The East PacificBoard

Clack

Hajira's hand stung from the impact, the wooden sword held firmly between her palms trembled in response. Her uncle wheeled the wooden Seisho with a deft twist, a thrust towards her heart. A deft thrust in response, shoving the blade out of its killing path and safely over her shoulder. She jumped back, eyeing her uncle with narrowed eyes. Her hands stung from the hours of practice, each new thrust and parry chafing at her raw palms. The hotel gymnasium she was practicing in was nearly empty, the sounds of their movements echoing in the space with an awful stillness.

"Not good enough." Her uncle, Aiko, added, shifting back into the second position, Bi-kana, a crouch that was reminiscent of an insect eyeing prey. His sword was leveled, aimed squarely at her heart. "You could have finished me there, if you were more aggressive."

She shifted into the third-kana warily moving into a defensive stance. Her mind was elsewhere. The man at the airport, who she had only glimpsed. Talking to your opponent was bad luck, worse than spitting in a shrine. He had been tall, a twirled moustache and paled skin, bound in muscle and armor.

clack

The predictable attack was knocked aside. Her hands went automatically towards the second stroke, which she realized halfway through was the wrong attack. She got out of his riposte at the last second, the sword tip brushing past her cheek by a hair.

Hazira pulled out, shifting into the first-Kana, sword in front of her, feet firmly planted, knees bent. She shifted into an attack position as her mind raced. Her aunt could have done this in a heartbeat. Hazira could picture her, long black hair swaying in the wind, her aunt tottering drunkenly, laughing maniacally and holding a dripping head by the hair. Hazira was not her aunt, and had never won a single bout against her. At best, she was mediocre in her own family.

Pushing off, she met her Aiko. Their swords clashed in a furious dance of attack and parry. As they exchanged,, he began to talk, cooly pushing off her attacks; “Have you dueled with sharps before?”

Clack

“Once.” Her mind went back to the exchange, a rehearsed match carefully done. She had a scar still, which ran from her hip to the outside of her calf. It tingled slightly as she thought of it, as body parts are prone to do once your mind pays heed to past injuries. “It didn’t go well.”

Clack

“So why did you pick this up?”” He had the upper hand now, and she knew it. Her movements were spare, keeping away his deft strokes from her body.

“Aunt Marianne wanted me to.” She stepped back, trying to clear her mind. She was moving automatically, like a record, following each attack with the pre-recorded parries she had drilled long ago. Her mind raced now; She was so foolish, to have picked up the affair. She was terrible at swordplay, terrible at combat. There was no hope on earth that she would win, and, with a shudder, she arrived at the conclusion. By the end of the week, her body would be entombed in the endless catacombs of Charitia. She was shocked out of her thoughts by a dull impact on her neck. her uncle's wooden blade smacking into it with enough force to be felt through the felt training armor.

Her uncle sighed and pulled back. “I see. Are you sure you’re doing alright? You don’t seem to be yourself.”

She gave a wan smile. “Just thinking about the match.”

“Don’t. Focus on what’s in front of you, and only that. Calm your mind, and victory will be yours.”

“Of course” In truth, she doubted it was that simple. Rubbing her neck, she began to leave the building.

“Deep breaths!” Aiko called out as she walked through the big black doors of the gymnasium. “That’s the secret!”

Hazira sighed. It was late already, she would need a long rest before the match at hand. She stripped off the sweat soaked practice armor and winced as she eyed her sore hands. Her mind slipped to the bed in her hotel suite, and smiled at the thought of a quiet restful night.

She got little sleep that night.

Hazira knelt before a shrine to the goddess Sendo, who was patron of all warrior in Charitia. The smell of incense filled the air, and the small rice cakes she had placed sat on the small bench before the idol. Her arms were weighed down with the laquered wood and heavy felt of her armor, and her head felt horribly cramped inside its helmet. She mumbled out the last of her prayers, and stood. An attendant by the door nodded, ushering her forward.

They left the halls of the building, a city hall built by the empire. A brick plaza, secluded by the walls of the city hall, and shaded by trees, awaited outside. Her courtiers awaited along one wall, and she smiled at the sight of her mother in the crowd. Marianne stood in the shade, an enigmatic smile on her face, and her dark grey hair done in a bun.

Focus. She turned to face the opposite set of doors, where her opponent would be arriving. With a quick motion, she slipped off her helmet and waited for his arrival.