The line

The suited man runs his hands over the chest.

Lid of polished wood of a deep dark lustre, his hands trace the craved patterns as if to a hidden tune.

Then he slowly opens the lid, and retrieves a single glowing globe.

Holding it between forefinger and thumb, he stares as if mesmerized by the shifting silver and gold.

"Do it justice hmm?" as he says as he passes it to another.

The other man rolls the ball in his palm.

" This particular one? I think I can"

Then with a swift movement he hurls the globe into the air.

The gleaming spark flies higher until it lost in the darkness.

"Erm, that's an interesting way to do it?"

"Don't worry, any time now"

Then the night sky bursts into an unexpected new dawn.

And the scene fades.

~~~

Hold the line


At a certain castle on a hill, there is a hall with a line down the middle.

And every thursday young men of the castle would gather on either side of the line, armed with their thin dueling blades they would pick their side carefully to ensure the optimal mix of allies on their side and enemies on the other.

You see, brought with them would be the rivalries, jealousies and competitions accumulated across the week. And one could have far more then one set of enemies and allies, but there were only 2 sides to the line

Take it to the line and leave it there is an often heard axiom amongst the youth.

At the same time every week, the master of swords would stride in and the full hall would salute.

The rules would be explained and though all present knew them by heart, they would still patiently listen.

~
The line was not to be crossed.
The combatants must retire on first blood.
At the end of the stipulated time, the side with more standing was the victor.
Penance as declared by the victors would be carried out by the losing team.
~

Then a large hour glass would be produced and turned, and the hall would erupt in chaos.

The inexperienced would hurl themselves into the fray, swinging wildly, some even with skill, attempting to make a good account of themselves before feeling the inevitable sting of another's blade.

Others would work in pairs or trios, simultaneously able to defend and attack but highly immobile like a turtle.

Some of the faster ones would stand back, from the frontline, swords darting from any possible direction, wounding arms, legs or any opening that could be found.

In each panting moment there would be another swashbuckling tale of heroes, sacrifice and villains born.

The smart ones would pace themselves, changing roles, biding their times to ensure that their personal vendettas would sorted on the field without interruption.

These are the ones that know that first blood can be drawn in a multitude of ways, and some more wounding then others.

Under these conditions the men learn quickly to adapt.

An antiqued parry designed to deflect spear thrust from horse back is quickly found to be useful in defending the strikes of the turtle formation.

A well executed heel stomp is seen used to pin the tip of 3 blades to the ground as the crafty owner rakes his blade across the hands of his assailants.

And many a broken nose has taught that even the pommel or guard of the sword can attain first blood as well as the point.

Amongst all this some might even remember, that once upon a time, the captain of the blades would hollar from back of his men in his deep bold voice.

"HOLD THE LINE!"