The Decisive Draw

Setting:

Spoiler:

Two warriors, both masters of the blade have gathered in a forest clearing outside a nearby village. Trees surrounded them all around except for one singular path, which led back to the vilage, kept clear by the constant pounding of feet over time. Each man had brought in tow the students of his dojo for it was necessary for as many as possible to witness the result of what was to come. A duel was to take place there, a decisive battle to decide once and for all who was the better warrior. But for both these men, victory or defeat meant much more than a mere title. This was a battle of honor and for territory, the loser of this fight would have to close down his school. He would be drenched in shame, forever labelled inferior to his counterpart. Each man stood roughly 3m away from each other, both ready, their hands on their blades, but waiting for the other to make the first move. On one side, Yagyū Miyamoto , founder of the Yagyū school. On the other, Yoshioka Seijūrō; second generation head of the Yoshioka clan. What was about to happen would decide the fate of not only them, but all the men gathered around them.

Yagyū Miyamoto was a lithe man with pride in the artwork that he had studied his entire life. He considered himself an artist who worked in the medium of steel and flesh, able to achieve karmic perfection by devoting himself to the study of the sword. There was no greater calling in life and there was no greater honor than achieving the levels of perfection he so fully sought. Fickle fate had pitted him against the best dueling schools and Iaijitsuists in the world. Even now he had happened upon the chance to stand across the field from his rival and his rival’s school waiting for the first draw and strike that would decide futures beyond their own. Such a weight would not settle easily on any man, let alone one who was directly responsible for the dozen or so students who had travelled only to study Kenjutsu under their desired sensei. Years of struggle and rivalry finally had erupted and given both himself and Yoshioka the chance to test their mettle and steel against one another in the proper format. A single perfect strike to first blood so that a decision could be forcibly decided and honor earned. Of course Miyamoto was already honored to be considered for this duel and had a reason to believe that Yoshioka felt the same way.

There was no place he travelled where the comfortable weight of his Daisho did not rest on his right hip. Though a bit awkward to the bystander who would think that such a positioning meant the students of the Yagyu school were left handed. Today Miyamoto was dressed well in a formal kimono to show respect for his opponent as he rested his right hand in a reverse grip on the hilt of his Katana from his Daisho. Both blades of his status and rank had been polished and readied this morning by his most promising student in hopes that he would find the first blood and have something to clean when they returned home. The school colors of blue and white were clearly present in his robes as the outer layer caught the sun with a bright navy paired against the purest of white Hakama. Even the hilts of his Katana and Wakizashi had been rewrapped so that the leather showed hints of silk clothes beneath the grips of the same school colors. Miyamoto was here for himself, but more so he was in this duel of masters for the sake of his school. He was not simply Miyamoto but a Yagyu.

His feet widened their stance and allowed his muscles to tense and prepare for the sudden action they were about to take. These, the moments before the traditional steps, were the ones that Miyamoto relished. These precious moments allowed him to close his eyes briefly and center his thoughts. Feel the breeze ruffling his sleeves and the smell the crisp scent of foliage soaking the air around him with its glorious scent. It was nirvana. His fingertips caressed the leather and silk wrapped hilt of his katana, the dried hide and smooth cloth giving his tactile sensations a chill that send goose bumps up his arm and down his back. His eyes fluttered open to see his opponent ready and seeking out his own consent for this decisive strike. The tension was oppressive, building like a storm cloud waiting to burst and spill its contents of lightning and rain upon the lands.

The tension broke like a flood wall, both men going from perfect stillness and concentration into a simultaneous sprint towards one another. Each step brought the crunch of grass and fallen leaves to the ears of the students watching this encounter as Miyamoto kept his hand grasping the hilts of his daisho without drawing them from their sheathes. His hair caught the wind, strands outside of his topknot whipping behind him and trailing like the mane of a wild horse upon the plains as his torso further leaned forward with each step taken. This brief sprint was enough engage every fiber of the blue draped duelist’s body as he waited for the absolute last moment to draw his weapon and strike, as was tradition. Within a breath the distance between the two had simply evaporated into nothing and it was time.

The only sound Miyamoto could register in his ears was that of his Wakizashi leaving its sheathe, gripped in the reverse, by his right hand. It was a unique draw exclusively taught by the Yagyu school that he had founded but it was a draw that had seen success throughout the years. The draw brought with it a flash of steel in the woodland, palm tightening around the grip of the blade as it took precious moments to clear the grip of its sheathe. Those moments seemed to last forever, heartbeats lasting minutes as it the wakizashi was finally freed and brought forward at an angle. Using the forearm as a guideline, the blade was positioned to extend past the elbow of Miyamoto as it was drawn but even this position was only temporary. The next heartbeat saw the blue duelist’s wrist angle slightly to the left to bring the blade off of his sleeve and allow it to stand alone in the reverse grip, angled towards the midsection of his opponent. His shoulder put all the muscle required as his hips provided the momentum for the strike, hoping to draw it along the abdomen and hip of the opposition and take the first blood of the duel and declare victory. The strike was everything and with a breath and a blink it was over.

The man in blue followed through with his strike, taking several steps after the encounter to help slow his momentum and allow his strike to flow rather than stagger. The blade of his wakizashi ended up extended from the palm of his hand, its suba resting against his pinky thanks to his unique draw. His thumb shifted from its grip around the hilt of the blade to act as a cap to the butt of the sword. He allowed his eyes to close for a moment, expelling his excess adrenaline and excitement from his mind before opening his eyes and hoping to find crimson on his blade, sure that he had struck first and won the duel.

[ooc: Alright, we agreed to have this one draw Iaijitsu duel judged by the site! This is to first blood with focus going on creativity, writing ability, and description. This is a judgement of the art. The winner will be declared in 24 hours by your votes!! Have fun and pleasant reading!]