**When it was their turn to fight, the two were led to the center of the massive arena, whose packed-sand floor was stained in various places with what could only be blood. The stands were choked with thousands of elves and men, all intently watching the spectacle about to unfold.
As their attendants scampered away, a large bell rang somewhere above. It begins.**
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Sing lustily and with good courage.
Be aware of singing as if you were half dead,
or half asleep:
but lift your voice with strength.
Be no more afraid of your voice now,
nor more ashamed of its being heard,
than when you sang the songs of Satan.
Alacritas shook her hand with mild interest, then took some steps back. He jerked his head to one side then the next as he stretched and cracked some joints, all the while was muttering silently to himself."This is nothing. Don't let it get to you. Don't let it get to you."He unsheathed Falcon's Fury, and waited to see Sari's weapon of choice before choosing his stance.
Alacritas dragged the tip of his sword across the sand, then lifted it over his head with the blade facing Sari, the point cast at a downward angle and hanging almost to his shoulder. He gripped it with his right hand pressing up against the crossguard, and his left grabbing at the pommel.
The blade smacked against Alacritas, though the short distance and awkward angle of the throw reduced much from its effect. The flames brushed against him, but the protection from his boots helped, their effects even going so far as to transfer part of the burning to Sari. Alacritas took some steps back as he shook off the sensation, making sure to kick the girl's sword further in her opposite direction.
Nodding to himself as he watched Sari pulled her whip, Alacritas got back in form, only this time changing his grip on the sword. His method was unconventional, as he held it more as if it were a warhammer, with one hand grabbing the sword's blade towards the taper, and the other grabbing the blade a few inches below the crossguard, leaving the hilt and quillons to act as a hammerhead.
Alacritas met her charge, drawing his sword in a diagonal arc to meet the whip. Of course that is a horrible plan, and the whip slashed across his forearm, and Falcon's Fury went flying across the arena as the swing's momentum tore it from his grip. This was all fine with Alacritas; his goal was simply to close the distance and tackle the girl again.
Alacritas was quick to push her hand out of the way, an easy task with his full weight on her. He prepared his other hand for a punch at her jaw, but his fist hung still in the air, as if unwilling to go through with it.