User talk:Olaf

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((I'm trying to get in the habit of not posting incomplete stuff, and I don't have Office on my gaming desktop, so this is my new workspace!))

Ruk and Tiamat, sparring, discussing traitor

Excellence came naturally to the Dragon-Blooded, perfection didn't. Perfection required utter devotion, focus, and an endless commitment to constant improvement. It required the exclusion of all else. It required the abandonment of the soul for a greater ideal. Among the Grass-Spiders, none had attained it. But Ruk and Tiamat came close.

The two men sparred for untold hours, every night. No breaks, no nights off, no repeats. Every night, something new was learned, something untried was tried. While their colleagues laughed and drank as the sun laid itself to rest, Ruk and Tiamat greeted the moon as it lit the empty Training Grounds - the real Training Grounds - albeit dimly. The time had come for real work. The two veteran Grass-Spiders were near their peak - young enough to remain spry and battle-ready, seasoned enough to have over a century of combat experience under their belt. They were simultaneously much less and much more than human; they cared little for material wealth or personal relationships, yet their utter devotion to their craft made them appear veritable avatars of swordsmanship itself.

At once a deadly duel (the men had long since abandoned the notion of practice blades) and a dance that seemed almost choreographed (although it was not), the two senior Grass-Spiders had launched immediately into their full-speed cadence. Along with practice blades, they'd also abandoned warmups - it was time wasted for swordsmen who never cooled down. To the onlooker, beauty would fail to describe the duel taking place. Each stroke not only perfectly placed to kill, but to impress - the men were as deadly as they were elegant. It was difficult to tell whether form followed function, or the opposite. It did not matter. Like the larger goal of the Order itself with the art of assassination, their swordplay seemed to redefine the meaning of the concept. Tiamat, in Exalted fashion, wielded two of the massive, curved blades, one in reverse grip and one held normally. The more conservative Ruk fought back with a single blade. All three were forged by Oak from Chiaroscuran glass, and their quality would have made even the owners of some jade weapons envious.

Only the quiet slicing of the air by the blades penetrated the silence - the footwork of the men, assassins even before swordsmen, was as silent as the void itself. Tiamat, with a side-arm swing of his forward-held blade, swung a less-than-graceful haymaker slash at Ruk, which Ruk easily sidestepped. As soon as the blade passed Ruk's midsection, Tiamat lunged forward another step, using the momentum of the first slash to propel himself around at incredible speed. As his back temporarily turned to Ruk, he swung his reverse-held blade in the same fashion, although the strike was more targeted. The move was utterly unexpected, even to Ruk, who was forced to make an inelegant parry. The clang of metal echoed briefly in the alcove of trees that surrounded the sparring arena.

Ruk smirked as he recovered and made a return strike, which Tiamat easily dodged. The two settled into a slash, dodge, slash, dodge rhythm again before Ruk spoke up.

"You've been watching Mesa fight."

Sidestepping an overhead slash from Ruk, Tiamat smiled and replied, "You've got me there. He has a comparatively poor level of discipline and mastery for a Member his age, but his refusal to train forces him to be constantly improvising in combat, whether he means to be or not."

Tiamat slashed at Ruk with both blades, in orthogonal directions. Ruk, for his part, anticipated the slightly different timing between the slashes, dodging one first, then the other, with blinding speed. Tiamat continued to speak calmly as he made his attack.

"Every now and then I'll spot something coming from him that seems worth adding to my repertoire."

Ruk and Tiamat, for all their prowess, were both notably humble. They were just as likely to borrow moves from an associate as they were Oak or Nazareth. They had no qualms about finding their inspiration anywhere, and as Dragon-Bloods in an increasingly Celestial age, were constantly reminded that the underdog could excel with a lucky strike or a clever plan of attack.