Once again, you dance with the fox, the both of you circling the other while bodies pass by. At first you hesitate to strike at him with the sharp metal, but Raphael quickly proves he won’t let that happen. You’ve gotten good with the rapier; just not good enough to actually hit the master fencer. No matter how hard you try, the fox simply uses gymnastic feats of avoidance to dodge it, while kicking moss about and dragging furrows through the field with roving feet. Meanwhile, he uses the scabbard to deflect and parry your blows eloquently, brushing it across your weapon’s length to steer it away. Weaved in with subtle strength and careful cunning, he then taps the metal away with powerful strokes of stiff leather. It is as though your own fashion doesn’t affect him, no match for his strength. It wears you down, chasing after him, often forcing him into awkward positions below your assault, but never quite managing to strike him properly.
In the end, Raphael even manages to counterattack. With more gentle care than you bother to apply, he often puts the leather tip into your ribcage as though scoring a hit. When you begin to realize you’re technically losing, the vulpine scoundrel remains gracious about it. He simply smiles, pokes you a few more times in the wake of your ebbing frenzy, before he does the impossible. Turning the scabbard back around, he anticipates one of your thrusts and turns the opening towards the incoming tip.
With a soft metallic scrape, the sword falls into his sheath and you bump clumsily into his body, while Raphael continues to stand firm and proud. When he holds your wrist to the scabbard, he has effectively disarmed you. You can’t believe it’s over when you get back up, using his body as a support.