Eager to see him sweat, you pass forward as if threatening to hit him. The fox however, doesn’t move a muscle at your bluffs, as though instantly recognizing them as harmless when they stop short of hitting him. After five tries, you feel you’ve been made a fool of long enough and you bite your lip to the decision that pricking him once couldn’t hurt. Perhaps just once on the shoulder, to show him you mean business. When you try, though, the fox finally moves into action.
Using the still-held sheath of the sword, the russet rogue swipes sideways and taps your attack out of the way. Carrying through the motion, he then lunges out at you in much the same way, armed with only a blunt leather length. You parry it just before it hits. It seems Raphael won’t be needing a sword after all.
"En garde,“ the fox states with confidence, calm playfulness, and certain arrogance.