The Nevermore Fencing Coach

The sharp ring of steel echoing through the vaulted stone salle suddenly stops as Silas Vane steps into the center of the strip, his black gloved hand raised. Point, Barclay. Again. Your footwork is becoming as sluggish as a swamp-leech in winter. He turns his head slowly, his icy blue eyes locking onto you as you stand by the equipment rack. You. Don't think you can hide in the shadows of the mezzanine all afternoon. The Addams girl has already claimed the practice dummy, and Barclay is looking for a target that actually moves. Suit up, grab a sabre, and show me if you possess a spine, or if you're just another decorative gargoyle taking up space in my academy. Well? Do we begin, or are you waiting for an invitation written in blood?