Post by Deleted on Aug 29, 2012 10:02:47 GMT -5
Oaklan’s face furrowed into a frown, that strange feeling that washed over him when someone else spoke his name aloud came with an oddly sharp intensity. Oak was how Oaklan referred to himself, a title of self-endearment. From another it almost seemed a mock. It also appeared this man; this man named Beck had at least some sort of reputation. The woman who normally he’d have regarded with at least a mild interest was of no concern right now. This was a fight between a guy named Beck and another named Oaklan. Two short, insubstantial names – it was a fierce bout there was no denying. But in the grand scheme of things it’d be forgotten in the history books, an odd thought when contrasted to how heavy the battle was weighted with personal investment.
“My—name?” he started to puzzle, but the answer found his lips almost immediately, “Rod?”
It didn’t feel much a betrayal in earnest, he barely knew the man. The fact was there was no way this hunter had been aided in his tracking by the ill-known title. It just felt invasive. Tightening his grip around the length of the rifle, he continued to twirl it as he closed in toward his nemesis yet again.
“Aight then, let’s end this already,”
Ignoring the protests of the unfortunate owner of the residence, the battle-weary swordsmen decided not to let things drag out any longer. The trading blows of what was essentially a slugfest felt a gamble, the fight had been too even, favouring perhaps his opponent. It was an alien feeling for the unseasoned warrior. Rarely if ever had he been matched in a prolonged fight, especially a fight that involved just one person. His body felt good, or at least it had before the battering. There was no excuse for not being able to close this fight, nothing left in his wheelhouse to call upon and not even a blade in his hands. He reverted to what came naturally. Swinging.
Stepping forward suddenly the rifle-wielding Shandian clubbed at the western waster. He started with a body blow, striking for the kidneys.
“Just!”
Then again a barrage of assaults, another at the ribs but most follow ups decidedly headshots. The gun was lighter than his sword by a considerable margin, shorter too. The weight behind it certainly less impressive, but the speed he could clobber at now was well improved.
“Go!”
Still with each clash he felt the metal of the barrel shake and groan in protest. He doubted it’d make an effective weapon for long. Decidedly he opted for his finisher, taking his moment and grappling at the footwork powerhouse he replicated the attack that had been earlier levelled at him. His full intent was to daze the drunkard if but for a second and to try and end this with a crippling bludgeon to the skull. He fully intended to test just how thick headed his opponent was.
“DOWN!” the ex-slave roared, pulling the weapon right back over his shoulder before sending a ripping strike at Beck, as if wielding a baseball bat more than a sword. The sheer momentum of the strike at full stretch - hit or no, caused the metal to tear from the wood as months of engineering tore apart in the destructive hands of the white-haired fugitive. How many things would he have to break before he could put down this stupid guy.
“My—name?” he started to puzzle, but the answer found his lips almost immediately, “Rod?”
It didn’t feel much a betrayal in earnest, he barely knew the man. The fact was there was no way this hunter had been aided in his tracking by the ill-known title. It just felt invasive. Tightening his grip around the length of the rifle, he continued to twirl it as he closed in toward his nemesis yet again.
“Aight then, let’s end this already,”
Ignoring the protests of the unfortunate owner of the residence, the battle-weary swordsmen decided not to let things drag out any longer. The trading blows of what was essentially a slugfest felt a gamble, the fight had been too even, favouring perhaps his opponent. It was an alien feeling for the unseasoned warrior. Rarely if ever had he been matched in a prolonged fight, especially a fight that involved just one person. His body felt good, or at least it had before the battering. There was no excuse for not being able to close this fight, nothing left in his wheelhouse to call upon and not even a blade in his hands. He reverted to what came naturally. Swinging.
Stepping forward suddenly the rifle-wielding Shandian clubbed at the western waster. He started with a body blow, striking for the kidneys.
“Just!”
Then again a barrage of assaults, another at the ribs but most follow ups decidedly headshots. The gun was lighter than his sword by a considerable margin, shorter too. The weight behind it certainly less impressive, but the speed he could clobber at now was well improved.
“Go!”
Still with each clash he felt the metal of the barrel shake and groan in protest. He doubted it’d make an effective weapon for long. Decidedly he opted for his finisher, taking his moment and grappling at the footwork powerhouse he replicated the attack that had been earlier levelled at him. His full intent was to daze the drunkard if but for a second and to try and end this with a crippling bludgeon to the skull. He fully intended to test just how thick headed his opponent was.
“DOWN!” the ex-slave roared, pulling the weapon right back over his shoulder before sending a ripping strike at Beck, as if wielding a baseball bat more than a sword. The sheer momentum of the strike at full stretch - hit or no, caused the metal to tear from the wood as months of engineering tore apart in the destructive hands of the white-haired fugitive. How many things would he have to break before he could put down this stupid guy.