Curin greeted his opponent warmly, they had made friends quite quickly, having travelled to the training arena to seek tutoring by the weapons masters there. Curin had come because he needed practise, and he longed to be in the company of many others, for a change. So far he had relished the disciplined environment, and had advanced quite quickly amongst the axers of his group. But he had yet to get a single strike inside of the guard of Dunimir, an easy mannered man, with a thick accent, and a simple but effective style, with twin hatchets.

Curin patted his opponent on the back, "I have saved a special surprise for you this bout, my firend." He grinned dangerously.

Dunimir wiped a hand over his freckled face and grinned like a wolf at Curin. "Aye, long-axe, it will have to be a special surprise indeed. I warn you, though, in my home, they say "any man that warns you of his prowess before combat, is tring to convince himself as much as you!" Dunimir laughed, and shook Curins' hand warmly, roughing his hair. "So be it, Curin of Neiruthaun. I don't know how you can stand to use that axe-head on a broomstick, but let us see you use it properly this time eh? With this the looming mariner put his jokes aside, and took his light hatchets in his hand, mighty-splendour, and swan-hewer, with its distinctive curved haft; his axes were famed in his homeland, and he had not named them himself; but he faced the Úechadring in all seriousness.

Curin put his fur-cloak aside, and unlaced his kid-skin shirt for better air and movement. He laughed as the mariner grabbed him in a head-lock and roughed his hair. They two were terrible, more like youths, than seasoned warriors and grown men. Curin made a scandalized face, and a mock scowl to hear Úechadring termed as a broomstick with an axe-head on the end. He shook his head and grinned dangerously, and stood on-guard, awaiting the weapon-masters' command for the bout to begin.

The Master gave them both a last word of instruction, and barked the command.

Dunimirs' training differed to the mainlanders in one regard, and it was a credit to the Weaponsmaster that she was able to work with his style, and advance it, even though it was so foreign to her own: where mainlanders tended to circle one another, always moving, Dunimir stood seemingly as still, and unmovable as a rock in the midst of the sea. But his reactions were very quick. He never struck with a great deal of force, but with a hatchet in each hand, he was able to land multiple strikes on his opponents.

He faced Curin, relaxing himself, and awaited the moment to react.

Curin moved calmly within Dunimirs range of attack, Úechadring balanced lightly in his hands. The man could move as quickly as suddenly as the strike of a serpent, but with very little force, albeit the latent strength of his considerable build, and the hardened wiry musculature of a mariner. But with naught but the reach of his own arms, Dunimir could have no means of defending himself from Curins' new attack.

Curin moved steadily to Dunimirs' left, swooping in as if to bring Úechadring in a low sweep toward the smallribs.

Dunimir felt a rush of triumph, for Curin approached him from the most perilous angle, from which Dunimir could strike with the backhand of his left arm, and then with all the superior strength of his right. It was a folly.

Dravalpiol, the Swan-hewer whipped out with the speed of the back-hand, and its swan-like neck collected the haft of Úechadring, pulling the blade out of alignment from its intended striking place, even as mighty-splendour lashed out for Curins' sternum.

If not for his state of calm, Curin would have grinned, for the bout ensued precisely how he had invisaged it. The more dangerous axe, Swan-hewer was committed to gathering up Curins axe-head, in a bid to mis-align it from the faux-attack to the smallribs, and now Curin unleashed what he had been concealing.
The battle form taught to him by the bull-headed monster, Baugrìn, Cruel-crown, many years ago.

So it was, Curin dropped all his weight backwards, swooning like nothing else more than a drunkard, this queer deliberate stagger put Curin instantly out of reach of Dunimirs' parry, Even as Curin used the force of Swan-hewers back-hand to whip the butt-end of Úechadrings' haft up into the crook of Dunimirs' right elbow. All of the force of Dunimirs' right-handed strike would surely force his arm to fold over Úechadrings' butt-end and clout himself with the flat of Mighty-splendours' blade.

The breath wheezed out of Dunimirs' chest as the full thrust of Beldaclaurs attack was diverted with a terrible thrust of Úechadrings' haft-butt into Dunimirs' own elbow; levering the attack into Dunimirs' own body. Dunimir saw stars, but allowed his body to react, whirling his weight around in a bid to at least wrench Úechadring out of Curins' hands, with the axe-head caught as it was in Dravalpiols clutch.

Without his axe, Curin would have to forfeit.

Curin gritted his teeth, even as his early counter-attack took perfect effect. But the mariner had reacted without even a moments delay, and with Dravalpiol still clutched in a mighty hand, Dunimir executed a wrenching twist that pulled Úechadring completely free of his hands.

But even now Curins' training by the Baugrìn had not been out-done. Curin fell forwards, even as a drunkard falls flat on their face, only to tuck into a tight roll with all the momentum of his free-fall pitching him forwards as quickly as an arrow. Even as he whipped to his feet, he turned and held out his hands, and the same wrenching swing of Dunimirs' arm flung Úechadrings' haft into Curins waiting grasp with a smarting smack.

In a true battle, all Curin would have had to do was push Úechadrings' blade forwards, and his opponents' own twisting momentum would have slit his throat from ear to ear. He held it near enough that the weapons-master might see that fact, but not to endanger his friend. Bellowing at the top of his voice to draw attention to the possible victory, but he would have to see. Dunimir might yet have a manner of turning his momentum into an attack, or even if he could not avoid Curins' definate kill to at the same time execute his own kill. Curin had to admit, he had no idea where either of the twin hatchets were, and had little hope to block either. He was solely commited to the neck-slicing kill.

Dunimir baulked as the ranger seemed to faint, only to roll forwards in a blur, and catch the haft of Úechadring, even as it was flung. Curin lunged for a kill, thrusting the axe-blade forwards, but he had not counted on Dunimirs' willingness to get bloody in this fight.

Dunimir fell backwards to avoid the reach of the killing thrust, cracking his head mightily on the ground, but at the same time he kicked back with booted feet, in the hope of catching the haft, and booting the axe out of Curins' hands.

If only Curin could leap with the power and lightness of an Angel. He longed to retain his grip on the haft of Úechadring even as he realised what Dunimir was doing. The mighty legs went shooting up, catching the haft with the fronts of his boots, and Curin wished he could hold on, and go flinging up and over, only to land, behind the prone Dunimir, axe still in hand. But perhaps that fancy was a sign of imminent defeat.

In a breathless moment Curins' axe was booted sharply, out of his helpless hands. Curin fell with his full weight onto Dunimir, trying to pin the man, and wrest one of the hatchets out of his hands.

Dunimir gnashed his teeth as the rangers axe flew out of his hands, and would have grinned, but the man fell heavily upon him, and they grappled, exchanging crushing blows of elbows. They grasped and wrenched desperately for possession of the hatchets. Dunimir tasted blood, and writhed to gain the advantage of being on top, pressing with his full weight to bring the haft of a hatchet grindingly down towards the rangers' neck, he would settle for a strangle kill.

Curin strained against the axe-haft, with only one hand to use, the other clasping wretchedly to the spare hatchet. He waited until their strength had ground to the piont of maximum strain, then he convulsed trying to off-set all the force of the strain to make Dunimir fall to the side.

Curin rolled back, and had Úechadring in his hands within an instant. He parried Dunimirs' frenzied attacks, throwing the man back with a broad sweeping attack with the full reach of the axe, forcing him to leap back.

"I see you weren't boasting!" Dunimir laughed, spitting blood. He stood, turning to one side, since his right arm was still achingly sore, and would be less effective. "Where did you learn to fight like that?" Dunimir had a suitable guess, but was unwilling to say so, not to a friend. "You were trained well. Unluckily for you, I have spent my life fighting the likes that must have trained you. My friend, I am surprised."

Curins' face was red-hot from the scuffle, and the sting of a glancing blow of the mariners' elbow. They both stood at ease for a moment, albeit ready to attack and counter attack in an instant. The mariners' eyes contained a shadow, which Curin perceived. "You were trained well. Unluckily for you, I have spent my life fighting the likes that must have trained you. My friend, I am surprised."
Curin felt the sweat down his back turn to ice. "I was warned never to use it. He admitted. "I was told I would be found out the moment I did."
Curin looked into the eyes of his friend, and hoped that the man would not loathe him, he looked for the light to return to them, to see that Dunimir did not consider him a monster, for having been trained by one.

Dunimir was suitably reassured of his friends character as he watched the horror that he had been found out play across his face. "Come Curin, do not blanch so pale. If no other has guessed from watching you, consider your secret safe with me." Dunimir dropped his axes, and reached to shake the mans' hand. "There's more to you than meets the eye eh Curin?" He grinned and clasped Curins shoulder. "But I think you owe me an explanation eh. Come, let us find us a pint of ale, and I want to hear it from the beginning."

Curin felt as his fear met away in the mariners' embrace, and allowed himself to be lead away, with the promise of ale. He stooped to carry Dunimirs' axes for him, and began his tale at a whisper. Curin felt a huge relief to be finally relating his darkest secret to someone, and someone who, regardless, loved him nonetheless. "His name was Baugrìn, and he was my best friend. You know, Dunimir, sometimes I wonder if half the wars out there are simply because we've always fought eachother... Do you know what I mean?"