Duel The Dance of Blades (Razh vs Issar/ Spectators allowed)

[Issar Rae’Velis]

Tag: Razh Sho

The sabers sang as they turned, not in collision but in chorus — four violet arcs orbiting in patterns that did not deflect so much as reshape. The feint came, elegant in its deception, sliding under and inward, a quiet question posed not to flesh, but to form.

Issar did not parry. He breathed.

The coils of his lower body shifted with unhurried grace, and one arm — the lowest — lowered not in defense, but in permission. The saber swept just past the line Razh had offered, grazing emptiness. The other sabers rotated above like celestial bodies, tracing mirrored spirals that neither opposed nor conceded.

What Razh sought to test, Issar allowed to pass. He moved with the Force, not against the strike, nor even around it, but with it. Letting it shape the next moment. Letting it curve. Razh's saber flicked inward. Issar's forward-most hand dipped past the angle, following the flow naturally. The spiral closed, then opened again, and a second hand — slower — drew a mirrored arc beside the first, as if painting circles into mist.

Still, he said nothing.

The blue blade met not flesh, not blade, but breath and air and intention.

Then came the shift — quiet, decisive.

Issar's upper sabers descended. A pair of arcs flowed wide, framing Razh's exposed inside line — not striking, but revealing it. A gesture of completeness. Of return. One question, answered not with a clash, but with completion.

Finally, as the spiral resolved and both sabers slowed in their orbit, Issar tilted his head — slightly, just enough to acknowledge the duel's new rhythm. A moment of silent understanding shared through motion alone.

 

[Razh Sho]

The point of Razh Sho's blade hung for a heartbeat in empty air.

Not missed.
Not blocked.
Allowed.

He felt it — not in his muscles, but in the pulse of the Force that rippled through the narrow space between them. His thrust, his precision, had found nothing to claim, and the Spiral simply turned onward, carrying the energy he had offered into the next breath, the next curve. This was not evasion. It was absorption. Acceptance. Transformation. He stepped lightly to adjust, drawing his blade back into a tight, defensive coil, Makashi's instincts urging him to reassert control, to reclaim tempo. His eyes tracked Issar's sabers — not wild, not chaotic, but moving in orbits that did not collapse or crash but enfolded him.

And in that stillness, Razh knew;
The advantage was slipping.

Makashi thrived on precision, on ruling narrow moments with efficiency and superiority of line. It was a form born for structured duels — for the clash of minds and wrists across the polished floors of the ancient courts. But here, in this endless spiral, time itself was being bent. The duel no longer moved in measured beats. It flowed, eddied, turned inward.

The Spiral had patience.
And patience would bleed Makashi's strengths dry.


Razh's breathing remained even, his posture unchanged, but the Force within him tightened into a cooler, sharper edge. Not panic.
Awareness. He did not overcommit. He would not thrash or flail as some might in frustration. He simply acknowledged the truth the way a swordsman might acknowledge the wind turning against his stroke: with respect.


His saber shifted slightly in his grip, the point dipping lower — not in surrender, but in adaptation. He circled a half-step, testing Issar's rhythm without pressing against it, searching for a narrower window, a faltering in the perfect flow. The two upper sabers had framed his inside line beautifully — a complete answer to his question — but they had not closed. They had shown him that his path had been read, measured, and accepted.

Razh's voice, when it came, was quiet — almost a breath. "The blade finds no purchase in water." He exhaled, letting Makashi's rigid architecture soften slightly within him, feeling the edges of his form blur—not to abandon it, but to let it listen.

"Then it must become mist itself." He raised his saber again—not as a spear, but as a brush, ready not to break the spiral but to paint within it. And Razh Sho moved again—not to command the duel, but to remain within it, blade and breath both seeking new lines to draw.

Issar Rae’Velis

 

[Issar Rae’Velis]

Tag: Razh Sho

Issar Rae'Velis turned with the tide of that movement. He shifted. Four sabers sang together in slow, concentric arcs, each one moving at its own tempo yet never in conflict. A lesser duelist might have seen disorder in it. But Razh knew better now. This was the Spiral Way in full expression.

And Issar, for the first time in the duel, pressed.

A slow coil, his tail pivoting subtly along the floor to draw a tighter spiral between them. His lower sabers rolled forward, high and low, not to cage but to enclose, probing Razh’s space without striking. The upper pair turned opposite one another, weaving a pattern meant to blur perception, to obscure which was feint and which was final.

This was not for spectacle. Issar was thoroughly indifferent towards the notion performance. But clarity could be found in movement. In confrontation. For the students who watched, and for the one before him now.

He stepped inward. Each motion flowed from the last like breath from breath. The point of one blade came forward, testing the line Razh had offered, while another circled wide to threaten his outside guard. The remaining pair angled downward — one vertical, one reversed grip — creating pressure not by threat, but by presence.

And still, Issar said nothing. He had always found speech a distraction mid-duel. The Spiral did not explain itself, it merely unfurled, and revealed.

Whether the Spiral would complete its turn, or whether Makashi would reshape the moment once again, remained unanswered.

But in this instant, between curve and contact, the silence was full.

 

[Razh Sho]

He had seen the pattern once before. A storm on Yalara — sea wind tearing over stone spires, water swirling in endless, layered curls. The eye of it had seemed still, a place of refuge. But the closer one came to its center, the more the body forgot its footing. Issar moved like that storm. Not aggressive. Not cruel. Just inevitable. Razh tried to hold the line — blade tight in the Makashi high guard, feet gliding in measured triangles — but already, the geometry was unraveling.

Four sabers.
Four intentions.
No pause.

The low blade brushed past his ankle — a grazing whisper that forced him to pivot. The wide arc blurred his periphery. His saber moved to parry it, and he realized — too late — that it hadn't been meant to land. His response had created the opening. The high thrust came fast — more precise than expected from something that seemed so fluid. Razh's blade met it, but too close to the emitter. The impact rang up his arm like a bell, unseating his center. His balance slipped — not fully, but enough.

Enough for Issar to feel it.

The Spiral was closing.

He exhaled sharply, trying to reset.
But even his breath felt delayed now — responding instead of directing.

I'm being herded.

Not like prey. Like lesson.

Issar had not spoken a word — and yet Razh could feel the shape of his intent. Not to dominate. Not to win. But to make Razh see something he had refused to see since Ilum. Since Coruscant. Since waking from frozen silence.

His own limits.

His own rigidity.

Makashi was control — line, distance, precision. But Issar fought without corners. Without edges. Without judgment.

Razh took one more step. Then another. But there was no room left. Only curve.

And then, quietly — almost privately — he spoke. "You're not fighting me," Razh said, voice rough with exertion. "You're showing me."

He brought his saber in close again — not high this time, but low, palm up, as if lifting something unseen.

Not to end the duel.

To receive it.

He didn't need to win.

He needed to listen.

The moment did not break. It unfolded. Issar did not press in with fury, nor draw back in mercy. He simply moved — tail pivoting a final rotation across the polished floor, arms flowing like water around stone. His sabers brushed the air in practiced cadence, but none sought to strike.

The pattern resolved.

Razh knew it now — not in technique, but in essence. The Spiral was not a tactic. It was acceptance. Of the other. Of the self. Of the shape a duel takes when neither warrior seeks dominance, only understanding.

He lowered his blade.

Not in surrender, but in recognition.

Issar's weapons deactivated as if the motion had always been destined. Four blades vanished into the hum of stillness, and the wide training chamber breathed again. The silence did not feel empty — it felt earned.

Razh stepped back — slowly, shoulders easing with the return of breath. His saber remained in hand, but dormant, hanging at his side like the end of a sentence.

He looked to Issar, not for judgment, but for reflection.

His voice came low, roughened by exhaustion and insight both.

"Makashi teaches the line. You taught me what lies beyond it." A pause. "Thank you."

He bowed — not deep, but with genuine gravity. Around them, the walls of the Temple held still, like a circle closed. The Spiral had concluded. And Razh Sho was not diminished. Only changed.
Issar Rae’Velis