(Takes place about 5 years ago. Djeru is an older teen.)
Scrambling up from the ground, Djeru made a mad dive, narrowly somersaulting beneath the slow swinging blade of his opponent. The larger man, who bore a great bushy black beard and swung his two handed blade around like a plaything, gave a great bellowing laugh.
"Can't you sit still and fight?" He jeered in the rumbling tongue of the Haradrim.
Djeru grimaced as he snatched his scimitar up, and, in the same motion, spun on his heel and knee to face his opponent. He glanced up, once, to the sandstone box where his mother, father, and firstborn brother were observing the fight. He had been on the defensive the entire fight. His father, Obo, the Drake (or leader) of the family, had stopped watching, and was flirting with a chubby serving girl. His mother had pulled her face veil entirely up, and his elder brother sat, hunched forward on his knees, fingers steepled before him.
Djenji's eyes never left Djeru.
Realizing that he had spent too long focusing on the wrong thing, Djeru was snapped back into the sand pit by the low-rumbling war cry of his opponent. The young warrior pulled himself to his feet, and tried to put himself into a fighting stance before-
SMACK!
Blades never crossed. The man had shouldered Djeru in the gut so hard, he had lost all wind, and was sent falling to the ground, disarmed, barely even aware of what had happened. Then, as he blinked and found breath, he found the edge of a humongous sword at his throat.
"Sorry boy," his opponent said. "Maybe next year."
