Quiet Steel Rings [Honorable Death - Solo]

» It happened on his way from the Rose Garden- Yeah, he's someone that tends to extend his trips as much as he possibly can. Even if it means taking the entire route around the main stretch of Fiore.
"It's not like I'm needed at the Guild at all times. Some leniency is what drew me there in the first place." He announced aloud to himself. It wasn't as if he would be overheard anyways. The road was a desolate of other life right now; the muck compromised of slush, snow and mud made that so- Travelers and traders were far from fond of such terrain and opted to wait out till it got colder, or dried up some. Copy was not one to pass up an opportunity to move about, regardless of how exhausting and long it may take. He was fond of the times, it characterized his soul and proved events that he cherishes whenever he thinks about it.

So here we are. A back-pack strapped over either shoulder, hands nestled comfortably in his duster coat pockets. A scarf wrapped loosely around his neck and chin to provide some resistance to the ailments of cold and wind.
Having traveled sometime now, Copy had recognized the signs of a nearing population; the first since Beanstalk Village. Night was far off in his mind. Despite it being winter, he traveled early and slept early; saved him arduous steps that could be better put to use.

Passing half a day, the sight of the town stretched into his vision faster than he anticipated. A blur was often present when he was encapsulated in the sights. Perhaps it was his trick to going such astronomical distances merely by foot. Wandering through the city entrance, nothing extravagant like massive foreboding gates, guards or the like. Mostly just the dirt road changing into stone. A subtle- but welcome change of course.

---

"Hiiiyo~ Sir!" not far off, a high-tonal voice of a young lady was calling out. Waving in Copy's direction; figuring coincidence he merely passed it off and continued. Until a moments silenced passed, the feeling of escape falling around him- Then she showed up in-front of him. Uncomfortably.
Squinting with some restrain in his voice. His breath, wasn't anything to swoon over. So he hid it as best he could to a girl a few inches from his face. "Y-Yes..?" he had inquired with some reluctance.
"Are you good with that sword? I have a dire task of importance for you! My great-grandad is following a tradition he wishes to honor!" before he could deny the obvious truth. She had clutched his left hand with the grip of a butcher and strung him along like some doll. It was quite unfortunate- This wasn't the first time.

---

Before he knew it, he was sat in a cushion inside a rustic, comfortable home. With an elderly man set on the opposite side of the table from him. There was some steel of resolve in his stare- It reminded him of staring in a mirror. Something that was albeit perturbing; it drew a bead of sweat that slid down the side of his dirt scathed face, which reminded him that he hadn't even had a change to eat, clean or anything before he was drug into some strange event that unfolded afore him.
"Nameless Swordsman, I wish to request something of great importance to me. You see, I am growing in age. My body moves not the same; my mind not acute as it once were. But what remains is the resolve of my youth, I was trained as a swordsman like yourself and wish to uphold a tradition in our families ancestry. I will die soon, I wish it not to be in a bed-- Sick, ailed of my families burdens. So-" it was growing increasingly clear that the man was becoming somewhat emotional over the conversation- One-sided as it was. A glass sheen fell over his eyes. "I bid a request that you draw arms against me. Not as an enemy, but a man of fellow respect." While some silence fell over the room, the quiet shuffles of the impressively well-dressed young girl from earlier. The awkward gulp that came from Copy, it was clear he had been contemplating denying the request. But the swelling in his heart of honor and loyalty to the blade, no matter how little he truly followed; was still admirable in the old-man. It would be cruel injustice to decline... He knew it, but still thought about it. "Curses... Am I really going to have to accept this- Bad timing for me, probably a miracle for these folk. Who am I to deny this man his dying wish. At the cost of blood on my hands..." Copy had closed his eyes briefly. Taking a deep inhale and exhale- it was a sigh, but he did what he could to mask it. Concern drew on both their faces.
It was met with a steeled look of resolve, contrary to the sweat that slid down next to his left eye. "I accept. Your duel is with the Hydra named Copy. Prepare yourself."

» Night had fallen. The wind was still, the gentle lapse of snowflakes resting atop both Copy and his opponent. Like death, it was a stilled cold. Both knew what was to come. It was a moment of bliss and triumph to the old-warrior.

"Ior Valiir." He stated in a gruff, absolute tone.
The air drifted gently casting Copy's hair to the west like feathers to the wind. He stared a silent moment, engaging in the name; feeling its power, the history and what it may mean to him down the road. It was a quiet engagement of eye to eye- A dance almost.
He had gently dipped his head, eyes closed in a bow. "May we fight honorably... Ior." Copy had reached to the sword-handle, hilted to the left-side of his belt. Eyes flashing open, they met too with eyes of sharpened steel. The snow felt warm against their faces; strange he thought.



Gasps of the family and namely the young girl from before. It stabbed Copy's throat of guilt, but such a request cannot be ignored. No matter how reluctant; he knew this... He wished they did too.
So their blades flashed from their sheathes and held forwards. They had a traditional stand-off, sizing each other up to feel for their agility, strength and endurance. The old-man would fight to kill, despite the given disadvantage. Copy would have it no other way.
'Fwoomp' 'Shhkt!' The sounds of their footsteps fired against the slick, swept stone and snow. It was romantic almost; two swordsmen of different eras clashed with the flare and spark of metal to metal, flesh to flesh. Colliding with forces of their conviction, their resolute power and training. The snow that fell and briefed their presence were met with the dye of red as it fell to the earth. Gashes, bruises, noses bled. The wounds were powerful, but their strength wavered none.



"Sleep well and pass to the halls of heroes" The words resounded in his mind as they did in life. A final decisive slash caressed through the man's neck. "Sleep well and pass to the halls of heroes" He spoke with a hint of anguish, as the body fell forwards- He reached out and caught him with grace and weariness of a warrior. Gently resting the man down; reaching for his sword and placed it firmly into the dying man's hand. "You fought like a hero." the ringing of the blades had caused an almost demonic illusion in his eyes and mind. As he gently brushed Ior's eyes closed.

The gasps of his family dug like daggers in his heart. Eyes closed; he had to brush a tear away, it came with the flicks of blood to remind him of the scenario.

---

A day had passed, his feet hit the earth from stonework with little regard of the continuing travels. It bothered him greatly what happened, and that they paid him for such an act. In combative nature to his declining of the funds. They insisted so much so that they hounded him the entire night prior to accept. For his sanity, he had. But he vowed that he would never forget such a matter.
Eyes lifted to sight the skies. The snow was pure once more, gentle and deathly. It drew a grin to Copy, despite the matter of death... "Sometimes it can be positive..."