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