Air in. Air out. All to silence.
Jerald calmed his mind, one by one shutting out the distractions cloying at the edges of his thoughts. His agent, scheming and conniving, would wait for another day. The crowd, slack-jawed ingrates all, could just as well not be there. The lights, the tempting and seductive lights, should serve only illuminate the one task at hand, a true sword fight.
Looking past the stage makeup and mock fragility, he quickly surveyed his opponent. The stance was solid, classic; he was no amateur, nor was he a flashy showman. The angle of the sword belied an Eastern style, or perhaps just an influence. Eyes which had been half shut and listless now trained on Jerald with piercing tenacity.
Fluid as the river, swift as the lightening Jerald made his move, which his opponent blocked, countered, and re-countered. Again and again they clashed, each time with the same result, two living swordsmen, no blood spilt.
One way or another, Jerald meant to remedy that, and soon.