“Have at thee, varlet!”
“Nay, I’ll have at thee, wench!”
Autumn and a man she knew only as The Grey One swung their wooden axes at each other, thunking and clanging in true stage-fighting fashion while they splashed up mud everywhere. A light mist was enough, after a few minutes outside, to plaster clothing to skin; Autumn and The Grey One were dripping.
“I did not know this was to be a wet-blouson contest,” The Grey One jeered. “If you’ll hold for a moment, I’ll even those odds as well.”
“I’ll hold.” Autumn stepped to the edge of the ring. “If only to see thee in thy skivvies.”
There were very few people at the Faire today, mostly die-hards and a few long-distance travelers who had not planned on rain when they booked their flights. Many of them made a loose circle around Autumn and The Grey One as they bantered; now they were whooping and hooting as Grey took off his grey jacket and grey doublet.
He did look dashing, Autumn had to admit, his linens plastered to his chest.
“Alas, I fear I shall not be able to match you on this field, or the Sherrif may lock me up.” Her bodice was keeping her in place. Barely. “And now the crowd dost truly love… duck!”
She couldn’t explain what it was she saw; it wasn’t a crisp image of the strands or even a drawing-overlay. She was not that connected to the Grey Knight (she thought). But nevertheless, she had enough warning that he and she both ducked.
The flying axe imbedded itself in Autumn’s booth, carrying with it a hank of her hair and three splinters from The Grey One’s ax. Someone had brought an ax to an ax fight.
Next: Mud Fight http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/512725.html
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