Ijaat ascended slowly, dressed in simple enough garb. A forest green training tunic and soft brown breeches tucked into supple dark brown leather boots that ended just before the knee. He wasn't expecting a slanted roof, that would change some of the ideas for this fight, that was for certain. Thankfully at least their was little wind to tease his coal black hair, he hated that.
He grumbled a bit as he climbed the ladder, re-evaluating certain tricks and their usefulness. He'd have to see how his opponent fought, but for now, he'd have to play a little differently. Which was no matter. A swordsman worth any sort of steel in his hand never got too petulant about un-ideal terrain or a little warmth under his feet. His opponent would be facing the same challenges. The key, the true crux of this battle, was to turn the universal factors in it to advantages to himself, and struggles for his opponent.
As he stepped out into the sun, honey-brown eyes surveyed the full extent of the roof. He stood near the edge, only a few yards in, right hand braced on the hilt of his weapon, the left arm carrying it braced in the crook of his elbow almost like a conductor of a marching band would a baton. His left foot was back and at a precise angle to his right, both slightly wider than shoulder width, the weight of the man carried in the balls of his feet, swaying almost like a boxer, his eyes up, alert, and his shoulders back ever so slightly.
The weapon would be considered an odd choice, perhaps, for many not trained in it. But he had developed the use of it over many years. His hand on the hilt flexed and curled fingers around the longsword. The blade had such a hilt it could be used one handed if need be, but was ideally a two handed weapon in it's most effective cuts. It's size belied a dancer like grace in combat, and ultra-precision and handling for cuts and thrusts. It wasn't as great at thrusting as it could be, but given his opponent shouldn't be wearing any armor, he was pretty content to bet nothing would be happening that would need the precision of the more thrust oriented blades he had made over the years.
There was a gentle taper to a point over the almost thirty six inches of steel, and a hint of it gleamed as he bared it, ready to draw in a rush upon sight of his opponent. The crossuguard was a simple affair, slight bars with a swell in the middle and a curl to the tips, the pommel being shaped almost like a scent stopper of a perfume bottle. The full weapon was a shade over forty six inches.
It was plain, utilitarian, no frills or thrills to it. It was modestly made steel made for one purpose, to slice and pierce human flesh in battle. With a silent drag across wool lined wood and leather, the blade came free and swung down, held point down and almost in line with the middle of Ijaat's legs, the scabbard and such tossed over to the side as he waited. He still swayed almost slightly, as if with an un-felt or unseen wind, and overall seemed relaxed and almost a hint of a true smile playing across his lips.
"Well then, now we wait for someone else..."
*Note: For those playing along at home, i'll be using the typical Lichenthauer style of longsword fencing for this fight, and will us a little bit of Fiore as well for some flair. I will make notes at the end of the post to clarify. Currently Ijaat is in the Third Guard, Alber/The Fool, and is facing north, waiting.
