Behind The Veil

[Eleonore Moore]

The thin line of oiled steel whipped through the air.

It slid forwards without resistance, the point high and proud before retracting with a jerk of the wrist. Like ravens above a battlefield it circled around some invisible point. The girl wielding the sword met the glaring eyes looking back at her and lunged again.

"Damn!" Ellen swore loudly. "Oh, cunting shit!"

She'd been off to her own perfectionist taste, her elbow angled too wide. In competition she knew - she knew - that would have been the easiest blow to to parry. It would have barely needed one. Then she'd have been scrambling back in trouble. If that hadn't been the point there and there.

With a sigh she tucked the foil under her arm and pulled off the mask. She didn't see why she had to do foil anyway. The trainer had insisted and had been clever enough to turn it into a challenge. Something to do with her being more subtle. Bah. It was her weakest weapon, and she knew it. She suspect the trainer thought her too weak for sabre or epee. What absolute horseturd. Ellen knew physical strength wasn't her strong point. But it was aggression that mattered, not strength. And Ellen knew she had the latter.

She could see the salle beginning to fill up. Ellen made a point of getting here early as it allowed her to practice without the, well, pillocks. Overpuffed, fantastical pillocks. Some of them even thought they were here to learn how to fight. She looks over them idly as she stretches off for a moment, dabbing her delicate face with a cloth to remove the sweat before round 2.

Ellen smiles. That's why she was here after all.

[John Logan Carver]

Logan slipped into the fencing salon at Cal State, hands in the pockets of his pinstripe pants. He'd gone up against Terrence Grey in two championships and beat him both times; it would have been churlish of him to refuse to visit the man's class upon invitation. It wasn't that Terrence was a poor fencer by any means, but his strengths lay in foil work. As was evidenced by the NCAA championship he'd won in Foil. It had been a foolish captain who'd thrown him into Sabre competition.

He nodded as he slipped along the wall and Terrence headed back to meet him. "You're looking well," the lanky foilman greeted him.

Logan inclined his head and flicked his gaze towards the pair of girls on the floor. "Good form," he said quietly.

"They're not bad, right?" Terrence's smile was all pride. "The rest of them are just as good. You'll see." He waved as more kids filtered in through the doors and began gearing up. "So what do you think?"

"About?" Logan inquired.

"Seeing that one into sabre masterdom." He pointed towards the blond as she donned her mask again and entered into round two.

[Eleonore Moore]

Ellen cocked her head quizzically at the strange man stood with Mr. Grey. A fellow fencer, yes, but who and why? Well it only made sense for him to be looking at her and Annika. They were the only two on the floor. She shrugs, shutting them out of her mind. Irrelevances. She placed the mask back on, stamping a feet a little as she returned to her mark. The girl raised her sword in a brief salute, as this was not the beginning of the bout, then settled.

Her legs nimbly settle in the standard crouch, shifting forwards a little until the two extended foils touched. She shook her blade a little but Annika knew her too well to be rattled by that. Aggression. No. Focused aggression. Too much, and she would strike wild. Too little, and she would not move sharply enough. Try to focus it. How? She didn't know. Ellen stepped back a little, inviting the other girl towards her only to thrust. Annika barely had to move her wrist. Too obvious. Not just aggression. Deceit.

Ellen lowered her blade, moving from Sixte to Septime. Annika would know what was coming next. She was after all about the only person Ellen could persuade to turn up early. She had the experience and knew this was a little lull Ellen liked to use to lure people into range. The English girl advanced rapidly, lifted on the balls of her feet. She was fast, very fast, too fast for Annika to do much other than defend. The opening would come though. Ellen prepared herself to lunge, noting the way Annika was preparing her weight for the riposte. Got you bitch! She stamps, but the lunge doesn't come. A temporary moment of confusion on Annika's face. Off-balance. Ellen extends with glee. It's straight speed now and she's quicker but. Shit. No. No fucking no. She's off-target for the torso, she can't straighten. Hastily she aborts the blow, twisting her body around. The girls hit each other in the arm, then back away. No point. She'd had her. Had the bitch, arse up on toast, and then... excitement had taken over.

The girl's walk literally seethes with anger as she returns to the starting point, her slender body shaking with deep breaths as she tries to calm down.

[John Logan Carver]

Logan cast a look at Terrence out of the corner of his eye, keeping the majority of his focus on the girls who were practicing in front of them. He'd said it before. They both had good form. But the blond seemed to lack the necessary control for this kind of work. Perhaps she was working through something personally.

As the girls missed and stalked back to start, he leaned back against the wall, arms crossing. He mouthed the sentence silently twice before he put air to it, "I don't teach."

"I know you don't, but - come on - look at her. She's prime sabre material. She's actually begging for the work. And I'm not strong enough in that style. You know I'm not."

"Hm."

"Then I heard you were on the West Coast... It would be a good deed. Karma."

Logan squinted across the room as the girls prepared for round three. "Punishment."

Terrence laughed. "That, too."

Logan shot a dark look at the other man and grunted.

[Eleonore Moore]

Round three. Ellen was totally oblivious to the two men. She was fuming mildly. With a sabre or epee, this would be one sided. Her occasional loss of control, the anger that had blighted her career to date, they were lesser barriers with those weapons. The foil? It annoyed her. She rolled her head from side to side, loosening the shoulder muscles again. And advanced.

Ellen never had liked being made to look stupid. And Annika was doing that. The foil point gently circles around Annika's blade, tiny little circes as the other girl follows suit. She starts to walk the girl back - parry, Annika thought to suprise her - and then stops, dancing a little back. When Annika comes forwards again, Ellen darts forwards with quick little lunges that forces the other woman to concentrate on defence. Then retreats once more.

She moves the blade to cinq, across her body but high. Inviting Annika to dare her chance. The girl stamped and feinted, but Ellen simply held her ground. Come on, her body pose silently said. Bring it. Thrust, parry, thrust, parry. Weak riposte. Deliberately weak riposte. Annika is being cautious, moving her own blade to cinq, then back, the blade perfectly level each time. Damn it woman. Just do it. You know you're going to.

Beat-attack. Yes. It hadn't been a blatant invitation, but it was so logical. Ellen makes a graceful little flick of her wrist. The foils pass each other in the air and then Ellen stretches out her rear leg in perfect execution. It was done so quickly, Annika was still walking into it.

No celebration. No exultation. Just a quick nod to herself as she moved back. Her shoulders felt tight and she put both arms behind her, leaning back a little as she did so and walking around. The two men. Still talking. And they were watching her. She felt sure of it. Her father always said she's inherited his little "bump of trouble". Well, that might just be paternal pride talking, but there was something going on there. She shrugs. If they want her, they can call. Elsewise... she going to beat this bloody bitch like a redheaded stepchild.

[John Logan Carver]

The girls finished their third bout and Logan had to admit that Terrence wasn't entirely in the wrong. The girl did have a certain flare and a good sense of the attack. The other man seemed to sense his grudging acquiescence; Terrence had already lifted his hand. "Ellen. Come over here. I want you to meet an old friend of mine. Annika, you'll match up Karen for the rest of practice when she gets here."

Logan looked stonily at Terrence. "I d-d-didn't sssay-"

"Public humiliation, Logan. Twice. On television," Terrence reminded him. "You owe me. Ellen, this is John Logan Carver. Two time NCAA Division 1 Sabre winner. He's agreed to take a look at your technique. See if you're ready to make the switch." He clapped his hand against Logan's forearm and they shook. "Thanks again for coming in." He looked at Ellen. "When Patricia arrives, you'll pair with her." He paused. "You asked for it, Ellen. Prove you can do it."

Logan watched Terrence jog off to round up another pair of students, then turned to the girl. Really, Logan thought. He didn't owe Terrence anything. If anything, the Cal State coach who'd been stupid enough to put the man into Sabre competition owed him more than anyone else. Still, here he was, and arguing the point in front of the girl was unacceptable. Arguing the point at all without preparation was uncomfortable, too. He watched the young woman silently, struck off his jacket and hung it off the back of a chair, and waved for her to go about the business of showing off her technique. It wasn't the kindest thing he could have done, but then... he wasn't the kindest of people. Not really. Not even by his own standards.

[Eleonore Moore]

Ellen flicks her sword up when Mr. Grey ordered her over in an irritated gesture. She had been on a roll. She could feel it. Annika salutes, and Ellen returns it before she abandons the other girl to go see what the two men wanted. So they had been talking about her. She wonders what. And who. She stops in front of them as they bicker about something, pulling her mask off to reveal a delicately boned face, large blue eyes and a slightly damp blonde ponytail. A pretty little doll's face, save for the obstinate set of the eyes that coolly regarded the men.

Her eyes widen slightly in recognition of his name. So this was John Carver. She'd heard of him of course, particularly since coming to the states. The man had quite a reputation. So Mr. Grey had got him in here - overcoming considerable opposition in the course of doing so it appeared - to oversee her sabre. Perhaps her opinion of him had been wrong. Ellen nodded.

"A pleasure to meet you Mr. Carver," she says, her clipped upper class tones friendly. She doesn't offer her hand to shake. Not at this juncture, not when it looks like he'd been forced into coming. She looks around. Annika had already got off to the next bout. "Excuse me, I must exchange my weapon. I shall be back with you momentarily."

The small, slim woman walks quickly to where the spare weapons were. She isn't long; for one thing, there's not too many to choose from. She experimentally hefts a couple, then picks one that feels good. The sabre had been her weapon at school but then they'd barely had a team and the fencing master that came in occasionally would have let use a claymore if she could, so happy was he to have a genuine talent to teach. He hasn't spoken yet but that doesn't bother Ellen. She notices that Patricia has arrived, that Grey had directed her over. Ellen places her mask on before grinning viciously behind it. Patricia had been doing sabre for a while. She was going to be overconfident. Admittedly, Ellen was a little out of practice. But this would going to be fun.

"To five?" she half-suggests, half-asks and both nod. Ellen salutes her opponent, then takes up quite a conservative guard. She contents herself with a simple defensive at first, parrying Patricia's blows before landing a riposte when Patricia overextends. Oh yes. She was definitely on a roll. And the other girl's overconfidence was only helping. The next two points are very quick, both in her favour as the other girl doesn't pay enough care to defence. Not very impressive no, but ruthlessly and competantly executed. Patricia goes a bit more carefully in the next bout but Ellen's on a roll and that doesn't last too much longer. Patricia finally scores a point with a combination of cuts Ellen hadn't seen before. But the fifth and final point goes to Ellen in a very simple fashion. Patricia, a rather tall girl, forgot their height discrepency; Ellen literally just bent her knees to duck under the blow and thrust out.

The two part, exchanging salutes as they take the headgear off. Despite the energetic assault, Ellen's no more sweaty than before. Then again, it had been rather swift. Despite her self-possessed manner, there's a touch of eagerness as she looks over to see what Mr. Carver had made of it.

[John Logan Carver]

Logan watched the proceedings with a critical eye. He had better things to be doing than watching a college girl burn off energy with a sword. Better things to do than be roped into teaching, of all things. Teaching required speaking. And college students, he remembered well, could be terribly unforgiving. Volunteering to teach a kid to defend himself was one thing; that was needed. This... frivolous. He hadn't learned quite how frivolous for some time. Points and stances.

In the heat of an actual battle, there were no points. Only blood and whether the victor was willing to let you live. He leaned back against the wall again as the five point round continued. She was rusty. It wasn't that she was slow, by any means, and she claimed her victory in an remarkably easy fashion from the taller girl, but... there was something about the way she moved. A kind of heightened concentration, like she was trying too hard. Still, she had a good sense of space and her own advantages. She took each bout on her own terms.

Logan caught Terrence eying him from across the room and scowled, pushing off from the wall. Silently, he crossed to Patricia - the girl looked like she was about ready to self-combust in mortification - and put a hand on her spine, straightening it. He tapped her shoulders, nudged her foot to a better angle in her stance, and leaned in to whisper a few words detailing Ellen's tactics in case the taller girl had missed them. Then he crossed around and peered at the smaller blonde. With a firm hand, he adjusted her stance. "Not chess," he said as he stepped back. "Just checkmate."

He stepped back and lifted a hand, "Again."

[Eleonore Moore]

Ellen considers the man's reaction and what it means, slowly bending her legs from side to side to stay supple and warm. The logical answer, she thinks, is that Mr. Carver feels like he's learnt nothing. So he is correcting Patricia's faults first. Because that way he can learn something. What's he telling her? It was all advice. She can tell that much from the way he corrects her stance. Huh. Interesting. She hadn't considered those points. But that is why she was a promising college fencer, and he a two time champion.

But he is probably warning her against overconfidence. An idea forms in Ellen's mind. Well. Two ideas. When he lifts the hand, she nods and replaces the mask. She bounces a little, then salutes Patricia and assumes stance. The petite blonde gives away the first two points fairly cheaply, letting Patricia land hits on her arms after making the taller girl work a little. As the next round begins, she launches an aggressive all out assault after her first parry. It nearly takes Patricia off guard but the taller girl had been careful this time. Bugger. It's close, but Patricia just takes the third point as well. No, she wasn't going to fall for it twice.

Oh well, nice idea, Ellen thinks to herself ruefully as she settles herself for plan two. She's feeling strangely calm, possibly because she's got it all planned in advance. She's not angry, she always knew it was risky. Ellen gives away a bigger than usual reach advantage; the attack would be foolhardy. She likes to attack, but knows she can't. Rather she assumes a defence close to her body, concentrating on the torso and daring the girl to attack high. She doubts Patricia will. No, from now on, the riposte is all. She feels slightly stilted, but it is succesful. Ellen gains her first point of the fight, passing up two counter-attacking opportunities before moving forwards to execute a textbook high cut. The second she nearly gets into trouble with her footwork but scrambles home a hit. The third Patricia is tempted into the high cut. Ellen simply sways, then lunges. Three-all. Ellen grins as the taller girl stalks back. Oh, she's getting to her. The daft lanky cow thought she'd won it and wasn't ready to be effectively starting afresh.

Patricia gives it everything, forcing Ellen into full out defensive. More fool that girl! The pleasure of forcing Patricia into risky moves, of having outthought the bitch, was giving her the focus and calmness needed. Her feet dance nimbly, goading the taller girl into overextending more and more. Her reach was her big advantage after all. She passes up half-opportunities. She needs to make this one count. Do so and she's won, she can feel it. The riposte, when it comes, is textbook. And so's the fifth point, but that comes quick. Patricia had already been mentally defeated at that point.

She salutes, then turns to face the former champion. Despite herself, she can't keep a grin from her face as she pulls the mask off. She doesn't say anything though. Merely fixes her eyes on him.

[John Logan Carver]

The second bout was more interesting. Patricia upped her game once she learned to look for Ellen's tactical measures and counteract them, but lost because of her frustration. Both girls seemed to give in to their baser natures more than once, but it was Ellen who resolved first to take control of her emotions and move deftly and with purpose. He was a little surprised that Patricia who, according to Terrence, had been practicing sabre longer, was so skittish in her tactics.

There was no room for self-doubt in any sort of fencing, especially not sabre. It was about looking for the tactical weakness in your opponent before each round began and then exploiting it in a quick, decisive manner.

Logan inclined his head to the grinning Ellen and crossed to them. Pride was fine, but ill-advised. If she stayed with this venue, Patricia would be her teammate, her practice partner for the long haul. Irritating her was perhaps not the best long-term plan, but that would be something for Terrence to deal with. Logan had no intention of following them through to finals.

He cleared his throat, crossing his hands behind his back as he stood to the side of the girls. They were getting closer, but they were still spending too much time sorting themselves out during the fight. A testament to being trained by a foil fighter, no doubt. If they came across someone trained by a master of sabres, they'd be finished before they figured out what they were doing. Perhaps it was time to show them what they were in for. He circled around Patricia and held a hand out, taking her mask once she realized what he was asking for and handed it over. He accepted her sabre too and rolled up his sleeves, lining himself up across from her.

She was aggressive, which was good, but she thought too much. He could see the wheels spinning behind her eyes. He didn't don a vest because he knew he wouldn't need one. "One," he said, tapped her sword, and lunged, striking her padded arm before she had a chance to parry. He counted off the points as he took them, driving the girl back each time without giving her a chance to do more than get a single lunge in - if that. After the final point, he held up a hand and took off the mask. "Attack," he said definitively. "Let them p-p-posture and en...tertain," he waved a negligent hand towards the students practicing their foil work. "...We are for wa-wuh-" he broke off, exhaling sharply past the thickness of his own damned tongue. "Winning." The word was almost a snarl, followed by a sharp-edged smile. He passed the gear back to Patricia and waved them on. "Stop d-d-dancing. Fight."

[Eleonore Moore]

Ellen had been prepared for many things. She hadn't expected him to attack so suddenly, so quickly. She can't even get her defences ready in time, which surprised her, and made her angry. Which in turn meant she couldn't really do much apart from return to stance and then get hit again. By the time Mr. Carver's finished his stupid prick fucking display, it's all about Ellen can do not to just whip the sabre across his eye. She stands there, breathing deeply, clutching the hilt tight. Bastard. Right. She starts to move again, trying to dispel the anger. Fucking seppo cunt. She starts swishing the sabre around, before looking at bitchface over there and nodding. Patricia looked slightly worried. Good. She should have an asshole as squeaky as a castrato right now.

Attack, huh? In case the dick hadn't noticed, Ellen gave away a reach advantage to most 14 year old boys. He'd seen what happened when she'd got over aggressive. Well fuck him, Ellen said to herself with false bravado. She breathed deeply again. Anger and the fencing court didn't mix. She had to watch overstepping the limits. And when that happened - everything became thought through, stifled. She was grimacing behind her mask.

They saluted. Patricia was following Mr. Carver's instructions like the stuck up cunt she was. Ellen decided to stick to her guns of attack and counter but it wasn't working. She was just too fucking angry. She wanted to just stamp on the girl's knee then nut the scrubber. Her feet stuck like glue. And all the way she could feel fucking Mr fucking cuntybollocks watching and judging. First point. Second point. Fine. Fuck it. Go out in a blaze of glory. She practically leaps to meet Patricia at the next attack, gambling recklessly on her reactions to counteract reach. Afterall, long arms means more targets. Maybe she had been thinking too much like she was used to her foil. The steel whips Patricia's wrist, causing the taller girl to yelp. She backed away and after a moment so did Patricia. Maybe this attack business did work.

The rest of the bout passed quickly. They'd taken Mr Carver's instructions on board, each seeking to press the best attack before the other could. Patricia had recovered her confidence, lost the overconfidence. She was a useful sabre fighter, experienced and capable of using her reach well. But what Ellen had was cunning, speed and raw ferocity. She had a natural ability to feint, misleading Patricia repeatedly, and then pressing home the slightest advantage. The match was levelled at 4 points each. Ellen was sweating freely now. She hoped the other girl was. But she wasn't going to admit that, or to the tiredness, or anything that would indicate weakness. Oh no. She was going to fucking win. If it took everything. She takes her stance and then... its an all or nothing attack. She gambles on Patricia going high as she crouches low and launches herself straight into a lunge. Everything gambled on being that little bit faster, on Patricia not holding back. Ellen feels the sabre bend a little before something hits on the shoulder.

Ellen sighs and literally sags a little in relief. Salute. Helmet off. Turn to face the man. Her face is still, slightly stony. Her blue eyes blaze with a challenge though.

[John Logan Carver]

Logan watched the proceedings, the fury and power of the bout, with narrowed eyes. Ferocity - that was the name of the game. Once they knew the point, knew the aim, they were off like a shot. Quick. To the point.

When they drew apart, sweating and wheezing, he inclined his head in a bow and brought his hands together in a light, steady applause. On the last clap, he spread his hands to include both of them and bowed his head again. "You see?" he asked, smiling. "Not easy." He tugged his handkerchief free of his lower pocket and passed it to Patricia, whose wheezing had begun to advance into a half-weeping hiccup. She pressed her face into the cloth and shuddered. "Wa--wu-worth it," he went on. "B-but not easy."

He crossed his arms, considering Ellen with a pair of raised brows. "Llesson learned?"

[Eleonore Moore]

Ellen ponders the question. Has she learned her lesson? She's still not quite sure what exactly the lesson was. That she couldn't defeat a master of the sabre when surprised? She knew that. Attack, she guessed. It had worked better but she wasn't sure it would again. The defensive tactics had been working fine until she'd lost her temper. Then again, he knew the sword better than her. He had shown that quite demonstrably a few moments ago.

She nods slowly. Yes, lesson learnt. Which is not to say she won't switch back to the tactics she'd used in the second bout if neccesary. It far more sense to invite people onto her than to take the attack anyway. It was a question of reach, and surely Mr Carver could see that. But yes. Attack. She had been too long with the foil.

"So what next?" she inquires politely.

[John Logan Carver]

"Next?" Logan repeated, peering at the red-faced, burbling Patricia. Not one for being pushed, he thought with a small frown. Then again, there weren't many who thrived on challenge. Her hiccup increased, seemingly at the prospect of another bout and she excused herself, scurrying from the room. It made him feel rather like a cad, but he hadn't done anything aside from advise the girl in a sport she'd chosen for herself.

He drew a card out of the top pocket of his vest and wrote in a lyrical, almost calligraphic hand 'Practice. Then call.' and proffered it to Ellen. He gave her a small bow and then turned away, lifting a hand in farewell to Terrence across the hall, and scooped up his jacket on his way out the door.

The girl, Ellen, had something to work with now. An idea with which to hone her technique and a taste of what awaited her if she continued on this path. If she chose to stay on it, he decided, he would guide her. But not here. And not with Patricia. He had no taste for tears of any sort.

(Exit, unless stopped outside)

[Eleonore Moore]

Ellen accepts the card with a bow - no words, no smile, simply acceptance of his terms. Then she turns back to Patricia.

"Clean up, then continue?"

First practice...

(Close thread)