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​