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Cyrus smiled as Eyvind entered the ring, likewise armed for their battle. The Vagaran was a daunting opponent, standing nearly a full foot taller than the blonde legionnaire himself. The rigors and demands of the military life could be seen in the red-haired Daekin's muscular and imposing physique, and when the attendent handed him his blunted longsword, the Vagaran officer handled the weapon with an ease and familiarity that spoke of his prior training and experiance with a blade. Cyrus' smile grew with the prospect of the comming match, and he nodded in return to Eyvind's greeting.
"Serale, my friend. Indeed, a fine day for a spar."
The young soldier could then see the other recruits pausing in their various training excersizes and turning to watch the impending fight between their commanders. Though Eyvind loomed over his blonde opponent, the one-eye'd legionnaire had a growing reputation amongst the soldiers; one that had followed him since his first day in the Imperial ranks. Some glint in his lone sapphire eye, some subtle word spoken with his unconcious body language, told all who watched that they looked upon a natural warrior, a killer born. Yet now, surrounded by his comrades, the young soldier was entirely in control of himself. This was a contest of skill and precision, where savagery and bloodlust had no place.
Still smiling, Cyrus assumed a defensive position with the smooth and graceful motions he had long implimented into his personal fighting style. He lowered his center of gravity by flexing his knees slightly, then extended his left leg a half foot's length and turned his back foot forty-five degrees to the side, planting himself in a solid position much like what one would assume when on the front lines of an infantry unit. His body was slightly turned to the right, so that the surface of the round shield secured to his left forearm was better presented to his opponent. The bottom edge of his round shield hovered just above where his flexed lead knee rested, where the protection of his greaves would cease when armored, and the top edge of the shield hovered before the legionnaire's face, just beneath the soldier's remaining cobalt orb. His right arm was cocked back, holding his longsword horizontally at his hip with the rounded tip hanging still and ready in the air just behind the shield.
It was the stance that Cyrus would adopt in the tightly clustered and chaotic ranks of infantry once the battle had begun. In an environment like that, and with the other soldiers to account for, he would have to focus on keeping his feet beneath him at all times and his shield between him and the enemy blades. His arms would work in sequence, his left arm moving to block and bash strikes and foes away on the left, while his longsword did the same for foes on his right. It was a basic, pragmatic means of combat, but with the iron-clad discipline of the Legions and the steady hands of the warriors behind the weapons, it could mean the difference against the undisciplined, savage marauders of the Orc Horde. He could feel the eyes of the soldiers watching him and Eyvind, the respect they had for their officers making them pay the utmost attention to their stances and the combat that would follow.
"Prepare yourself, my friend." Cyrus said as he lowered his gaze and completed his stance. "We begin."
With that Cyrus began to advance, shuffling forward lightly and swiftly despite his defensive posture. He pushed off with his right foot and lifted his left foot so that it barely glided over the sand of the training circle, then smoothly brought both feet down in unison before advancing another fluid step. His longsword was tensed and ready to strike, like a cobra hidden behind the protective barrier of his round shield. Within a heartbeat Cyrus had closed the distance between him and his Vagaran comrade, and with a deft shift of his shield, the young legionnaire launched a straight thrust directly at Eyvind's chest.
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