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Resyl flung up his hands. "I'm so bored that I'm about to go insane!" he cried. "I can't sleep, I can't eat without breaking a tooth, I can't play, I can't even think straight because it's so damn cold. A rope and a marlin spike would keep me occupied, but I don't even have that."

"Do you know any riddles?" Baethon suggested.

"No," Resyl growled as he crossed his arms. "I'm no good at games of wit anyhow."

"Spar," Darick said. "It's good to keep in practice, and it's good to remain warm."

"No sticks." Resyl laughed coarsely. "I'd fight Baethon with bare metal, but I'm afraid I'd run him through if I slipped into a battle mind."

A hiss of leather and a ring of steel pierced the air as Darick stood up and motioned with his gleaming blade. "Fight me, Resyl. I am rather restless."

"I've never heard a better suggestion," Resyl said eagerly, jumping to his feet. He picked up his cutlass and tossed away the hard, shaped leather scabbard. "Aren't you afraid of getting cut?"

"I won't let you touch me," said Darick calmly. "The cold will make us both slower and perhaps make you clumsy, but I give you my word that I will do you no harm. My only concern is for the blades. I hope you have a whetstone with you."

Resyl stretched, rolling his shoulders and swinging his blade in wide arcs. "Grinding out nicks will give me something to do, at least. It's better than sitting and watching my tail flick."

Baethon sat up and watched with interest as Resyl halted some feet from Darick, holding his cutlass up and ready, bending his knees slightly to lower his center of balance. Tail wagging from side to side, Resyl smiled and said, "When you're ready, we'll dance."

Darick, on the other hand, held his sword loosely down by his feet and prowled around Resyl slowly, forcing the wierfox to turn to face him. The man's green-flecked eyes never left Resyl's, his gaze obviously unsettling the wierfox as he put back his ears.

Resyl made the first move. A quick, almost playful jab, which Darick nimbly sidestepped, at the same time batting Resyl's cutlass up and away. Resyl used the momentum to swing around and slash downward. The bell-like tones of steel hitting steel rent the air as Darick blocked it easily, and then the man went on the offensive, his arm twisting like a serpent as he courted Resyl with a series of intertwining movements of the blade. The wierfox backed up under the onslaught, but the advantage was not pressed as Darick stepped back and regained his posture, again keeping the tip of his sword down at his feet.

Resyl flicked up his cutlass and advanced more cautiously, waiting for Darick's move with bright eyes. Like before, the man circled him, reminding Baethon of a wolf that had cornered a potentially dangerous meal, hackles raised and waiting for the next play. With a growl, Resyl lunged at Darick, and the two stepped close to each other, locked at the guard, only inches away from touching noses. Then, Darick broke contact and whirled away, his cloak billowing about him like the dark wings of a raven in flight. He grasped the hilt of his sword with both hands and attacked with surprising speed and vigor, bringing them close again.

So the patterns repeated; in, touch, out, slash, stab and in again. Resyl was panting and had forgotten to be mindful not to harm, from the light in his eyes and the force that he attacked. Lunge, parry, swipe, duck; the pirate threw himself at his opponent's guard to no avail. The biggest danger to a wierfox lay in the very thing that gave them the slight advantage in balance: their tail. As oft happened in blade fights, the wierfox would carelessly let their tail drift freely while exposed, and with a lop and a yelp, they would be minus an appendage and more than likely stumbling on the ground, at the mercy of their opponent. A missing tail-tip was a not-uncommon mark among the warriors of the race, witness to younger, more foolish days and bad habits.

Darick was as cool as an autumn wind, never slipping, never making a mistake, never pressing an advantage. Even to Baethon's untrained eyes, it was evident that he was playing with Resyl. The sailor was striking at a wall, as difficult to breach as a rampart of a great city.

At last, with a mighty cry, Resyl slashed as hard as he could, a gleam of madness in his eyes. Darick's blade sang as it met Resyl's heavy cutlass, filling the air with the sound of steel. With a flick of his wrist, Darick trapped the tip of the curved sword in his crossguard, and with a subtle twist of his arm sent the cutlass clattering from Resyl's hand. The wierfox froze as his weapon slid away on the iced stone. Darick calmly placed the tip of his broadsword at the pirate's collar, disappearing into the thick fur.

And all was still. The lack of movement seemed strange after their duel.

"Well fought," said Darick softly, his eyes searching Resyl's face. "You have a knack for the blade, Resyl. You'll do fine, I think."

Panting, Resyl didn't reply as he visibly forced himself to relax, lying his fur flat as he took a step back. He shook his head, closing his eyes. "That- that was impressive, my friend," he said breathlessly. "Nobody has been able to hold their guard against me like that in a long time." He opened his eyes and gave the man a ragged smile. "It's a good thing, too. I have a feeling I'd have ran you through if I had the chance. But why play with me, mate? You could have easily had me at your mercy many times."

Darick smiled faintly. "A very skilled warrior once told me that one should never reveal his full potential unless he must. Always know something that your opponent doesn't."

Resyl picked up his cutlass from the frosted ground. "I'll keep that in mind. Maybe I could get as good with my left arm as I am with my right."

"Perhaps."