Burvington Preparatory Academy of Excellence.
Home of the "Burlie" Boys.
The richest , said to be strongest and some of the most genius minds in all of Great Britain. Home to the 4 most powerful boys (and then some) . They do, say and be who the...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
August 30th
THE Épées CLASHED AGAINST ONE ANOTHER WITH A SINGLE MOTIVE IN MIND, A MOTIVE SO SEARINGLY CLEAR IT WAS ALMOST FRIGHTENING : VICTORY.
And it was evidently clear that none of the fighters were going to back down without an undeniable victor.
An épée struck forward violently .
A daring move, one purely of carnal instinct. Its wielder seemed to be pulling no punches as he swivelled it back to himself before thrusting out again. Forward and back, his strength seemingly increasing to dangerous heights after each swing. His feet moved with a fluidity and grace so powerful, the paragon of float like a Butterfly sting like a Bee.
He was relentless , barely stopping at all, barely giving his opponent a chance to catch his breath.
So it was only a matter of moments before the other dropped his épée and signalled for clemency.
The victor stopped, him too dropping his weapon, completely out of tune to rest of the world, completely out of tune to the focused eyes piercing at him.
They shook hands with genteel sportsmanship. The victor waited for him to walk out, before he slumped.
Broderick Worchester was the first one up to his feet. His black blazer strewn on the ground behind him, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the top. His bare lightly muscled arms were exposed due to his rolled up sleeves.
Loud and painfully slow claps surrounded the room they were in. His steps calculated, nearly in sync with his applause
"My my, mate... I thought you were going to harm him, or at the very least kill him, knowing you."
His chestnut hair was styled rather ruggedly. Unknown to even his friends if it were by his own doing or not. It looked however to have been styled by the most expensive Vogue hairstylists in all of Britain. Not that it was, he would retort, as they were out of the country.
But if he needed them.....
"Well done... this fight is a lot better than your last few rounds ". He smirked, running his hand through his mane.
The victors hands gripped the mask clutching his face. Without so much as a pull, it slipped off of him easily. Wet and matted dark hair clung to his forehead as beads of sweat rolled down his tense jawline.
"Coming.... from.... a football player? and a s** one at that?" came another, more languid voice.
