Swords drawn (Scot&open)

[soby207]

Finish him! Finish him! The crowed of students cheered. Matthew looked up at his challenger about to strike him. Waiting for the perfect moment. Matthew saw the seventh year Hufflepuff raise his wand to unleash the final blow and win the round of dueling. It was all part of Matthew's plan. Play possum. Weak and dead in the beginning then when they least expect it strike. "Confundo!" Matthew quickly slashed his wand hitting the unprepared Hufflepuff. As the Hufflepuff slowly regained himself, Matthew stood up flicking his wand three times watching as three blew jets flew from his wand. The Hufflepuff had deflected the three jets sending out two red sparks. With speed Matthew dodged the first one, "Protego!" Matthew shouted creating a quick shield around himself as the second red spark crashed through a window. Right when the shield disappeared Matthew quickly flicked his wand twice, "Stupefy!" He shouted watching as the one red jet hit the Hufflepuff square in the chest, while the other one caused him to go flying across the long table.

Hearing the thunderous applause the cheers Matthew smiled walking towards the Hufflepuff Matthew picked up the wand flicking his own to unstun the Hufflepuff and extended his hand. "Played good out there. But never let your guard down. Even if your challenger is on the ground you have to be quick. Don't even drop your speed." Matthew smiled giving the comment and advice to the Hufflepuff patting him on the back as they walked down the stairs. Getting pats on the back and hand shakes Matthew smiled. He loved dueling. It was one of his favorite things.

When the dueling professor called his name again he was slightly confused. Why was he going to duel again? It wouldn't be fair to any other students. When he got back on the table Matthew heard the professor's rough scratchy voice calling another name. Scot!

[Kite Skeron]

Kite stood watching the duel, analyzing Matthew's strategy. At the moment he won the duel, Kite's normally emotionless face brightened a bit. He was the most prominent dueler around. Of course, that is until someone dethrones him. His grin dropped a bit when he heard the Professor call for Scot. "Who...?" he muttered. A side effect of the healing process he went through was partial amnesia, so, as he recollected, he assumed he had met everyone, and used this too try to piece together any memories lost during that day.

He crossed his arms loosely over his chest and waited for the opponent of Matthew to arrive on the table. It was a goal of his to overcome Matthew, not through any kind of malice, but rather, out of respect. How else would he get over this fear if he never did anything about it? He closed his eyes for a second and then opened them, looking sideways at Matthew. Be careful friend. He thought.

Call him paranoid if you will, but Kite had a horrible feeling in his gut as of late. He sensed darkness approaching. Having spent time with the Divinity Professor, he found out nothing, and the Professor stated "Not all premonitions have to be crystal clear... be careful."
If dark times were indeed coming, Matthew would be a good partner to have if it ever hit the fan.

He began to prepare to analyze the duel as he hoped Scot would show up. This was going to be a good one...

[Scot Sola]

"God damnit," someone said, heavily accented, and a large male waded through the crowd and climbed up on the table, sighing, and dusting himself off.

Scot Sola was not an accomplished dueler. At least, not magically. Really.

His history with friendly conflict was ended upon the onset of puberty, when the overwhelming amount of testosterone influx caused him to be much more aggressive in conduct, and this naturally made fighting a lot less playful and a lot more stereotypically Irish, along with later drinking and fornicating. The young Master Sola was the male heir of the Sola family, a rich, influential clan who hailed from County Cork, and Scot Sola was the sole heir, the eldest and only male of the family, apart from his father, and a rumored American uncle, but that was rarely talked about openly with the family. Scot's accent was extremely thick, something he seemed to be rather proud of, as he switched between proper English and violent mick-slang quickly without warning.

Meanwhile, atop the table, Scot looked as if he was finding his balance for a moment, then looked over at Matthew.

"Howdy, lad, I don't believe we've met. I'm Scot," he said, brightly, "not really too keen on these Goddamned tables, though, I think I've gained a little too much weight to be walkin' around on big hunks o' two by fours."

Scot was one meter tall, eighty three centimeters, and eighteen stone (plus about five pounds on the side, give or take). It looked to be mostly muscle mass, at least given the strain of his uniform. He didn't look like he should be comfortable standing on a table.