Grestarian's Tale

I'm not sure whether or not I am honored to write this entry 

for the "Who's Who in Ferdarchi" collection.  So many of 

the previous biographies I have seen are from esteemed 

Eristocrats and, though I spent a healthy enough portion of 

my childhood in the streets of The City, most of my 

compatriots of that time are gone, my favorite haunts have 

long since been demolished, and I no longer count myself 

as a citizen. 



And yet, because Lirrin of the Healers Hall kindly 

suggested I provide my best accounting, I shall honor her 

and provide what I can.  Those who have had dealings with 

me will understand the following message, those who know 

my trade and reputation can derive my meaning:  The 

following accounts will be lengthy and wordy.  That is my 

style, that is my trade.  That is the way I do things which 

require the use of words.



I am a bard.



I have been called, variously: a singer, a traveler, an 

Eristocrat, a thief, a bearer-of-bad-news, a portent of 

change, a rabble-raiser, an inciter of riots, a spreader-of-

lies, a swordsman, an assassin, a catalyst, a duellist, a 

meddler, a killer, a Karnavore,  a dodger, a poet, a vagrant, 

a tale-spinner, a lost soul, a news-bringer, a busy-body, a 

fool, an adventurer.



I have been all that and much less.  My being is made up of 

all that and much more.



Although I have admitted to living in Eristan, I have never 

accepted the title of Eristocrat.



I am an ex-patriot.



I was a harijan who was not supposed to live.  Many of the 

words used to describe me are functions of my job:  I am a 

Searcher.  I seek news and knowledge.  News and 

knowledge are the stocks of my trade, soliloquy and verse 

and sonnet and tale- -words of warning and wisdom are my 

tools.



The blood I have spilled in my profession has been 

incidental.  The blood I spilled before seeking my trade was 

wanton and, at times, gratuitous.





I knew naught of my mother or my father.  I knew as a 

youth that those who watched over me, those who gave me 

food and taught me their ways, were not the family to 

which I was born.  Indeed, they themselves were not a 

family, but merely a group of denizens who had gathered 

together like a vagabond troup- -except that they had 

nothing to perform, nothing of interest to display for the 

public, no places to journey between and find welcome 

audiences awaiting.   It was made clear to me for as long as 

I can remember, that my tenure as a harijan, my acceptance 

among the squatters in the poor quarter, my place among 

the rabble was a courtesy of the vagrant community and 

held only as strong as a thread of spider silk.  Should my 

mother be found or return, my place among them would 

disappear.



I know now that such a pronouncement must have been in 

my best interest, but for the little boy I was at the time it 

was ever a painful threat of abandonment to a stranger who 

had not cared to keep me from the beginning.  Even those 

who would tell me I was only a temporary harijan would 

try to placate my fears.  They would tell me stories of how 

little Grestarian was really the lost son of a Ktharvian 

noble, or the bastard son of a Selendrian princess.  I knew 

naught of these worlds, could not comprehend much 

beyond the alleys in which I begged and played, and felt 

only that my elders and peers were teasing me in the hopes 

that I would feel better about leaving.



Instead, I worked hard to stay.  I begged as best I could 

until I was old enough to know my numbers and coordinate 

my hands.  Then I was taught to gamble so that I could later 

learn to pilfer.  It was at this time, when I was still like a 

toddler (a precocious one, at that, but such were the 

necessary conditions of life in the poor quarter:  one grows 

up fast, or doesn't survive to grow up) that Stamlawin Elder 

took it upon himself to crusade against gambling.  So to 

gain his favor and establish myself as one who fits in the 

Quarter, I threw my efforts into Stamlawin's campaign and 

we eventually saw the abolition of gambling in the streets 

of Eristan.  The effort took two years, Stamlawin's life, and 

my box-mate Soreg's mind.



In between campaigns against gambling, I had to make a 

living- -even for my youthfulness, life is not free in the 

Quarter.  And since gambling was being prohibited I was 

not able to learn to pilfer- -for Stamlawin was also the one 

who would teach me pilfering but, since he had begun his 

campaign, concentrated only on the abolition efforts and 

never on teaching me to cut purses.  Instead I taught myself 

my own pilfering, passing into storerooms at night to look 

around and acquire comestibles.  And I was good at it.



Eventually I acquired a taste for imported foods, either by 

visiting a rich man's cellar once too often, or by taking 

hand-outs too close to the city gates.  But I got the idea to 

find for myself the fruits of other lands, and that quest 

brought me to Martrovio, the travelling peddler.  

Martrovio's cart was an easy target, with its covered cargo 

area big enough for three trolls to wrestle in.  



It was easy enough to sneak into the wagon from the back 

while Martrovio was dealing with a customer in front, then 

quickly slip out before the peddler came back to retrieve an 

item for sale.  It was easy enough for several weeks- -until I 

was caught.



Martrovio was furious.  He blamed me for the loss of all 

the goods he had been missing for months (that may have 

been correct for a healthy portion of his losses!) and he beat 

me severely.  My injuries kept me within my box for over a 

week and it was during this time, when Stamlawin was 

campaigning especially hard and I was unable to help him 

in his efforts, that the Elder passed away.  



There are those who would say that Soreg was truly 

Stamlawin's son.  None could ever say for sure, since 

Stelabra spent her evenings with so many adventurers who 

were too poor for Selina's Place.  But Stelabra and 

Stamlawin were known to be together when she had no 

business a-calling, and Soreg was surely the product of 

Stelabra and someone.   Stamlawin treated us all equally 

well, but Soreg took it especially hard when the Elder 

passed away.  And now it seems that my friend, he who 

spent many nights with me on Harijan Hill teaching me to 

be street-wise with the blade, is reduced to blithering and 

chasing rats.  Had he maintained his sanity, he might have 

become Elder by now.



Stamlawin had been my protector and my primary mentor.  

With him gone, I was not sure if his edict about my ability 

to stay in the Quarter would hold fast.



When my bones had mended I craved the foreign delicacies 

even more.  I risked another attempt at Martrovio's goods, 

got caught, and was beaten again.  But in the beating I had 

managed to grab a blade that had been thrown on a pile in 

the wagon, and I managed to leave a mark upon Martrovio 

that he would never forget.  For a second week in two I 

spent all my time in my box, and during that time 

Martrovio sent a team of ogre Bashers to teach the Quarter 

a lesson about theft.  It was in that raid that Stelabra joined 

her box-mate.  I had hid beneath my rag-covers and played 

dead-in-my-box, so the Bashers left me alone.



Still, I knew who had sent them.



As soon as I had recovered, I buried a dagger in a filthy 

crack by my box, and sought Soreg for more training.  

Soreg was no use to me; he had become a blathering idiot 

whose only goal was to rid the Quarter of rats.  So I spent a 

few weeks with my blade buried, exercising and shadow-

fighting, forcing my body to heal and my muscles to regain 

their strength.  Then I grabbed my dagger and waited.



When Martrovio came to Eristan again, I slipped into the 

back of his wagon and waited for him to retrieve a sold 

item.  I watched from behind a barrel of peaches and 

listened to his business as he traded a robe for a spell of 

retaliation.  He was dealing with a Ktharvian noble who 

was visiting Eristan, and I knew from tales in the Quarter 

that Ktharvian magic was the most powerful, most 

destructive, most malevolent spellwork available.  



Then Martrovio came back, I could see that the slicing I 

had given him earlier had been grevious and harsh.  The 

skin where my blade had touched was yellow and the skin 

around that held patches of white and purple.  Martovia's 

chest wound had festered and gone sour, and I was proud to 

know I had caused it!


Martrovio had gone sour, too.  He had once done his 

dealings with no weapons by his side, but after the raid had 

begun to wear a short sword and two daggers.  As he 

stepped back into the cargo area, I knew he would kill me if 

he saw me, and I knew my dagger was no match for him; 

any poison Martrovio might get from the filth on my 

dagger would have no effect in changing the disease 

already going through his body from my earlier mark.   

And I knew Martrovio was carrying his new weapons 

specifically to handle me or my fellow harijan.



So all I could do was hide.  



Martrovio retreived and delivered the Ktharvian his robe 

and immediately started for Tobermore.  Meanwhile, I 

could only stay hidden behind the barrels and cover myself 

with hides.



Eventually, Martrovio stopped the cart mid-way between 

Eristan and Tobermore and, while he was watering a bush, 

I slipped out the back of his wagon and hid behind a rock.  

When Martrovio continued on, I was left behind in the 

wilderness.  Eventually, I joined a passing van of 

adventurers and stayed with them on their way to 

Tobermore.  I even spent an evening sharing a watch with 

two swordsmen.



In Tobermore I left the adventurers and tried to find a way 

to survive.  Unfortunately, I had no contacts outside 

Eristan, no names I could drop that would cause merchants 

to treat me kindly with food or shelter.  Even those of 

Tobermore's Quarter who knew the name of Stamlawin 

knew he was dead.  They could gain nothing from treating 

me well, so they chose not to treat me at all.



On my first night in Tobermore, while sleeping behind a 

livery, I was grabbed in the night, roughed from my sleep, 

and hauled by a press gang to a recruiting center.  With no 

name, no job, and no background (worth speaking highly 

of), I was drafted into an army.  It was a nightmare of 

circumstances and recruiting methods, but it may have been 

the best thing to happen to my life.



It was soon obvious that, providing I was awake, I had a 

serious talent or a natural skill with the blade- -even if 

some of my actions were unorthodox or less than 

honorable.  I became a footsoldier in the Athosian Army, 

helping to repel trolls and learning bladework so quickly it 

was as if the officers training me were simply reminding 

me of techniques I had forgotten.



Eventually my skill with the blade was known throughout 

the Athosian Army, and the Athosian king, Larcymedes 

himself, came to offer me a commission.  Unfortunately, I 

didn't know my age and still looked terribly young.  I was 

possibly not old enough, he said, to gain respect from the 

other officers I would have to lead.  I thanked him for his 

honesty, apologized for my youth, and thanked him for 

sparing me potential confrontations with officers who had 

trained me and whom I respected.  I even took the time to 

suggest that my best friend and favorite mentor (who taught 

me the difference between strategy and tactics), 

Parmenides-of-the-Partisan, be given the commission 

instead.  Eventually, Parmenides became a General and left 

the Athosian Army- -but that is a story unto itself!



I was given the opportunity to go to Eristan as part of a 

winter garrison and, while I had a notion of misgivings, I 

thought it was merely my unwillingness to reveal my 

nefarious beginnings.  I convinced myself that I could keep 

my secret hidden so long as I avoided the Poor Quarter, and 

accompanied my king to the City of Thieves.  Knowing the 

tactics of my former brethren, I thought, I could keep my 

king from being pilfered or burglarized.



I did well in keeping my king's belongings safe, but I failed 

miserably in doing the same for his person.  While I was 

arguing with Grangor about the price of  customized 

greaves for my boss, a troll was stabbing my boss in the 

back.  He had come in acting like a potential volunteer and, 

even though we were there to rally against Troll forces in 

the Spring, not all trolls are alike and we were planning to 

gather some brute strength as shock troops.  Unfortunately, 

while the king was questioning the volunteer's loyalties, he 

got a first-hand example of where the troll's loyalties really 

lay.



At the time when the king was assassinated, he had been 

estranged from his wife and she refused to arrange for his 

burial.  But a king is a king and deserves no less respect for 

being out of his lands, particularly when the lands he was in 

were benefitting from his protection.  The team I was in 

decided to seek the help of the Eristocratic council in 

creating a decent tomb for our leader.  For some reason I 

was chosen as one of the chief orators in favor of the 

memorial, and it was during my speeches that I realized I 

had a talent for words as well as warfare.



As for the Troll forces who had sent the assassin, my 

company also rallied behind that and, even though it was 

winter, mounted an ugly campaign of guerrila attacks 

against their outposts, leaving bodies to rot in their barracks 

until reinforcements came in the Spring.  And the damage 

the reinforcements found when they arrived was enough to 

turn the war around and eventually ensure safety for 

Eristan.  In their gratitude, the Eristocratic council first 

refused to pay us for helping them "in the off-season for 

war" then agreed to contribute the value of Larcymedes' 

tomb in payment, thereby "calling it even."



So our company disbanded.  Our king, disgraced in his 

homeland and murdered among ingrates, lay buried far 

from the woman he loved, the lands he loved, and the 

people he grew up protecting.  I was offered a commission 

by the queen, but I had grown tired of border skirmishes 

and political violence and, quite frankly, I resented her 

callous treatment of the man who, at the very least, saved 

her lands from pillage.  Instead, I begged my leave and 

arranged for my pension to be sent to Eristan.  I spent the 

remainder of the Winter in Eristan visiting old haunts and 

even checking up on my childhood "family" and friends.   

Those who had been my elders were gone for various 

reasons; some of those who had been my peers were alive, 

and living their typically desperate lives.



In the Spring, the trouble came.



Terimptor of Soriktos found me at the Silver Coin Inn.   I 

was flirting with Mandy and talking to a young woman 

who had hopes of opening a Healers Hall in the middle of 

town.  I thought it was a noble idea, but didn't see how she 

would get much more business than the healers who 

travelled with companies and vans.  Terimptor walked in 

and threw a dagger at my feet.



As I jumped to my feet, Terimptor pointed to me and said, 

"Do you know what that means?"



"My custom is to throw gloves," I told him, "but I'll assume 

the meaning is the same." 



We went outside to the middle square of Eristan and hung 

our cloaks on the bulletin board- -back then there was a 

bulletin board in the central square- -and I took Terimptor's 

life in less than a minute.  I didn't even understand why he 

had challenged me, but I had proven myself wrong and 

brought Lirrin her first customer.



Lirrin could do nothing for him.  She had not yet opened 

her Hall, Amulets were few and far between back then, and 

her skills in healing were just beginning- -she had not even 

started to acquire her legendary abilities by then. 



"He is a duellist," someone told me while handing me 

Teremptor's moneybag and patting me on the back, "and 

whoever wins a duel owns whatever the loser is carrying."



Well that sounded pretty simple, and pretty easy, and rather 

nice.


Most of the time, I sat and waited.  Zephyr came by, 

hurling insults at any and all around.  By the time he came 

by and tried to pick my pocket, I was more than ready and 

feeling more than justified.  



It was over in less than a minute.



Some would bring me holy causes.  I killed a brother, I 

killed a friend, I killed a lover or an offspring.  Some 

brought me no cause, just a challenge plain and simple.  



I made friends among the denizens again, like Bodil, my 

idiot friend who is enamoured of Lirrin but lacks the guts to 

tell it.  And Lirrin herself, the Lady of the Healers' Hall 

who has aided me on numerous occasions and appreciates 

my vigilance on her behalf.  And Virgil, the blind ancient 

who somehow offended the Gods of Ferdarchi and now 

suffers for his transgression.  Mandy, with whom I always 

flirt, is nothing more than a pretty face to me, though I 

often sense she expects me to take her away from that job.  

And the lost Fuzzies, whom Lirrin has adopted in a de facto 

manner, know me well enough that I can understand their 

meanings when they try to communicate.



And it came to pass that some who thought themselves 

clever would attack one of my friends, seeking to draw me 

out, to force my hand and anger in a challenge.  Whether 

successful or not in their attempts is irrelevant; they are 

now dead and I took what they carried.  Some would attack 

too close to my sentiments and I would hasten to avenge 

the offense; others would fail to best even my friends; 

others still would lack the patience or resources to do 

naught but call me out directly. My proclivities from street 

fighting, added to my training as a soldier, are a formidable 

combination.



There were periods when none would come to Eristan to 

call me out.  And if such periods grew too long, I would 

sometimes wander to Tobermore or Soriktos to challenge 

others as I had been challenged.   I saw nothing in gender 

or race, size or number of limbs.  Those who thought 

themselves skilled fighters would either challenge me or be 

challenged.  I suffered wounds both mild and severe, but 

never lost a duel.



In my travels from town to town, burgh to village, hamlet 

to city, I took the time to discover news of one and carry it 

to the others.  It was not a difficult task, it required little 

more than listening to people conversing and asking, "What 

of the News?"



In my travels from town to town, while carrying news from 

one place to the other, I rediscovered my talent with words.   

It became my habit, while on the roads between cities, to 

weave my stories for the audiences who would hear them.  

I would retain the shape of the facts while engrossing 

listeners in gestures and displays, I learned to raise and 

lower my voice to draw listeners in and overwhelm them 

with the thrust of a story, I learned to express a story with 

monotones or dramatic pitches, punctuating my words with 

stomps and clapping hands.



It was while recanting a story that I met my Taraneh and, 

while that is a story unto itself, it was through Taraneh that 

I eventually gained entry into Karnak.  Taraneh is the 

daughter of a Ktharvian noble who, though she possesses 

arcane talents, prefers the challenge of bladework.  

Estranged from her father for eschewing his profession, she 

eventually took to duelling and made herself quite a 

reputation.  



Eventually, Taraneh found her way to The City of Bloody 

Streets.  It was she who introduced me to Gropius, the 

Gatekeeper, and it was she who advised me on how to pass 

The Gate.  It is she who shares my bed in a small apartment 

amidst the constant bloodshed of Karnak.  Though we often 

quest alone, by unspoken agreement avoiding the 

townships of each others' youth, our hearts are never apart.  

She has given me love and life, a vibrancy I had never 

known even in the most heated battle and, most 

importantly, something I had never truly had before 

meeting her:  A reason to stay alive.



It was in Karnak that I met Ambrose, a balladeer who had 

heard of my exploits at duelling and knew that I was a 

carrier of news and stories.  It was Ambrose who 

encouraged me to become a bard or a singer, who offered 

me a way to live without killing wantonly, yet without the 

need to back away from a challenge.  Ambrose believes I 

have the talent to become a minstrel- -or even a troubador- 

-and yet he knows well how difficult it is to walk away 

from the sport of killing.  After all, he was a Karnavore 

before Taraneh challenged the Gate, and he is still quick to 

take arms when he sees it is deserved.  I am honored to be 

his understudy. 



I spent several months working with Ambrose, travelling 

beyond the Strange Lands and learning his trade.  The 

talents and habits I had were honed while some of my 

habits and methods were changed to fit with the standards 

of his Troupe.  Eventually, I was brought before Gregory, 

the Troubador.  I tested fit for admission and am now 

permitted to carry the blade of bards.  To commemorate my 

first step, my Taraneh had a special dagger made for me 

which Gregory found worthy as a badge- -and Ambrose 

calls a betrothal token.



Now I travel, not quite as I had always travelled, but with 

more purpose, more attentiveness, and more honor than I 

had ever thought a harijan could have (though Taraneh's 

father will never accept me as his daughter's lover).  My 

feet still take me where I choose, with none commanding 

my presence, and my talents are well-used and growing.  

Even Elzed, who competes for coins against Martrovio's 

son, occasionally lets me ride with him.   In time I shall 

become a poet and, some day perhaps, a minstrel.  Should I 

live so long, I might take Gregory's place, but there is much 

competition for the Troubador's cloth.



As for Taraneh, I have thought long and hard about 

marrying her and she, too, has thought long and hard about 

marrying.  When my doubts and misgivings had frustrated 

me to no end, I sought counsel from various sources and 

eventually challenged all Gods.  Having done so- -and such 

is another long tale- -I know that I can, indeed, be a worthy 

husband.  At the end of my challenge I mounted a bloodless 

quest against Lord Ferzha'avic, Taraneh's father, and 

demanded the right to betrothal.  Although the Ktharvian 

Wizard refused, my Taraneh insisted it was not his choice.  

We are engaged, but will wait before marrying until I rise 

to Poet.  That is a long hard struggle, but will be well worth 

the wait.



Meanwhile, I continue to travel; to visit Eristan and 

Karnak, Segliz occasionally, and Tobermore rarely.  I 

continue to seek information and knowledge, tales and 

wisdom.  Once in a while I even accompany a band of 

people to observe their quests.  I struggle with music when 

I am in Karnak, but I feel I lack the talent to warrant my 

own theorbo yet.  Some day, though, I shall be a Lyricist at 

least, mayhaps a Minstrel before I quit this world.



If you see me, tell me tales.  If you meet me, tell me news.  

The doings of all cities are important to all cities, and it is 

my job to find interest in events.  Mayhaps your own quests 

shall warrant verse!







I wish to thank Lirrin sich Eristan for allowing me the 

honored space upon her shelves.  This biography, as I 

warned, was long- -and still continues!

(by Grestarian sich Karnak)

I had been talking to a wench of Segliz who was serving in 

Tobermore, describing to her a dubious deed by an 

Eristocratic sheriff, when a beautiful raven-haired woman 

entered the bar clad in leathers and a green wool cloak.  

She caught my tale, sat close as I recanted events, and 

captured my heart with her beauty and stature.  I continued 

to weave my tales after the wench returned to serving 

customers, dazzling the raveness with news from Eristan, 

stories from Segliz, and tales (quite recent) of Tobermore.  

She fed me wine with her deep mysterious stare and 

seduced me namelessly by the time the night was over.



In the morning, she was gone.



I continued my journeys, moving from town to town armed 

with news and my rapier, my cape as a main gauche, and a 

dagger in my boot.  Ever as I travelled, I could not clear my 

head of the raveness.  I bedded various wenches and 

willing denizens, but was never able to recapture the 

rapture of my tryst with the raven-haired lass.  I passed 

thrice through Eristan before meeting her again.



In Tobermore one evening, I learned that a "killer cutie 

with dark tresses and darker eyes" was trying to find me.  I 

went to the Overturned Skull and found her sitting with a 

meal.  I sat across from her and said, "I heard you were 

looking for me."



"I've been looking since we last had our tryst," she told me, 

"but I've got an appointment tonight so I won't be able to 

play."



"Forget the appointment," I urged while caressing the back 

of her wrist, "you and I can have a much better time."  



She nodded and wrote a note to someone, then we rented a 

room.  We made love until dawn, had breakfast, then 

agreed to meet again.  It had never mattered before, but I 

asked my lover's name for the first time.



"There are those who call me 'Teh: the hand of death'" she 

told me, then winked and left the room.  I didn't get a 

chance to tell her my name.



And then, when I was eating lunch at Doll's in Tobermore, 

I heard a shout from the street.



"Grestarian!" I heard a woman shout, "I am Taraneh sich 

Ktharvia.  You have avoided my challenges until now.  

Come out and meet your death!"  So I tossed a coin to the 

waitress, strapped on my sword belt, grabbed my weighted 

cape, and strolled outside.



"Where is he?" my lover asked when I emerged into the 

sunlight.  She wore her leathers tight and black, and held a 

longsword point-down as if she knew its abilities well.  As 

she looked past me into Doll's, she asked, "He didn't send 

you to protect him, did he?"



"That depends, lover," I told her, "Who is the 'he' that you 

think I am protecting?"



"He is Grestarian.  He is a duellist," she told me, "None 

have been said to have bested him, and none have ever 

bested me.  So Grestarian shall meet his match this day, 

and I shall take what he carries."



"M'lady," I observed, "Grestarian has bested you earlier, 

and he met his match long ago."



"Impossible!" Taraneh rejected my words, "I've never met 

him.  And I hear that he still lives."



"As for what he carries," I ignored her claims, "He carries a 

cape, a rapier, and a dagger in his boot.  He dresses in white 

and black.


She paused for a moment, observing my possessions and 

processing my words, then rejected them, "Ridiculous!  

Now send him out and let me take his life!"



I had exhausted my talking, and I knew she was determined 

to be the best duellist ever.  I had never been told I had 

such a grand record, but I wasn't going to let my ignorance 

lead to my death.   I sighed and drew my blade, then took a 

short double-forward stance to face her.



By then a crowd had gathered; neither of us could back 

down.  The observers were many and cared neither for 

Taraneh or me in particular, but the tension was high and 

the wagers ran fast and furious on which of us would 

emerge victorious and who would embrace Anastasia by 

morning.  



"You're serious, aren't you?"  Taraneh frowned as she lifted 

her sword toward me, "I thought you were answering to 

'Songblade' when I met you."



"I was, M'lady," I explained as she stepped closer to engage 

my blade.  Instead of raising my blade to meet hers, I 

lowered it, dropping the foible below her line of vision 

even as she set her own blade to occupy my main field of 

view, "I picked up that nickname in the Athosian army 

because I used to sing while sharpening weapons."



"Hmm," my lover mused as she dropped her tip and began 

to circle to my right, "And soon the canary will lose its 

tongue."



"No need to inspect your prey, huntress," I told her as she 

circled around behind me.  I didn't even bother to turn and 

watch her move, so sure was I that she would attack from 

the front, "You've seen me quite well from every angle 

already, just as I have seen thee intimately too."



Of course my words brought a chuckle from the crowd and 

of course the crowd's mirth embarrassed my opponent.  



"Such a nice tush!" Taraneh countered while swatting my 

derriere with the flat of her blade, "Such a shame to waste 

it!"



"Aye, lass!" I replied, embarrassed but undaunted as I spun 

to my left to face her and knocked her blade away with my 

rapier, "And yours is quite a nice ass, too!  And I'd much 

rather stick it," I emphasized my next words by feigning 

beat-attacks low on her longsword, "with a better weapon 

than these!"



Taraneh's eyes sparkled and I knew the thought appealed to 

her.  But, just as quickly, she knew some of our spectators 

had seen it and her face grew red.  She shifted farther 

leftward, derobed my beat, and growled derisively, "I bet 

you would!"



'Well, but of course!" I agreed as I shrugged my shoulders 

and feigned dropping my guard.  As I shifted to another 

double-forward stance, I extended my cloak arm toward her 

and added, "After all, it was so enjoyable last night!"



In duelling, the parley is often the meat of the battle.  Tactic 

and technique are frequently exchanged so rapidly that 

observers know naught of what truly occurred, participants 

become aware only of their instincts taking over, and 

Anastasia claims her prize long before the unfolding of 

events is truly understood.  The winner and loser are aware 

of their destiny in little more than a flash.  The time-

consuming aspect, that which the observers see and the 

duellists savor, is the bantering, the insults, the accusations, 

epithets, and retorts filled with lies and petty responses.  



Taraneh had, indeed, enjoyed another wonderful night 'ere 

the calling-out, but I had been exceedingly rude in 

publicizing it.  In response, she lifted her sword high and 

rushed me, screaming as she attacked, "Hyaaahhh!"



As always, time slowed to a crawl for me.  I studied my 

oncoming attacker, noted the blade held high and the 

distance between her feet.  I saw her eyes blaze in 

anticipation of a kill, noted the strength in her hands and 

the tilt of her shoulders.  It was that tilt that gave her away.  



As Taraneh rushed toward me, her blade high above her 

and the scream flowing from her soft, succulent, beautiful 

lips, she implied an intent to cleave me in two from skull to 

groin.  But her shoulders told me another story:  The high 

blade was a ruse to get me to try and side-step, at which 

point she was prepared to drop her blade and swing 

horizontally, thereby chopping off my head or cleaving into 

my rib cage.



I saw all this.  I knew that I could easily foil her plan by 

rushing forward instead of backward or to either side.  I 

saw her incredible vulnerability as her raised sword left her 

midriff completely open to a straight thrust.  With a heavier 

blade than mine, Taraneh could crash through my solid 

blocks and destroy my rapier while hacking into my flesh.  

Thin as it was, though, my blade was quicker, able to drive 

past a ribcage and find critical organs beneath, puncturing 

and withdrawing long before an assailant knew he had been 

preempted.  This opponent, however, was the last being I 

ever wanted to harm.



As Taraneh dashed upon me, I slipped leftward, pretending 

to succumb to her cleaving ruse.  Immediately, she 

followed my move, shifting her hands from overhead to a 

sideways preparation.  As I crouched low, feigning a slip 

and dropping my hands, she followed the move, dropping 

her hands even lower so she could find my neck with her 

longsword.  As she unleashed her swing toward my neck, I 

dropped my rapier and set my hand on the ground, 

completing the impression of slipping and falling during 

the conflict.  The action left my left hand without a trusty 

rapier and put my skull in line with her attack.  Meanwhile, 

my right hand was encumbered with my cape, which was 

dipping toward the ground in front of me.  



As my beautiful assailant's blade drew nearer my skull, I 

whipped my cape down, around, and up, trapping her 

sword within its folds and dragging it up and over my head.  

Once safely away from my brains, I pulled on the cape to 

add force to the sword's momentum and change its 

wielder's balance.  As the sword swooshed past my head, I 

released my weighted cape and let it stay wrapped around 

Taraneh's blade.  Meanwhile, I 'miraculously' recovered my 

footing and rose to move in toward my assailant.  



Taraneh and I crashed into each other, her shoulder, ribs, 

and right hip slamming into my front as she retained her 

two-handed grip on her sword.  I was braced for the impact 

and suddenly empty handed, so I made a vulgar show of 

grabbing her left buttock when we hit, causing my deadly 

lover to squeal in shock—and perhaps a little delight.  



I stepped back in recoil from the impact and let Taraeneh's 

momentum continue carrying her toward me.  With my 

empty cloak-hand, I circled around Taraneh's flailing arms.  

Meanwhile, my left hand left her derrier and guided her 

momentum into a spin.  A slight nudge turned the spinning 

motion into a toppling action and, as she gasped at the 

sensation of falling, I locked up her sword arms, clinched 

her waist, and covered her mouth in a passionate kiss.



I was quite prepared to let the match continue to the death, 

but I wanted to steal a last kiss from her first.  I held her for 

countless milliseconds, kneeling like a herald and propping 

her up on a raised thigh while clenching her waist in a 

death-grip and fighting to keep her hands (and sword) away 

to my right.  



After a trace of time, I got the shock of my life.  I heard a 

muffled clank to my right as my lovely assailant dropped 

her sword, I felt her arms relax as the sword dropped, and I 

felt a warm wet tongue push past my teeth.  Taraneh had 

surrendered and she was surrenduring to more than just 

my combative skill!



As a round of applause went up around us, I felt the heat of 

blood from both of us blushing.  I could do nothing but 

hide my blush by continuing the kiss, which brought more 

cheers and several cat-calls from the spectators, which 

brought more embarrassment to me and my former 

antagonist and more need to hide our faces and more 

kissing and



Eventually, I released my lover and helped her stand 

upright.  I waited until the applause had died and, while 

Taraneh moved to retreive her sword, remained kneeling.  

As she touched the handle of her longsword, I bent my 

head and commented, "M'lady, forgive me.  It could be said 

that I cheated."



"Yes, it could." Taraneh's voice was behind me as she 

agreed.  I felt her sword-point touch my neck and bristled 

as the crowd around us gasped.  I felt the sword-point shift 

and disappear, then heard a quiet flutter before my cape 

settled gently on my shoulders.  The spectators clapped 

quietly in appreciation of the feat, while the swordswoman 

added, "We'll have to have a rematch some time."



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