All that’s needed for Dragon Tag is two participants and a referee, though the referee is only required for a match to be official. Before you begin, you need to create 2 ‘point-lines’ - these two lines are one meter in length and sit parallel to each other at a distance of two and a half meters. These can be made by drawing two lines on the ground with a stick, but as the game became more official, you could find spots at the academy or in small grassy areas in the city where lines are painted onto the grass and are refreshed every so often.
Once set up, a match of Dragon Tag has a few simple rules:
‘Game’ is an almost insulting label for Dragon Tag, as much as that is its nature.
The History of Dragon Tag is actually quite succinct despite its cultural significance; it’s only existed for the past 150 or so years and has changed heavily in each of its iterations, only existing as it stands for the past fifty years. None of its history, until very recently, had been chronicled in any way. It was nothing more than a children's game that was passed on via word of mouth - little bursts of thrill for younger dragons that wanted to test their mettle against an opponent. As you might expect, its rules were no more than putty at the tongue tips of children who wanted to cheat their way into a free point against friends… Until potential was seen within it.
Tangential topic: Sparring is incredibly difficult.
On a surface level, this is entirely untrue; anyone can spar, all you need in order to begin is an opponent, autonomy over your body, and the willingness to attack and be attacked. Hitting someone isn’t hard. Getting hit by someone isn’t hard. Hell, defeating your opponent isn’t hard. Each of these is trivial once a mental block is defeated. What’s hard is engaging with your secondary objective rather than overindulging in your primary one.
Your secondary objective, of course, is improvement. The difference between a meaningless fight and a spar is this seemingly insurmountable roadblock.
In order to improve, you must take your performance in a spar, within which your attention was on combat rather than anything else, create sub-objectives for yourself that didn’t exist whilst you were sparring, and analyse your performance in relation to these. Your power, your technicality, your blocking, your grapple defense, your agility, your striking speed, your movement speed, your battle intelligence, your reaction time; using only the context clues provided by the fight, you must find out where your inadequacies lie and uproot them… You can now see why this is a bit of a monumental task, especially for children who struggle to be taught by others, let alone to teach themselves. Some of the modern era believe that this difficulty, this insurmountable hurdle, is the reason why dragons of the past were so powerful; only the most durable of diamonds would dig through the dirt, creating dragons whose ability far eclipses the softer, spoonfed generations of today.
It’s a geriatric opinion that’s entirely untrue.
The dragons of today are stronger than those of the past.
The dragons of today aren’t spoonfed, only supported.
The dragons of today shine even brighter than those of yesterday.
Today's dragons are the real diamond, turning the light of others into twinkles of beauty.
And it’s mostly because of a children's game.
1. Both players place a single foot on the point-line - this foot must always have contact with the line in some way until the round begins. It can be the person's toes, heel, or anything between, and this can be anywhere along the line’s length.
“...” The shuffling of grass. One, two, three, four, five.
“...” A breath that begins to slow. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten.
“...” A gaze moving from intense to observant. Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.
“...” Two predators trying not to become prey. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen…
Twenty Seconds.
Twenty seconds had passed since they’d been given permission to begin. Twenty seconds had been spent in what would feel like complete stasis to the average observer. Their only notable movement was the odd twitch of their hands, the shifting of their back feet, and their heads slightly tilting in one direction or the other. A more observant viewer may start to understand that their movements aren’t nerves, excitement, or something so juvenile, they’re… choices. Really, the past twenty seconds had been spent in an intricate game of rock, paper, scissors, though the diversity of their choices made it seem more than something with a simple three options. Someone who was able to recognise the depth and complexity of the game in a way that Gala could see each and every micro-decision from the moment they stood at their lines till now.
Elio’s hands slightly widen. Morrigan’s body leans a bit forward.
Elio’s front foot shifts left. Morrigan lowers himself ever so slightly.
Elio suddenly begins to lean slightly backwards. Morrigan’s expression becomes slightly annoyed.
Elio’s own follows suit as he seems to reset to zero. Morrigan does the same.
Again.
Elio's back foot leans on its toes rather than its heel. Morrigan’s hips move forward, and his shoulders back slightly.
Elio’s fists go from open to balled up. Morrigan’s hands become soft, cushioning.
Elio’s front foot and torso turn slightly to his side, exposing his flank. Morrigan scoffs for a moment.
Elio returns to zero a second time. Morrigan does the same.
Again.
Elio lets out a sharp breath. Morrigan tenses his muscles.
Elio’s gaze shifts from his face to his feet. Morrigan stands completely still.
Elio’s body relaxes, almost letting itself fall. Morrigan smirks slightly.
Elio grimaces and returns to zero. Morrigan does the same.
Again.
Each micro-interaction takes only a few seconds to be completed, yet is thrown to the wind in a mere moment as both parties opt to return to zero. It’s nothing like rock, paper, scissors; it’s more akin to a card game. Both players can see their opponents' hands; they draw, their opponent draws, they draw, their opponent draws, and when there's too high a chance their opponent can win off their starting hand alone, they mulligan and repeat the cycle again. Draw, react, draw, react, mulligan. Draw, react, draw, react, mulligan. Limbo is created as both players fight to minimise risk and maximise safety. Twenty seconds has almost turned into twenty-five. The referee simply sits there, with an uncharacteristic focus on her face as if she were the third participant in the match. Gala doesn’t complain because if she were in either of their positions, she’d be playing the exact same game they were. She’d throw away her cards as recklessly as they were in the pursuit of safety because that’s the game within the game. It’s thrilling in a way that only a few would understand, as pretentious as that sounds.
SWOOSH!-
Though, of course, it’s only a fraction as exciting as what follows.
A burst of motion born from Elio’s hind leg. An explosive thrusting elbow poised to make contact with Morrigan’s core. His opponent knew just the range, or lack thereof, he’d get with the position he was forced to start at. He shifts his weight backwards slightly, pushing off his front foot. His hindfoot picks up scattered dew as it drags through the grass, allowing him to maintain their distance. Elio spots a movement. Morrigan only needed to move his torso, but he ended up rotating it as well. A counterattack. Elio’s hands had been towards his chest for his elbow, but in a second, they sprang towards his opponent. It’s not for a counterattack. His left hand is cupped behind his right, their form gentle like a pillow, both in front of his face. He’s going to try to catch it. Morrigan accepts this willingly. He rotates towards his opponent and lets rip a powerful straight. SMACK! Contact with his hand. The stiffness of Elio’s form in that moment allows his hands not to be pushed towards his face, but rather his whole body was pushed backwards, skidding across the verdant arena and stopping a few meters away from his opponent.
It stings, and his bones feel locked in place by the aftershock of a punch with Morrigan’s full range of motion. It was only superficial pain, and that he could deal with. This was a success.
A hot breath leaves Morrigan’s mouth as he recognises that the first hurdle has been passed - he was able to withstand the pressure of the pre-round tug of war and even give himself the space he needed. This was a success.
Now the real battle began.
2. Once both participants are in position, the burden falls upon the ‘point-man’ to begin the round officially. Before the set, a first-round point-man is selected between the participants; in official matches, the referee will select who this is, but in casual settings, the two players must decide between themselves. The point-man begins the round by either moving his foot fully off the line or launching an attack at the opponent, and only then can the opponent remove their foot from the line and attack the point-man. From there, the round continues - both players can freely move throughout the entire arena.
Yellow eyes track them thoroughly; their movements are as sharp as her gaze as they stay within close quarters. Her observation from the sidelines is peppered with movements that seem to be a mixture of mirroring and correcting. Elio throws a tricky sweep towards Morrigan, and she can’t help but raise her own leg in conjunction with the defender. Morrigan launches a spearhand at Elio’s head, and she can’t help but tilt her head to the side rather than block it like Elio chooses to. This is by no means a critique of either of their performances - this was a better opportunity than ever to get a good look at what her future opponents had to offer, and what she’d have to do to defeat them.
A smile begins to spread across her face. Whether it was her enjoying the match or excitement at getting the chance to face one of these two further down the line was utterly ambiguous.
After a while, space is created, giving the participants of the match an opportunity to get a few words in. Both share a look of challenge, as if pointing a blade directly towards their opponents' throats, both knowing that attempting to cut them down would only end up getting themselves killed too.
A twisted fragment of that gaze seems to be fine with that reality. The rest holds it in check, for now.
“You’re playing close quarters against me? How capricious.”
Elio’s words do nothing but put a look of complete bewilderment on the face of his opponent. Morrigan looks as if he’d just been told, in utter seriousness, that pigs could fly, or the whole ocean had dried up. The stare wasn’t an insult to his opponent's ability, nor the questioning of his tactics…
“There’s literally no way you know what that word means.”
And, frankly-
“You’re right, I don’t.”
“But I heard it used to describe me.”
“And that was something I would do, so it must be pretty capricious.”
“Plus, I like the way the word sounds.”
That was about as ‘Elioesque’ as he’d expected. Morrigan scoffs and rolls his eyes, the wet sound of saliva sharply being drawn back into his mouth painting the air; it's audible over the sounds of their shuffling movements, circling each other for the kill. Elio enters a more orthodox stance with both hands almost outstretched as his shuffling begins to bring him ever so closer.
“Drooling already, black beast? I’m not even bleeding yet.”
An unsavoury nickname. It’s not because it causes him any offense; in fact, he definitely can understand why it stuck. He just wasn’t a fan of nicknames in general, no matter how accurate. His gaze sharpens as his forearm is swiped across the area just below his lips, wiping what remains of his spit before he enters an aggressive stance. Its best comparison was to that of an orthodox boxer. He knew not of its existence, nor of his mirroring. Instinct simply had him stand like this, nothing more.
In an instant, as if waiting for his opponent to prepare, Elio dashes in.
The gap’s almost completely closed in a moment. Elio recognises the look in his opponent's eyes - realisation; as much as this is just a match and he’d like to defeat his opponent in their optimal range, Morrigan comes to an understanding that to break this stalemate, he needed to play to his strength. Morrgian is 190cm tall. Elio is only 180. The difference in their wingspan, and thus, their reach, doesn’t need to be explained. Morrigan needed to, and now would, play on the fact that his opponent had this physical disadvantage. Elio knew this… and was mostly helpless. If his opponent didn’t want him in range, he simply couldn’t get in range, leaving Number Three with two choices: play at his opponent's pace or gamble.
At this point, it goes without saying which choice was selected.
A 50/50. Good odds.
All he needs is for them to go the same way.
Elio’s only a few centimeters away from his opponent's effective range. He knows that Morrigan won’t strike the moment he reaches his range because if he swayed backwards or went for the legs, the black beast would be left in a spot all the more treacherous. An extra few milliseconds. Could he use it to read his opponent?- No. He wouldn’t be on time if he worried about reading. That would guarantee failure. He had to gamble. He was going to gamble in a direction. That's slightly misleading. He’d already made his choice by now. Putting it all on-
WOOOSH-
A blow like lightning. The slots spin. If Elio were unprotected and in its path, he would surely end up with a minor concussion. Luckily, he wasn’t, though that aspect wasn’t at the behest of lady luck - he’d planned from the very beginning to slip the punch. The slots begin to slow. The part he needed luck for was the hand that Morrigan would use to attack. It was the difference between victory and defeat. Elio’d already been through the whole process, using his singular moment to wish, to hope for the outcome he desired. The numbers begin to line up and…
‘Step in and duck…’ Elio weaves to his left…
‘And from below…’ And Morrigan strikes with his right hand…
CRACK!-
Jackpot.
The reason he needed them to be aligned on the same side was simple - his plan was to give himself forward momentum, duck the intercepting punch by weaving diagonally downwards, then launch himself up for a rising hook. If Morrigan’s punch was on the opposite side, he’d be left with a defensive arm in the way of his counterattack, which would stop him from winning the round and leave him in a miserable position. A successful gamble meant a different reality came forth - Morrigan left defenseless, a look of surprise in his eye as Elio’s fist collided with his ribs, leaping with the grace and force of a gazelle. A solid impact, not enough to move the bigger fighter, but enough for its sound to fill the air before it falls into a deafening silence.
The Black Beast staggers backwards slightly, creating enough space for their gaze to meet after the first round ends. In both is the heat of conflict. Elio carries pride and challenge. Morrigan carries the darkness of determination.
“Elio wins round one. Score, 0 to 1.”
They don’t turn away from each other for even a moment as they approach the point-lines once again. As long as their minds keep moving, as long as their mental momentum is conserved, they’ll burn even brighter in a moment when the next round begins.
3. The objective of each round is to land a ‘clean hit’ against an opponent. Attacks against the torso or the head count as a clean hit. Attacks against the arms or legs count as interceptions, meaning the round continues on at the referee’s discretion.
4. Once a clean hit lands, the referee, if present, will announce the result of the round, and both players return to their point lines to begin the next round. The loser of the previous round will become the new point-man and thus be burdened with beginning the next round.
A fourth and fifth presence enter the grounds. They’d been watching for a bit of the round in silence from the other side of the courtyard - partially rapt by the technicality of their duel, partially out of respect for the concentration of both participants. Once the rounds end, they noiselessly circle the duelists, Gala nodding and smiling in acknowledgement of their presence as they place themselves beside her.
Yelena Nightingale, Rank Number Four, is the first to take her place beside the referee, not bothering with any amount of pleasantries. Whether this duel was casual or competitive, it would be treated as a demonstration; her eyes, a visceral red, like a pure ruby dug from the ground and polished off, lock onto the duelists and don't give anyone else the time of day. Gala gives her a slight glance as she passes by her; her navy blue hair, her pale skin, the look that doesn’t even grace her direction, all of it a step beyond cold. Bloodthirsty.
Sophia Delacroix, Rank Number Nine, follows briefly after. Unsurprisingly, her brother is nowhere to be seen as early as she is - he’ll most definitely be joining them later on, seconds before their class is set to begin, if they’re lucky. In previous years, she’d be dragging him along around this time, sometimes by the scruff of his clothing, sometimes by his blackberry coloured hair, a lot of the time by his wrist. She gives Gala a much warmer greeting than the vampire: a wave of the hand, a brief side hug, then she joins her in watching the pre-duel scuffle. Her eyes, a brilliant verdant green, join the growing spectrum of colours that watch on in anticipation.
“Round Two… Begin.”
BANG!-
This time, things would get a bit more personal.
Wide eyes, shaken by the impact, stay locked onto Morrigan’s form as well as he could in his situation; he’s flung backwards into a tumbling roll by a straight kick directly at center mass. Elio knew that the pleasantries were over, that the calculations of the last round would carry over into the next, yet he didn’t expect such an explosive opener; his hands shook slightly under the weight of the blow’s afterglow as he brought himself to a halt. His eyes darted to Morrigan. He’s already close enough to follow up. This was slightly to be expected - even in the chaos of his fall, he could hear the sound of dirt being smashed in his wake. Was he faster than la-
CRACK!-
An overhead punch. The attack doesn’t send Elio tumbling like the last, yet it’s all the more dangerous. Dragon Tag is a game where each round is played in isolation, yet each match is a sum of its parts; there was a reset to zero every time a point was scored, but the physical implications of the previous round didn’t just vanish in the next. Two blows to the forearms were enough for bruising to begin; no explanation is needed, then, as to why Elio couldn’t take many more. At the bare minimum, he had two more rounds, including this one, where he needed his body to be fully functioning to win; realistically, though, a clean sheet against an opponent like this was looking less and less likely by the second. It was unlikely from the beginning, though the possibility of defeat is carved from Elio’s mind the moment it begins to take root. That or he was just too ignor-
FWOOSH!-
Morrigan’s next blow misses. Elio’s torso and arms work in perfect synergy, his right hand moves with finesse, one succinct motion sending his opponent's attack off course - enough not to be an issue, not enough to fully avoid it; a slight heat can be felt as the blow grazes his shoulder. Another launched, another avoided. The next is a kick, a sway keeps him safe. A straight towards the chest, knocked down using his elbow. A hook, a backstep. An uppercut, a sway. Block, parry, dodge. Block, parry, dodge. Ignorance. Elio moves with the efficiency and confidence of a man whose victory is guaranteed, even after taking two blows that shook him to his core, even as he stood in his opponent's optimal range. When his peers and his mentors spoke of his technicality in the first stages, this is what they meant - seeming untouchable, looking like Number One.
Of course, the spectators know what follows. Morrigan knows what follows. Elio is the only one ignorant. He thinks himself the lion that will destroy orthodoxy, and thus, has no need for it.
Ignorance is bliss. Bliss creates ignorance.
A closed loop that is bound to self-destruct sooner or later.
A more decisive dodge shifts the battlefield drastically: not to the side, not backwards, not even upwards, which seemed a more reasonable option than what he’d chosen. He dodges inwards, his hands tight on his opponent's traps, the fever of his grip matching that in his eyes at such an intimate distance. Morrigan held the same heat, recognising, by some supernatural instinct, his opponent's next move, and what he’d have to do in order to counteract it. It was stupid. Elio was just plain dumb. It’s not that the attack had no chance of working; it was created in the mind of someone as technically gifted in battle as Elio - someone second only to Gala in terms of finesse and technique. It’s an option that could, by all means, work against an inferior enemy, but it’s… unreasonable. Reckless. Ignorant. It’s like… raw instinct, shoddily carved into the shape of a blade and swung as if it can cut down any man.
Morrigan, alongside any of the spectators, can’t give him too much hate for it. If it’s his instinct, then it's closer to his soul's true colour than any technique taught by that old bat.
Still, he needed to be punished for his hubris.
They both lean and-
BANG!-
4a. If both parties land a clean hit on each other at the same time, the clean hit is ‘Contested’. The round continues on until a clean hit is landed without being contested. This includes, but is not limited to: Attacking each other’s bodies at the same time, clashing attacks made by clean hit areas (back slams, headbutts), etc.
There’s a shift in the gaze of the spectators. The same eyes you expect from seeing a battle of beasts in the flesh. Two new guests ogle. Sophia gasps. Yelena scowls. Gala smirks.
“Continue.”
The reverberation of bone hitting bone rings out like a gunshot as both release their opponents and reel back a few steps. The sound outside is visceral; the sound within is enough to shake both fighters to their very core. It was equally as stupid as he knew his opponent was. Morrigan needed to contest Elio’s attack in order to cause a continuation, and a simple option was lowering his forehead into the pathway of Elio’s headbutt. Headbutts were contested so long as they hit the forehead rather than any other part of the face, and that would be enough to continue the round, yet… It seems as if ignorance had spread through their shared sweat, through the flame of conflict. It wasn’t enough for Morrigan to simply intercept the headbutt with his forehead. He’d, instead, like a ram, be it animal or vehicle, chosen to clash with Elio with his own headbutt. He’d traded a light headache for a major concussion as their power was forced into competition, with the epicenter being the shell of their central processors, their brains.
The winner of that matchup didn’t matter. The round was still up for grabs.
It was this fact that caused both parties to throw caution completely to the wind, if only for the next few seconds. The concussion stunted their reason, replacing it with audacity and boldness… No, not creating these instincts, but rather freeing them, leaving them with just enough reasoning ability to understand that their opponent was in the same situation. They had to take advantage, they had to secure this next round, the future be damned.
FWOOOSH!-
They had to fight.
Both fighters narrowly avoid a punch from the other, Elio launching a right, Morrigan launching a right, both narrowly avoiding a hit directly to the face, but feeling the heat of a bullet flying past them. Elio doesn’t pull his arm all the way back as Morrigan does; instead, he loosens his fist for a moment to tightly grip the black mass atop his opponent's head. He uses the grab as leverage, attempting a powerful left, being blocked with time to spare by an open palm. It begins to grip tightly around his fist. Elio senses something. His head cocks back based on instinct alone, his opponent's uppercut, skimming his chin, just barely. It felt like his skin had been scorched by even being grazed, yet the sting seemed to subside to the back of his mind as he pressed the attack. The black beast had a vice grip on his hand, locking him out of his full range of motion but not out of less orthodox techniques, ones that couldn’t be so easily read, his specialty. A slight hop raises both legs off the ground. Panic flashes in Morrigan’s gaze. He releases Elio’s hand and moves both arms towards his chest. He’s able to block, but is knocked back a few meters by the dropkick's power. If he’d attempted to do so even a moment later, he would have lost the round.
What’s worse, he was now on the defensive against an Elio with creativity and momentum.
An engage with a leaping axe kick. A roundhouse kick. A reverse roundhouse kick. He lands. A side kick. A flying knee. A straight. He lands. A spinning backfist. A transition into an elbow. A leaping uppercut. Another axe kick. He lands. A clawing swipe. A left. A right. A clawing strike. A low kick. Feinted into a roundhouse kick. An oblique kick before his leg even lands. An overhead punch. Another uppercut. Another spinning backfist. A teep-
‘There.’
BANG!-
‘No!’
BANG?-
…
Silence. Baited breath.
“Haaah…”
Breathing.
The sky stares down at Elio. There’s no disdain, nor any pride. It’s just there, as it’s always been. He absorbs its colour as he feels the heat of something running down his nose, towards his lips. There’s no need to look at it; it was just proof of the reality that the second round belonged to-
“Morrigan wins Round Two. Score is 1 to 1.”
Gala and Elio seem to be the only people who aren’t confused as to how Morrigan was the winner of the round. Even Morrigan, whose body still shakes after the blow he took, turns towards the referee with a raised brow. Yelena cuts in, venom coating her tongue and every single word that leaves it.
“Are you finally losing your edge, Number One?”
“Are those eyes finally starting to fail you?”
A laugh escapes the lips of the Shadeheart as if amused by the prospect of ‘losing her edge’. Her head turns only slightly, eyes locking onto Yelena’s own, filled with her usual apathy, tinged by a slight bit of contempt.
“Quite the opposite, actually.”
“That was too quick for any of you to really see it, clearly.”
“Do you need me to break it down for you, Sub-3?”
Fury, only for a second, fills Yelena’s eyes before she closes them; whether it be to feign her feelings or to stop herself from becoming more angry is entirely unclear, though either interpretation by her peers is valid. Footsteps begin to approach, another set of arrivals from the other side of the courtyard, seeming to be the rest of the cohort in their entirety. Most approach the bench, huddling around their group leader, though a few stop by the participants of the battle to check their conditions.
A shade places itself between Elio and the sky. He smiles, his pearly white teeth slightly stained with crimson. The girl who stands above him does not smile. The beauty and softness of her face make it seem as if she would. The captivating cloudy jade of her eyes, dulled beneath the curtain of her caramel hair, makes it seem as if she would. The tenderness of her voice, deep but sincere, coated in care and kindness, makes it seem as if she would… But she wouldn’t. She simply reaches a hand out towards her partner to help him up.
“Are you alright?”
Elio grabs on, firmly, yet gently, as if holding something priceless within his grasp, and their combined strength brings him back to his feet. She raises her hand to his nose as he responds, wiping crimson ichor away from his mouth, flicking it towards the ground with the hardened coldness of a precious gem. When only residue is left, she, in a fashion most odd, raises her thumb to her mouth, licking the blood that remains on the surface, her expression static. Luckily, no one else, or at least no students, had seen her odd behavior.
“Just a bit of contact. I’ll be fine.”
Eventually, after a few seconds, the whole cohort would reach the bench, standing in front of and sitting around the girl with the answer to their question. The first to speak up is one Urien Castelli, his deep blue eyes filled with the same perplexity as the rest of the cohort, to varying degrees.
“I don’t know if I’m the only one confused but… can you explain how Morrigan won?.”
All eyes were on Gala. It was a feeling she was used to, but even then, she looked up at the group with a non-verbal ‘back up, man’ and a few feet shuffled slightly to give her room to breathe. Once she had that room, her explanation began with all the apathy of her usual explanation. They all felt as if they were meant to be accompanied by the phrase “something along those lines”, and even then, her word was treated as law, meaning whatever came next had to be the truth.
“Okay, so Elio had Morrigan in a nasty combo.”
“And he was blocking and blocking- I assume we all saw that?”
Nods and murmurs of agreement fill the air.
“Elio goes for a kick on Morrigan’s chest. Morrigan moves diagonally towards Elio, dodging the kick.”
“Whilst the foot is still out, even before it reaches where Morrigan was, he begins an overhead punch to punish him.”
“That’s also self explanatory. You guys still following?”
More nods, more murmurs of agreement.
“Now, things get tricky.”
“The overhead punch reaches Elio, as far as we can see.”
“But at the same time… Elio reacted before his current movement even ended.”
“He tried to punish Morrigan’s punishment-”
“And he actually did, surprisingly.” Morrigan cuts in, his hand still rubbing against his jaw.
He wondered what it looked like from the others' perspectives because from his own, it was… magical. Elio leans his torso back, hops off the foot that's still on the ground, spins around to avoid the impact of the overhead punch, and lands a smooth kick against his jaw. It was picturesque, and more importantly, he could feel the soul of his opponent in the movement and the impact both… yet-
“It wasn’t perfect. Mind you, it was really fucking good, if this was a real spar instead of Dragon Tag, Morrigan would be in a shit spot…”
“But it was in Dragon Tag. Meaning it’s about who got the clean hit first, and seeing as Elio used the momentum of Morrigan’s hit to strike harder…”
Gala’s explanation concludes. Understanding filling the air. No one can truly be upset; in fact, the spectacle of the round's conclusion does more to inspire than anything else. This can especially be said between the combatants of the duel; they don’t even take a moment to rest, immediately beginning to warm themselves up for the next round, turning towards the grass…
“That was quite the round, Blackmoore, Scarfell.”
…And then exchanging a look as if caught red-handed.
Busted.
