps it was firming up that this person was from a wealthy family in the Outer Rim. Her second theory, after all. One that was shaping up to be more plausible.

Her first attack - a test - the teenage boy treated as a warmup. Nonchalance that he could easily glide to the side and parry her blade. A signal to herself that her opponent thought he was in control. Perhaps he was. Time would tell in her opinion, they had barely just begun.

Mister Perfect stepped back but then transferred the energy forward, thrusting, foil tip headed straight her torso. Persephone brought her blade up to parry, pushing the foil away. Yet it caught on her vest, barely brushing it but still a hit. Perhaps a lucky hit since she was actively trying to parry. She would carry that momentum on its own, pushing her foil against her opponent's, looking to force him back so she could advance an attack. If she had any luck, her foil would strike center chest.

Lysander von Ascania

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Persephone Dashiell
​

When his foil slid beneath her guard and struck true, there wasn’t the faintest hint of triumph igniting within. Instead, Lysander continued to breathe steadily, his heart ticking in a rhythm that suggested he was still warming up, not yet locked in anything intense. Beneath the mask, a thin line drew across his lips. It wasn't smile, just another sign of his focus. Perhaps, the only true change was the easing tension in his shoulders, for he straightened slightly, growing comfortable in the space between them.

Fingers, once curled tightly around the foil's grip, eased slightly. Though experienced in the art, and ever cautious, he did not anticipate an instant counterattack from his opponent. With the grace of flowing water, emerald eyes noting the angle of her wrist, the positioning of her elbow, his next parry came with minimal effort. And though it was born of muscle memory and finesse alike, even that would prove insufficient. Her blade managed to slip past, grazing his chest.

Lysander’s views had changed significantly during his time in the Outer Rim, perhaps, beneath one of the many moments he lay broken and battered, came the realization that elegance of family pedigree alone was never enough to guarantee victory against one who carried true strength, paired with absolute purpose.

As a single step forward was taken, his voice would quietly emerge, believing it might actually escape the instructors and other students currently watching. The Sith’s voice carried an air of nonchalance. “Do you fight to uphold reputation,” he began softly, “or are you just simply trying to satisfy our instructors?”

Ukatis and Naboo, though different in many ways, still remained intertwined in others, fencing being an art generally associated with nobility and families where credits were abundant, which often just made it more symbolic than anything else. For the blonde, however, dueling was not just something he practiced, it was something he was. Akin to the erratic behavior many knew him for, swordplay also had been etched into his psyche from the very moment he began walking, swinging sticks wildly at others with reckless curiosity.

The pause was with tactical intention, and he followed up with a feint aimed high; typically, this would expose an opponent's ribs. But somewhere beneath the layers of cruelty experienced on Korriban, a strong sense of honor remained; he would never try to score a point so easily. So instead of going for a strike after the feint, he decided to pull back on his rear leg, thinking it might lure her back in to attack.

 

[Persephone Dashiell]

Oh for void's sake, I get a talker.

Persephone wasn't one for chit-chat during her matches. Get in, focus, get the match done. Afterwards she was never opposed. Before even was a great time to catch up and debate the entire philosophical 'why do you fight' argument. Mentally she groaned, debating if she had to even answer Mister Perfect Posture.

"Neither" The teenager uttered between grit teeth, annoyed. It wasn't a lie. In typical fencing fashion, they were dancing in that tit-for-tat type of fashion. Attack, parry, feint. Try to score a point here and there. For Persephone it was all about the tactics and ability to judge the next attack. A more physical game of dejarik in a way.

Watching the other's leg slide back, Persie didn't know if he was faking or retreating. He didn't seem the type to retreat after her parry but he also seemed like the overconfident type. Just a hunch, in her opinion. It was a risk but she decided to advance forward in attack. Quickly her foil left a defensive position and into attack, heading straight for the underside of his ribs.

Lysander von Ascania​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Persephone Dashiell
​

The Sith’s breathing slowed, each inhale and inhale syncing further into the tempo of their current duel. Rather than a battle, it felt more like a game of observation where every flicker, every twitch, entered his familiar like a musical melody. Lysander’s grip on the foil became balanced; it was relaxed just enough to flow freely, but firm enough to control when needed.

This delicate tension allowed him to enter the elusive flow state, so that the body and mind could act as one.

He caught the girl’s reply not as a challenge that warranted an immediate reply; rather, it was just one more thing to catalog in this layered exchange. Still, there was quiet satisfaction in the aggression caught detected, perhaps a rawness he could actually respect, for it was far from the overly passive Force users of this very world.

Without so much as a flinch, he stood tall. Beneath that still, the teen was recalibrating. His rear foot pivoted just outward, allowing the hips to unlock, and rotating his torso away from the incoming strike in a single motion. At the same time, his lead foot slid once more, though it was not to retreat further, but to calculate the distance between them. Waist hinged, core engaged, he folded away from the thrust. It wasn’t meant to appear dramatic, but precise.

Lysander’s arm lifted, foil angling downward in a classical parry, like a whisper of steel, just enough to redirect her own. From that stance, he was now aligned for the riposte. With a smooth, and quick flick of his wrist, he began to drive the point toward her flank.

 

[Persephone Dashiell]

While she had been quick to attack, her opponent easily slid to the side of her attack, avoiding her foil. It wasn't surprising, her attack had been quite predictable. There was only so much tit-for-tat one could do. Persephone enjoyed trying her luck as the sport was low stakes for her. She was not prideful enough to worry about her win-loss record. Improvement though was something she was always after.

Yet her opponent counterattacked, aiming for her ribs and striking.

"Point!" The instructor called out, mildly impressed.

Persephone didn't shy away from another attack, using the momentum of the attack to not reset but push forward. The teenage girl would lead with a fleche attack, or running attack, straight for her opponent. Arm was stretched out along with the foil, its point headed straight for the others heart. Naturally he was well padded, no need to worry.

Lysander von Ascania​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Persephone Dashiell
​

There was hardly a moment to gather himself after he landed the point; the foil instantly jutted back into a high guard, as if it were a natural to him. Beneath the composed exterior, his mind was trying to recalibrate. In one shift, he was already moving more weight to the back foot, hips unlocking hips like a spring, tall and ready.

It was not a retreat, but readiness, as to convey to his opponent that he was reading her moves. Lysander was expecting a feint, possibly even a lunge, so his rear foot pivoted, preparing to glide back and create space. To draw her in.

Instead, she surged forward, faster than anticipated. Her fleche cut through the air sharper, like a needle through silk, narrowing the gap. The foil's tip barely whispered past his chest, just inches above his heart when the instructor’s voice instantly rang out, “Point!”

But Lysander didn't flinch; his chest rose and fell with a steady breath, his eyes narrowed beneath the mask, not in frustration but in acknowledgement of his opponent's skill.

It was an earned point, and he knew it.

Wasting no time, he straightened himself again, gracefully lowering his foil. He moved forward with a low felt, trying to bait her guard. Then, with a shift, he rotated and sent a high thrust sailing towards her shoulder. It was not forceful but precise.

​

 

[Persephone Dashiell]

Persephone was mildly impressed with herself but didn't let it go to her head. She had to focus on her opponent who was already gearing up for his next attack. It was more a faster paced match which she appreciated, it could be boring constantly retreating to observe the opponent. A bonus? Things tended to end a little quicker and she could back to sitting on the bench.

With the low felt, she took the bait, a stupid move. As she went to parry low, his foil struck her in the shoulder. A very quick and smooth movement. A clear point and advantage for her opponent.

"Fuck."

Her curse wasn't low enough to not be overheard. Perhaps it was said just a little too forcefully and as such, a little too loudly.

"Miss Persephone! The strip is no place for such profanity."

Underneath her mask, she rolled her eyes.

Lysander von Ascania​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Persephone Dashiell
​

From experience, someone buying into a feint often betrayed early signs of fatigue, overthinking, or other threads that stitched composure together. Distraction, amusement, annoyance, it could've meant a dozen things. But before Lysander could fully process the hit that landed, something broke through his equilibrium.

It wasn't the tap of the foil or the sudden advantage earned, it was her comment that struck his defenses down. His body remained steady, footwork precise, but behind that mask, his gaze glimmered with amusement.

Decorum wasn't something he prided himself on anyway, and it would be impossible to suppress the involuntary chuckle that escaped next. Tilting his head slightly to the side, he returned his foil to its starting position.

Something in her voice stirred a vague familiarity deep inside him. Lysander's memories from Naboo consisted mainly of solitude, of training among other Jedi at their enclave in the Gallo Mountains, and a stretch of longing for one of the natives before he left for the Outer Rim. Try as he might, the origin of it still eluded him.

"You could just surrender now," he suggested, completely aware how ridiculous such an invitation was for a sparring session, and yet, somehow, it still felt perfectly fitting. Besides, worse things had found their way past his lips in similar moments.

​

 

[Persephone Dashiell]

Brows furrowed as she tried to discern that insufferable voice. Familiar yet not. The clipped high society accent was frankly the same it seemed every other boy had, making it impossible to tell what bastard son this was. It made little difference to her. Persephone was just try to get a leg up on identity so she could pin down if they had fought prior. This guy may have been brought in to spar them and had 'never been seen before' but had he really not been seen before? Could easily just be the rumor mill at work.

"Surrender? No."

Who did this guy think he was? It was ridiculous.

Without another word, she fell back to study him for a very brief moment before going on a quick attack. She moved rapidly, encroaching on his side of the strip, when her foil went out in a flick attack. It was a whipping motion where the foil didn't bend until the near-end of the attack, giving the opponent a false sense of security.

Lysander von Ascania​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Persephone Dashiell
​

The room was silent enough that the whip snap of her flick cut through the air. He’d read that very sound before, one that came with a late bend, one that told a lie until the very last second. Not that he expected less, but she hid the tell in her shoulders too, as footwork closed the distance rapidly.

Lysander caught the faint glint of her foil’s arc through the mesh, but the angle was wrong for his usual parry. Steel kissed steel in a deflection, but it still slipped under his guard. And found itself landing just above his hip. The padded jacket absorbed the sting, but not the impact.

Enough to mark the point.

The teen exhaled, but the sound was more amused than winded.

“Better,” he murmured, feeling a lie unravel on his tongue, as if the point had been his all along, “But you telegraph in the shoulders.”

He let the point hover a heartbeat longer before withdrawing, resetting to en garde with the unhurried grace.

“You could try to surprise me,” he added, tilting his head slightly, “or you can keep chasing points and I’ll keep taking them from you. Your choice.”

A new voice cut through the air; it wasn't loud, but carried just enough authority. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re fencing, not auditioning for a cantina brawl.”

The foil lifted again like a dare, inviting her forward. Whatever came next, he was ready.

Nearby conversations began threading into his awareness, a mixture of gossip and laughter.

 

[Persephone Dashiell]

"Who died and made you the instructor?" Persephone muttered the words, only for her opponent to hear. Then again, he may not have over the massive inflated ego that he was carrying about.

Foil in hand, she regarded her opponent. Others from the school were filtering to watch and gossip. Persie heard the noise but not the words, simply knowing that it was louder than just mere moments before. What was a typical boring and routine fencing match was turning into something of mild interest for the others.

“You could try to surprise me,” he added, tilting his head slightly, “or you can keep chasing points and I’ll keep taking them from you. Your choice.”

Quickly, Persephone removed the glove from her right hand. Fist balled up, arm stretched out, decking her opponent in the head.

"Surprise."

"MISS DASHIELL!"

Lysander von Ascania​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Persephone Dashiell ​

The cultivated calm he often wore like armor was gone. Beneath the mask, a grin flashed, the kind of tell he would normally smother before it could surface. Strange it was, for him to lose track of the score, he realized he had. All Lysander knew was that they’d traded a few points each, and that this bout was shifting into something more personal.

When the glove was stripped free, the crowd’s whispers followed, like an eager roar. The girl’s arm being drawn back was completely alien to fencing. But she was already loading up and committing. It was straight, like a brawler. His head slipped off the center line without any conscious thought, weight shifting to the rear leg, shoulders rotating. Even so, it caught the side of his mask with a loud thunk. The vibration rattled into his jaw.

It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d been punched, and more than likely, wouldn’t be the last.

His following words were delivered like a riposte. “Careful girl – keep sticking your nose in too much Glitterstim and you’ll be fencing shadows next.”

By the time the last syllable left his mouth, one of the instructors stepped between them, it didn't stop Lysander from angling the foil down right away, maintaining the guard position in some absurd display. That was, until their voice cut through the air.

“Enough! This is fencing, not a street fight.”

A sigh escaped his lips.

“van Dravess, step back. Now.”

Caught up in the moment, he almost didn’t turn at the sound of that name.

It took a heartbeat longer to register, given he’d enrolled here under a different Outer Rim alias.

With a pivot, he turned and lowered the blade. The strip was behind him after only a few strides. A small knot of students shifted aside, allowing him to pass. He ignored their murmurs and made way to one of the benches along the far wall. Posture upright, back to everyone, he lifted his hands to the back of his head, removed the mask, and set it down beside him.

 

[Persephone Dashiell]

Persephone didn't know if her opponent was trying to be intimidating or merely pissed off. It was a mixture of both if she had to guess - the air of superiority, indignant and aghast all while inviting the escalation. Sweaty, she pulled her mask off before even leaving the strip, the mystery fighter sitting down and staring at the wall like some petulant child in time out.

Hallorand met her halfway, buzzing with excitement. Her friend was back in his normal clothes, fencing gear off despite not having had a round. It seemed he had other plans as a result of her off-course fighting.

"That was crazy. Also, I guarantee you're grounded so let's cut this place early and go eat. We need to catch up before you're put in the clink for the next two years. No chance of probation."

"Sounds like a plan, let me do something first."

Crossing the space, she avoided the crowd of students the instructor was trying to wrangle back in to compliance. It wasn't going so well. As if approaching a injured fawn, Persephone began to speak to him, despite his back being turned.

"Look, I'm sorry. At least you had a mask on so it didn't ruin your face, probably not even a mark. I'm sure its some ego thing being hit by a girl for you but look on the..."

Drawing around the side of the blonde teenager, Persephone caught sight of who it was. One Lysander von Ascania . Color drained from her face and she instantly didn't feel sorry for punching him now. Quite the opposite. Not that she was going to let her emotions show. She wasn't even going to raise her voice.

"....brightside." A small pause as she caught herself and continued on. Tone was flat, emotionless. "Lysander."

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Persephone Dashiell
​

With the strip behind him, most of the noise was quickly fading into the hum of the academy. Cool air brushed against his damp skin, a faint sheen of sweat clinging to his brow and temple. Several strands slipped loose during the match. The mask itself was set beside him with care, and the snug fencing jacket followed. Fingers worked the clasps one by one as it peeled away from his frame. In truth, it felt strange to wear now, being something tailored and proper, far from what he had become.

Shedding it was like stepping out of a disguise. Beneath, a gray compression shirt clung to his, something he trusted far more than the academy’s uniform. Inhaling a deep breath, he rolled his shoulders once, trying to let the tension bleed out.

But then a voice cut through the space beside him.

His shoulders then stilled, holding the folded jacket before placing it on the bench.

Lysander didn’t turn right away. It took another second for the familiarity of that voice to confirm in his mind.

The teen pivoted, slowly.

Locking onto her for a beat, he froze. The recognition hit like a jolt. The last time he’d seen her was at a Lifeday event, here on Naboo, though she’d only been visiting then. The surprise was real, but it was gone almost as quickly as it came, quickly smoothed into something guarded.

“Persephone.”

More than a transfer student, he was a Sith acolyte now, here on a rather specific mission. So more than already being an awkward reunion, it was a potential breach in his cover. She knew his real name. That alone was enough to unravel everything.

“What in the stars are you doing here?”

 

[Persephone Dashiell]

If she was the more emotional type ; as in, if she didn't kill her own overexuberance, Persephone would have choked him. Maybe gotten off a good slap. Yet she now was on what she had privately dubbed her 'Revenge Tour', reigning in herself and keeping her head down to prove everyone wrong. Anyone that had been the past who had doubted her or cast her aside in some way was on that list, that burning desire to prove she wasn't an overbearing street urchin.

It still stung to see Lysander von Ascania , with memories of being abandoned in the woods so close to Life Day on a sleigh ride. What she he had thought and felt at the time frankly didn't matter anymore, that Persephone was now long gone and buried.

Still dressed in her fencing gear, gloves underneath her armpit, it was clear she regarded this conversation initially as one that would be quick. It seemed Lysander wanted to ask questions however so it may not be as quick as initially desired.

"Same as you Lysander, learning to fence." Boredom with a hint of sarcasm laced her tone, he was clearly asking the obvious. "I am unsure why you seemed surprised."