Crossed Blades

Dry ground. There are cracks in it that lead somewhere into the darkness. Such fissures. As if they were pieces of different stones. But this is dry ground. On a desolate edge. This is no longer a desert or a forest. This is the middle land. The parched earth tells us it's the hot season. There is almost no rain here. And there is almost no one here.

Only two silhouettes walk towards each other. They are about to cross their blades here. They know each other. And they knew this moment would come. Each prepared as best they could. Including picking up a blade. So that they would be ready for the moment they met.

They run towards each other. Anticipating the first blow. Although it will not be a single blow. And the battle will be long and hard. And it will demand all their strength. Steel clashed. And the first sparks flew in different directions. Like fire and ice. Sparks fly from under the blades. Each has their own blade. With their own magical powers.

They part ways. Realizing they can't win the battle. And one of the figures, with a quick spell, creates a black, pitch-black whirlwind. Like a hurricane. It is a hurricane. Two and a half meters high and a meter long. The funnel slowly gains strength. And moves toward the opponent.

The whirlwind is already growing faster, but it doesn't have time to gain strength and speed. In the next step, the opponent throws a vial of magic potion into the whirlwind and completely removes the spell. It loses its power. And disappears.

There is sand here. And stale earth, like dark yellow stone. Blue sky. A sultry day. Noon. This is a battle in the sands. On the edge of a deserted land. Silhouettes cross blades. And sparks fly again. They try to resort to physical force. And they lunge. They attack. Alternating, trying to gain the upper hand in the duel. Sparks fly. Red and yellow, white, hot sparks. These sparks can wound and burn.

The silhouette lunges. Takes a step. And attacks again. More sparks. The sword barely touches the ground. The opponent doesn't let up and tries to attack with his sword. More sparks. Sometimes the opponents turn away so the sparks don't blind their eyes. Neither was prepared for this. Magical blades of immense power. And upon contact, they create sparks.

Time to rest. Both opponents stepped back. And the silhouette in black. He crouched slightly. It was harder for him to breathe. The sultry air. It was a pale elf. His opponent was also an elf. But of a different kind. The elf was pale and his eyes were red. He was dressed all in black. A completely black robe concealed him. And a cloak, also black.

His opponent was an elf. Dressed in dark green, expensive fabric. He also had a cloak. His clothes were adorned with jewels. Various colored stones. They were clearly precious. Golden patterns covered his clothing. On his chest was an amulet. Blood red. Clearly had magical significance. And it was needed in a difficult moment. Like now.

He was a forest dweller. Far from the desert, through these lands there would be meadows. And forest. A huge forest. Judging by his hiking boots, he was a forest dweller. They were comfortable hiking boots. You could easily walk a hundred kilometers in them without getting tired. You could say the lights were almost magical.

They continued their battle. Jumping, retreating, and attacking. It was very dynamic. The elf in green stumbled. Their duel had already veered off. Away from the flat surface. And the first stones appeared. Just then, an excellent elven boot hit one of these black stones. The elf in green stumbled. He stopped for a split second. To assess the situation. And he didn't fall. These were excellent hiking boots.

Their battle deviated. Black stones were everywhere. Of varying heights. Small ones. Some larger. Some were about ten or twenty centimeters in size. Some were thirty-forty centimeters high. There must have been a sea here once, millions of years ago. These are sharp black stones. These are oval stones, also black.

Both opponents realized this. It took them a moment to realize it. The elf in green looked at his hand and realized that the hand that hadn't held the blade was now bleeding. He had cut his hand. His boots had saved him from the opponent's blow. But the opponent—the pale elf—slashed his hand with his blade. The cut ran the length of his palm. And deep. A perfectly sharpened blade. Excellent elven steel.

TO BE CONTINUED