Medieval Swordplay (closed for Ravenloft and myself)

[azn_porn_star]

Lady Isabella

OOC:
I am Lady Isabella of Brixton, a medieval, free-minded woman who inherited a sizable portion of land when her father passed away. She was his only progeny, and thus recieved the land at his death. Not only was she educated in matters of trade, history, and language, she is also an excellent swordfighter. She is known across the country for her beauty and for her armor, which conceals little. She is not as sexually inhibited as many woman of her day either. She has great pride, almost to the point of arrogance.

IC:
Lady Isabella walked through the town, resplendent in her armor. Her good looks and fashionable attire attracted many a wandering eye, both male and female. She spied a young man with wild hair, pointy ears, and a necklace of teeth around his neck. The man was in the middle of a circle, fencing with 3 or 4 people and holding his own, surprisingly. She thought to herself, "That man is quite attractive..."

She called out in an obvious challenge, "My, you think you are quite good by the way you carry yourself. But just how good are you really?"

 

[Ravenloft]

Rothalis Gildmar:

Huddled in a feral crouch, Rothalis shifted his sharp eyes upon the woman who challenged him, the teeth he had braided into his hair clicking together, making the sound of a rattlesnake. In the next heartbeat, he took action, catching one of the men he fought under the chin with the hilt of his sword, planted a foot in the gut of another, and the last he left to collect the trousers from about his very ankles.

The crowd laughed as the three men withdrew. The fourth, who had hesitated to enter the fight stepped back, prefering to make room for the woman's challenge, and save himself from embarasment at the hands of this wild man.

The wild one came to stand before the woman, the curious crowd following behind, only to encircle the two, expectant of another show. He appraised her without word, his nostrals flaring. "One's carriage is no significant mark of their prowess, woman. The most arrogent peacock may still be strangled, even by a pesants hands."

Rothalis circled her, his weapon pointing down, but ready at a moments notice. "So tell me, peacock, what mother hen painted your feathers so brightly?" He asked with a sly grin, mockingly looking through the crowd, as though, looking for the woman's mother. "I shall have to scold her for allowing you the foolishness to step out of doors."