Saturday Tournament.
Dolce sighed as he presided over the tourney of the week. Fighting wasn't his favorite, such barbarian entertainment wasn't his forte. He wasn't bad at fighting, none of his family was, he just thought it was beneath him. But here he was, sitting in the stands alongside his brother, who had planned to enter, but fallen ill last minute. Instead, he'd dragged Dolce along to watch— a dreary act for a Saturday night.
That is, until she walked into the ring. She was a young lady with a deliberate gait and poised stance; something you'd see more amongst nobles rather than the participants of boorish tournament. Her frame seemed delicate although she stood tall and Dolce couldn't fathom what the purple-clad lady was doing in the ring. She took a cursory glance around and he couldn't help but feel like behind her cold, red-eyed gaze, she was judging him.
As her opponent, a hulking middle-aged man with bull-like horns for his Claw, stepped into the ring and started approaching, peacocking for the crowd and to intimidate the lady, she stood nonchalantly and took off her black velvet gloves. Her hands were pale and dainty, as if they'd never seen a fight before. Dolce had considered her Claw was her hands and that's why they had been covered, but they were normal. So where was her Claw?
And in one quick movement, the gloves were discarded in the dirt and the woman was holding the man by the throat and beating him into the ground, her hands transformed into huge, dark, twisted claws that trailed a dark purple steam with every jerky movement.
Ah, Dolce thought. There it is.
She let the man go and get to his feet, dancing backwards away from him in quick, delicate skips. Something about the way she moved, switching from dainty to destructive in a matter of seconds, captivated him. It was unlike anything he had seen in the arena before, more akin to an art than an attack despite being just as violent. Her movements switched from desperate thrashings and screeching growls to quick sliding steps and sashays out of harm’s way. Her attacks were vicious and as Dolce looked on, he wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t fighting to kill rather than fighting to subdue. He was unable to pry his eyes away, and when she held up her gnarled hands in victory, he couldn’t help but smile and quietly clap. But the moment she was off the field, the magic was over, and watching savages fight against each other again until the next bracket where she would fight was borderline unbearable.
As the tourney continued, all he could think about was her. That mysterious, gorgeous, dangerous woman. When she showed up for her fights he was enraptured in her movements, her speed, her charm, how she absolutely destroyed her opponents.
As the tourney ended and the woman was named the winner, the crowd began to buzz and bustle out of the stands. Dolce stood but hung back. He had to meet this woman. To talk to her, to ask her how she did that. As the crowd cleared he slipped his way down to the exit used for fighters, hoping to see her. He caught her dusting off her gloves and stowing them away in a pocket alongside her prize, still preparing to leave.
“Hey, you!” Dolce called. “Who are you? How did you do all that?”
The woman looked up, smiled in an almost smug manner, and curtsied. “I’m Aella Metaxas. I’m merely using skills I have learned since birth, sir.”
“Can you teach me?” Dolce asked. He had to know how she’d been so graceful, so powerful. He had to see it again.
“Are you not of high class? What would you need the practices of a commoner for?”
“U-uhm, well I, you see—” Doce sputtered. Her smug grin turned into a disdainful frown as he tried to grasp for a reason.
“No.” Aella cut him off, patting his shoulder gently. “Not today. Perhaps if we meet again, and you know why you wish to learn.”
Dolce opened his mouth to reply, but she gently pressed a finger to his lips to quiet him.
“Shh. Farewell.” She said, before sauntering off, leaving Dolce speechless in the dust.