The Apology Duel

Log Info

Title: The Apology Duel
Emitter: None
Characters: Camille, Antigone
NPCs: None
Place: North Quad
Time: June 28th 2010, Evening
Summary: Antigone apologizes to Camille for her loose lips by offering her a duel.

_( Northern Grounds - Steranko Institute )

North of the Quad feels smaller than it actually is, due to looming presence of the various academic buildings. Drake Hall and Walker Hall are the closest to the Quad, a pair of traditional multi-story red brick buildings covered with ivy flanking the main path. Drake Hall is to the west, and is where Language Arts and English classes are taught. Just to the left of the main entrance to Drake Hall is a bronze statue of Ray Bradbury sitting on one of the benches, peering thoughtfully up at the sky to the east, over Walker Hall. Walker Hall is where the various 'Soft Sciences' are taught; Social Science, History, and the like.
The path splits and encircles Gordon Hall directly to the north, a modern looking building of concrete and glass. Gordon Hall is where science and mathematics classes are taught. If one goes a bit further, hidden directly behind Gordon Hall is an odd, trapezoidal building. The roof is covered in grass, just above a row of what appear to be first story windows, but are actually the third floor. On getting close enough, you can see that most of the building is built down in a concrete lined pit, with the lowest level accessible by switchback ramps. This is Thar Hall, where the more unusual subjects are taught such as basic spellcrafting, neohuman biology, and creative mathematics. Freshmen are often told that a class in advance time travel will be held there four years before the school was founded, getting to the class being a prerequisite for attending. It's mostly believed to be a joke.
The spaces in between these buildings are filled with trees, with the occasional bench beneath them. But the students hanging out here are usually getting in some last minute cramming before class, rather than socializing.

_( Exits )
South …………………….. [S]

Camille arrives from the south.
Camille has arrived.

Late evening, and Camille found a cryptic note taped to her door, written in Latin. 'Northern Grounds. Sundown. Worth your while,' it read. And so it's perhaps not surprising that a figure waits on the lawn, standing with her hands clasped lightly behind her back, waiting. Set up near her are two folding chairs and a small table between them, with a basket on it, along with a two glasses and a bottle of wine.

Camille DuClare has been a busy little girl. The Lady has spent the better part of the weak crafting her little web along the seams of Steranko, laying down a rumor here, or causing some dissention there. All and all, she was particularly satisfied, save for one small black mar. And since the day her car was towed, she had been spending her idle hours around campus as opposed to out on the town. That is probably the reason why DuClare was so prompt in replying to the invitation at the door. Antigone won't have to wait long before the young woman arrives, wearing a navy blue blouse and a pair of capris. And Wit. Always her sword was on her hip, no matter the wear. "Antigone," she murmurs when within earshot, before looking to the basket and a wine with a quirked brow. "I will admit, this is an unusual means of seduction." Was she serious? It was hard to tell, with her face kept so smooth, lacquered fingernail idly tracing lines along the hilt of her rapier.

"You are an unusual individual," Antigone replies, without missing a beat. She keeps her hands back, even as she steps forward. "I have recently realized the depth of the offense I have caused you. Antigone's dressed neatly, in a black blouse and blue jeans tucked neatly into knee-high flat boots. Not quite her usual but far more appropriate for the grass. "By way of making amends, I offer you your choice. We cross swords," Her right hand frees and brushes towards her own blade, "or we share drink. I am entirely at your judgment."

"I am that indeed." Rose lips upturn at one corner, hinting at momentary amusement. It's brief before Camille saunters a step forward, taking another glance at the basket. "I still do not believe I know of the offense of which you refer," she adds in a moment later, still apparently adamant to Antigone's claims from earlier. However, "Though, do not make the mistake that I will easily turn down offers of free gifts. Though, I thought this silly little country had restrictions on drinking and minors." Not that she cared. More so, a simple inquiry. "Equally unusual is someone so willing to fence as means of apology. Though you are an Englishwoman." The last bit has the air of the barb, even if it carried no venom. "What's the vintage?"

"Let us leave that unspoken," Antigone suggests, meeting Camille's eyes with her own. "Suffice it to say we both understand the depth of my infraction and the sincerity of my contrition," Antigone says. "Perhaps as unusual as finding a Frenchwoman willing to consider it such." She turns, crossing the half-dozen steps to the table and plucks the bottle from it. "Restrictions easily circumvented for ones such as us, and I hardly think either of us will be irresponsible." She holds the bottle out to Camille. It's from Burgundy, and of a particularly good vintage, 1986.

The reply to the act of contrition is again a quirked brow. They may both know the score, but Camille would never hint at knowledge of the act. It was against the nature of the grift, and thus against the nature of Les Girls DuClare. "The joke's on you," she finally lets out, voice coy for just a breadth of a second. "I'm always irresponsible." Yeah, she was a glib one, wasn't she? Still a moment later, Camille leans forward to inspect the bottle. She apparently is satisfied with the answer, for a moment later she nods. "Then let us make this night interesting. The winner take the bottle, and the pride of the day. I will admit a distaste for sharing fine vintages - They are meant to be savored or gifted." Pause. "And I feel the urge for savoring."

Antigone studies her opponent. If only there were a channel between them, this could turn out very differently. Antigone puts the bottle back on the table with the faintest of clanks. She steps away, moving slowly and beginning to circle Camille. "Very well," she says. The Englishwoman draws her sword with a slow, regular metallic ring, bringing it into her hand and making a test swing, slicing through the growing not. "To first blood?" she proposes.

"If you wish it to be, so be it," Camille replies back, glancing again at the bottle before focusing her eyes right back to Antigone. This time, the look is calculating, as if Camille were reading words along the sorceress' skin. The paragraphs are hopeful tells - a sense that Camille can garner to gain the tactical advantage. Her own draw is more languished, almost lazy as the soft hum of 'Wit' rings out into the night air. "It's been awhile since I've properly dueled. And ages since Wit has tasted anything resembling blood. It should be more interesting, shouldn't it?"

"You really do like me," Camille drolls out, though her voice is suddenly quite American. Perhaps a faux thanks, but one nonetheless. Her own form is lazy, almost to the point of amateur, as she moves herself in a circle. To Antigone's eyes, the form is strangely enough a subset of Spanish Fencing, though it's hard to tell clearly with how casual she takes everything. And then there's a sudden fluidity as she surges forward, a perfect lunge striking out within a split second. It's wide to the left, however, purposefully targeted to be easily parried. It seemed, Camille was testing out the other woman's defense. "Swordplay is a lost art, I fear. Either is has become a droll gentleman's sport, or given up in favor of a firearm."

"A sword is merely a tool," Antigone says. She sounds as if she's quoting somebody, although she doesn't reveal who. "We must beware the hand which wields it." Her sword clashes against Wit, catching it and batting it aside. Antigone puts the minimum of effort into the parry, seeing it for the probe it is and not letting it pull her off balance. She takes a slight step forward. "I am intrigued by you," Antigone says.

"Spoken by a hobbyist, albeit one who knows her way about a blade. The sword," Camille seems to correct, pivoting on her back leg and spinning, "Has a soul of it's own. One must just listen to it and learn it's language. It feels, and it hungers. And it sings a melancholy tune that is unrivaled." Did Camille believe such? That perhaps was more apt a question, than whether a sword truly had a soul. But it's largely meant as a distraction as the blade changes directions suddenly and is lifted up - the first true strike of the little competition, though only still relatively standard. "And of course you are intrigued. You are engaging in swordplay against a young woman with an echanted sword. One whom seems it prudent to converse despite the gravity of bladed combat."

Antigone's dander raises a notch, eyes flaring more intensely. Her parry comes faster, deflecting the strike past her shoulder, leading her to disengage just as fast, getting out of immediate striking distance. Immediate, that is, until she closes the distance again, faster than most would anticipate, and making a quick strike towards Camille. "Which begs the question, are you a fool, or as proficient as you believe? As I said, intriguing."

And yet, Camille still seems at ease. Her movements are all minimized, every action conserving energy. So too were her words, each measured and used for reaction - Whether to distract, or in this case provoke. Antigone's sudden attack is met with a counter, Wit coming cross to have the blade whip inches from Camille's face - a soft 'sslft' ringing through the air, and a few strands of hair flying. But Camille is unbloodied. For now. "I believe the more apt question is whether," Camille remarks, motions suddenly fluid again as she ripostes, sword going under guard for a quick strike. It would do very little damage in real combat - perhaps a scratch, or a shallow wound - but in a match for sport - traditional fencing or first blood, it was a very dangerous move. "I am playing a game with you. Were I a fool or Don Diego reborn is not revealed til the end. I'd always err to the later."

It becomes progressively clearer Antigone does not have that level of ease. She's working slightly too hard, seams visible between the moves she assembles. One might get the vague feeling she's lacking something. The riposte forces her to twist drastically, Camille's sword tip barely avoiding her midsection, and that motion turns into the extension of her sword arm towards the other girl, which she uses to take aim at her shoulder. It's a useful enough maneuver, putting her inside Camille's defenses before she can recover and yet also leaving Antigone unable to do so rapidly if she should miss the mark.

The ploy is a crafty one, and seems to almost work to leave a gash on Camille. However, at the very last moment, Rosetta squares her hips and twists, bringing up the sword flat against her shoulder. Were this a live exercise, something like that would be a fool's errand. So perhaps on this day it is merely luck that causes the blow to glance of just right - the impact enough to probably leave a bruise, but without allowing the winning cut. "I must admit something though, Angitone," Camille murmurs, voice a bit sweet with the lust of the duel and of battle. Camille hooks her foot around Antigone's ankle and literally falls forward and to the side - A very very unfencing like maneuver. It is enough though to give her a small window of opportunity, Wit coming up and into the hips of Antigone. It's a very light blow, and the wound would probably heal by morning. But it was enough. "You were not only fighting Camille, but yourself. Your body reads like a book." A moment later. "Though quite the complicated one."

Antigone knows she missed the mark, as even the glancing blow, as hard won as it is, fails to give her enough to capture the win of the duel. The Englishwoman's eyebrows rise, looking at Camille when she offers a confession. The entrapment by Camille's leg comes as a surprise, and even though she attempts to pull back and regain her footing, it's too late, as Wit grazes her across the hips, leaving a cut in her jeans and the faintest trace of blood. "One worth your time reading, I would hope," she says.

"Verily," Camille replies, rapier flourishing for a moment to flick of the tiny speck of blood at the trace. "It won me a bottle of wine." Wit is replaced within the sheath without way of pomp and circumstance, and the Lady turns to regard Antigone again, before giving the lightest of curtsies. The forms still had to be respected after all. "You need to get creative with some of your forms. They're perfect in execution, and because of such, tend to be leading. Trust the blade as much as your training, and you will be fine, I surmise."

Antigone swings her sword around and sheathes it, a bit more showy than Camille. The curtsy gets returned with a bow. "I am more familiar with using the entire range of my abilities, rather than just the sword," Antigone admits. "I must confess I had looked forward to this meeting. You are truly impressive." Antigone gestures with an open hand towards the bottle. It leaps from the table, flying to her hand. Antigone turns and presents it to Camille.

"As I mentioned earlier. A hobbyist." Before Antigone can reply, Camille holds up a finger. "And for once, I do not use it as a slight. Diversity has it's uses as much as specialization. It just can bring problems when the two tend to intersect." And lo, a moment later, Rosetta is extending her hand to take the bottle at the base, before flipping it over so she can sling it over the shoulder. "Telekinesis. Good to know. If we are to ever cross swords in a capacity not conducive to mere first draw, I will not be able to afford playing around."

"I prefer the term journeyman," Antigone replies. "Skilled enough, certainly, to recognize a master." Her eyes dart over Camille. "If we meet in such a capacity," she says, "we will both be in very, very deep trouble." Antigone shifts her weight. "I suppose, then, that this is our time to part," she says, voice laced with reluctance.

"To become a master, one must defeat a master. I will do so and in short order when one presents itself. Until then, I am merely a girl with a rapier." Modesty? Hardly, just skewed facts used to good effect equal to the sword itself. Camille begins to turn, pausing only slightly when she hears a note in Antigone's voice. "You are an interesting one. Normally people are happy when their attacker decides to part."

"Perhaps," Antigone says to Camille. She's half-turned, preparing to collect the table and chairs and glasses. "You were not my attacker," Antigone says levelly. "We met as equals and now we part as such." She allows a pause of a few seconds. "It is rare I meet another of similar breeding and background."

"I suppose it is," Camille replies after a moment considering. "Though it is the nature of the world. Things change, and what was once respected is barely recognize. But that is the nature of the world." Camille does lift the bottle almost in half salute. "If it is of any consolation, I would share this bottle if it would not set a horrid precedent. Instead, I will give you an open invitation to duel whenever you are content to do so. Just expect me not to hold back. Though, I suppose you already knew that." And there is a soft nod again. "Fare thee well, Englishwoman. I will not hold your nationality against you however."

Antigone closes up the first chair, then the second, and finally the table, stacking them together so they can be easily carried, and scooping the wine glasses up in her other hand. She uses that hand to return the salute, causing a faint clink of glassware. "I would be gravely insulted if you did," Antigone replies. "Fare well, Camille."

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