He and Dumas stood face to face, ten paces apart.
As Kohaku took his place off to the side and readied the signal to begin, his words began to fade out. The terms had been set and both men had declared themselves ready. As Sesto drew his hood up, time began to crawl. The moments before combat always felt the slowest. His mind raced, charging him with a thousand new thoughts every second. They are all watching you. They all know why this is happening. They heard what he said. Will he be right? Are you going to fold? Strike him down and be the man you claim to be. Look at him. Look him in the eyes. He doesn't think you'll do it. He doesn't think you can. You'll only ever be another Borcan to them if you fail here. You'll only ever be another Borcan to anyone if you fail here. Strike him down or you are going to work the front desk for the merchants until the day you die. The tip of his curved blade quivered as his knuckles turned white. The leather of the blade's grip issued a soft creak as every muscle in his hand flexed and strangled it in a death grip. His legs tensed as he struck his fighting stance, ready to charge forward at the signal. His eyes locked onto his enemy in pure focus, the thoughts in his head falling silent one by one as he prepared to strike. This was the day he had been training for. Every cut, every wound, every blow turned away, every face full of sand, every arrow narrowly avoided - it was all building to this moment. The moment he was finally asked to prove himself. To display the skills he claimed to have. He would either prove himself a man of his word, or be struck down like an unruly child and fade to obscurity as those with more skill win the day time and time again. The images flashing through his mind dulled and faded as Kohaku slowly raised his flintlock. Sesto barely even heard the muffled boom of the weapon when it fired. His world had become quiet. His world had become order. He had one simple task - defeat the man he was now engaged in combat with.
Nothing else mattered.
You're ready. Do it.
They took steps toward each other, drawing back blades for their first strike. Another slow step in complete silence. Another. Time crawled by for Sesto as the two moved toward each other. Their blades met in between them with a deafening clang, showering them both in sparks as they each recoiled from the blow. In that moment, the sound rushed back. The speed and frenzy of combat, balanced by the order and flow of their blocks and precise strikes. Dumas was quicker than Sesto, by far. The man's arm was just a blur as he thrust his rapier forward. But Sesto was much stronger, and used his baton to turn Dumas' blade away, leaving him open for a strike from his scimitar. The two exchanged blows at first, Dumas landing a glancing blow that nearly pierced Sesto's shoulder, and Sesto making powerful sweeps with his Scimitar at the thicker points of his opponent's armor. While everything was riding on this fight, he was given strict orders to ensure he didn't kill his foe. That would look bad. Reckless. Undisciplined. He was here to win favor, not weaken his new family. After a short time and a few more solid blows, Dumas fell to the ground. Sesto had caught him hard on the chin with the flat of his blade, putting everything he had into the strike. As his body hit the hard floor of the training room, Sesto's eyes raised and leveled on the grinning man across the room from him. They both knew what this meant. In that moment, he could relax again. He reached up and drew back his hood while the spectators rushed over to greet the two. Dumas was seen to, and made his way across the room for a drink and some time to recover. Sesto watched him make his way across the room with a much less predatory gaze now. Now, he can try and build a friendship with the man. His own record was intact, having defeated Kohaku in the same room the day before. He had put up much more of a fight, his magic being a significant advantage. Still, Sesto had come out on top. He wasn't going to give them any reasons to look down on the Borcan. He wasn't going to let them see him on his back if he could help it. He knew they'd all be evaluating him in the days to come, and he would give them no reasons to speak ill of him to the Captain.
In the wake of the fighting, another challenger stepped into the ring. Cord, the halfling that he had heard so much about. Could this subhuman really pose a threat to him? He wanted to write this small man off as his third victory in this training room, but something about his quiet confidence in his two daggers stuck Sesto as genuine. This little man knew what he was doing, and he was prepared for a proper fight. He had just watched Sesto take Dumas apart, yet he felt as if he could stand a chance. As he stuck his stance, Sesto knew better than to underestimate him. This was merely exhibition at this point, he had fulfilled what he came here to do. He had defeated the man who voiced his doubt in him. That's all it was about, really. Silencing the voices of doubt. Giving them a reason to believe this Borcan had more to him than they first thought. Proof that he was not like the others they have met. A show of his desire to become more than the tales of Boritsi poisoners that kept Barovian children from eating stray food they found.
Combat was started and they rushed forward to meet each other. Cord was even faster than Dumas - too fast for Sesto to deflect his blows. His saving grace was that the little halfling was weaker by far, and his strikes did not land nearly as heavily. He swung two and three times for each strike Sesto made, threatening to bury him in small nicks and cuts. After a minute of being bled a drop at a time, Sesto shifted his stance to a defensive one. He fought in a much more reserved way, making careful and calculated strikes. He knew this quick adaptation in mid-combat was his only chance at a victory here. They traded a few blows, but most were turned away. Sesto trying to overpower the small halfling with a small number of strong strikes and Cord trying to swiftly strike through his guards with a tempest of steel. The fight dragged on two minutes. Three. Four. Both men were glowing bloodied and tired, but neither wanting to yield to the other. Eventually, voices called out over the shower of sparks and clang of metal on metal.
"Draw?"
"On three!"
"One! Two! ..."
Both men quickly stepped back, panting. They held their weapons up for a brief second, ready to turn away a late attack, but combat had ceased and the room fell silent once again.
"You're pretty good."
"You're not bad yourself."
Simple statements, yet genuine. It was clear they had both surprised each other in a way. The two men sheathed their blades and respectfully bowed to one another. Each content to let the mystery of who would have won linger on in the minds of those who had been watching. Everyone likely had their bets, but one thing was certain - the fight had been nearly dead even. Surely they would both wonder about the answer themselves, but for now it was clear that a mutual respect had been reached. Today, they were both victorious. Sesto could not help but smirk at the thought. He generally hated the little "subhumans", as he called them. As they sat side-by-side afterwards, eating apples and listening to Kohaku's outlandish stories, he couldn't help but set aside his prejudices for a brief moment and evaluate the man in earnest. In the few days Sesto had known him, this halfling had proven to be much more than he first took him to be. He was strangely respectful, a good combatant, and seemed genuinely dedicated to this...family. Strange, how they all helped each other like this. There was no honor among thieves, and he didn't pin this to be any different, but there was a genuine attitude of cooperation that was new to him. It wasn't the desperate fighting over scraps he had seen back in Sturben. These men wanted more out of life than to be petty thieves. For the first time, he realized what it truly meant to be in a professional organization. In a strange way, he felt at home here among these men. As Kohaku waved his arms and carried on with his story, Sesto settled more into his seat. These were good people, all in all. He had found himself a home in this city he once thought so low of. He still didn't much care for Vallaki, but it had a certain value to it now that he had a place within to call his own. It was as close to a home as he'd had in a long time.
After a few more stories of times past, they shuffled out of the room one at a time. Headed out on a salvage run that would ensure Sesto's muscles were taxed as fully as they could possibly be taxed in a single day. It was a long blur of spells, arrows, and blade strikes, but they all managed to file back in when it was all over. They split the take and headed to their rooms, exhausted.
Every muscle in his body ached. Sesto sat slumped back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. Dirty clothes and pieces of scuffed armor plating were strewn about the floor of the room. He was too tired to shuffle over to the bed just yet. A moment more of rest and he'd take the first step. Just a few more seconds to gather his thoughts. At some point he drifted off in the chair. His mind wandered to the world of dreams as he sat motionless, save for the slow and rhythmic rise and fall of his bare and bruised chest. He slept more soundly in that chair than he had slept in any bed for years.
