Practice makes perfect. That's what they kept telling me, at least. I never understood how baring one's teeth placated others, and neither did this crusader, apparently. His sword, already drawn as I approached, seemed to come to life as he vented his rage at me. Words I never expected from one touted to be so holy and virtuous spewed like a torrent of waste, the oral excrement flooding my ears as I lurched back to avoid the even more offending blade. Infidel, heretic, blasphemer; this man seemed to be quite clear in his views and intentions, only solidifying my opinions as he brought the blade around for a second attack. I may have been perturbed at this development, had my own blade not flicked out to meet his in a piercing ring of steel on steel. His sword, brutish and direct as it was, overwhelmed my own weapon's more conservative and mercurial nature, but my blade bought me enough time to spin aside.
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