A battle over nothing, nowhere.

[Smiley]

So went the rumor: In one of the smallest islands in the huge archipelago, a mildly notorious pirate buried all of his treasure before the marines got to him. It's some good deal of gold and gems, bound to make a man nice and rich for a good time. 

Was it true? Unlikely, it was more likely to be all bullshit, as rumors go. Would Marshall's incessant greed still compell him to brave the seas in that small trip just to get to the island and try to get himself a treasure that might or might not be there? Absolutely, without question. In fact, the moment he finished hearing the rumor, he had already left the pub he was drinking at.

The trip wasn't long either. The blues aren't extremely big as far as things go, specially since he had been drinking in an island that wasn't way too far away from it. So, of course, he went right for it, a trip straight to the small island in the Pikt Archipelago, guiding himself with a map that he may or may not have mugged off of a passing merchant. It really was a small island, he couldn't even find a name for it! He only guided himself by shape and position, eventually finding his way there. 

Treasure, money! 
Oh, he couldn't wait!

Equipped in simple clothing and a small travel bag, Marshall jumped straight off of the small boat he took with himself, roaming the island with a carefree attitude, unusual for a serious man like him. To know that he could be making himself rich was definitely a sweet thought, even if there was a real danger that he just wouldn't find anything. In that case.. a bummer, but nothing that he would care about. After all, he still had plans to come check out the Pikt Archipelago at some point either way.

[Vio]

^{Johnathan #1}

---

What man in his right mind could call himself a pirate without treasure? No man could; those that dared were poor examples, readily crushed by those above them. That’s what piracy was — a law in and of itself, oft unspoken, to ride the winds and the currents for one’s own gain. Those who defied its roots weren’t pirates, but glorified urchins who leeched off of the reputation of greater men. Anstis Johnathan was no urchin. A pirate through and through, what he sought now was just two things.

A new ship and a new, loyal crew.

“They say this is the harshest of the Four Blues, eh? Ptch! Barely worth calling a swell,” the goliath growled deeply, dragging his sailboat ashore with one hand before trying the mooring line to a sturdy tree trunk. There was little risk to the tides pulling the vessel away, but he did so out of old habit more than actual precaution. The air was cold, though not so much that his breath would turn to mist, and the rays of the sun did little to warm the islet’s gravelly coast. Pebbles and coarse sands crackled and crunched beneath his boots.

“I’ve seen steeper waves in the Calm Belt,” Johnathan snarled, taking the small keg tied to his belt and knocking back a few mouthfuls of spiced rum — a cinnamon variant he had managed to ‘procure’ from a small yet reputable brewery during one of his stops. “Ah, why am I wasting my breath,” he sighed, feeling the liquor’s heat spread from his gullet. Securing the booze, alongside his handcannon and blade, he scoped the vicinity. Barely even a mile off, other landmasses dotted the sea, all of similar shades of grey and green.

^{“Pikt Archipelago, is it,” the buccaneer grumbled:
“Could’ve picked a better spot to bury it…”}

A ragged piece of parchment, edges blackened with char, was held firmly between Anstis’ fingers as brown eyes assessed its details. With a soft scratch of a grizzled beard, he pondered the accuracy of the barely legible information in silence. Rumours travelled far and fast, but he knew better than to trust word of mouth. Whether through differences in dialect or simply forgetting certain facts, placing trust in the tale of the tongue was a fool’s errand, yet it was an errand he felt himself inclined to attempt simply because a man had been rather keen to keep the paper out of his clutches.

^{“Southeastern shore,” he read at a murmur:
“One hundred paces inland…”}

---

SPOILER: Click to show

{Post Synopsis:—}
_{• Johnathan arrives on a small, uninhabited islet on the outskirts of the Pikt Archipelago.
• Johnathan ponders the rumours surrounding a treasure supposedly buried on the island.}

---

Anstis Johnathan | #65000b

[Smiley]

Hold on a second, wait a simple minute.. now Marshall has gone through a whole lot of danger in his very young life, a given, given his hard-lived past. He knows about a calm before a storm, about something that seems to be super good means that there's just danger afoot, something that he didn't count for or predict waiting to ambush him. Yes, there's no way to actually know it, it was nothing more than a simple gut instinct of a very paranoid man, but what guaranteed him that he was wrong? What assurance did he have that it was all his paranoid brain?

Yet, nothing came out, nothing could be heard and he saw nothing no matter how much he looked within grass, bush or tree. By that point, one could realize an obvious little thing, something interesting, given that it was the first time he ever got to actually do it.
"If I have time, might as well prepare.. who knows?
Delightfully devilish, Marsh.~" 

Rubbing his hands ever so deviously, the very large man moved around as much as he could to find a proper spot to hide, deciding to throw himself at the thickest bushery that he could see, even making a note to cover himself in whatever he could find to make him blend in as much as he could. Not comfy, really gross but, even if he just waited there for around twenty minutes, he could be sure that nothing was waiting for him in ambush. 

If something WERE waiting for him in ambush or, god forbid, actually arrived at the same spot, he'd be sure to give it a good whack! They wouldn't even see it comin'! Yeah, that's right, a 12 and a half foot man will SURELY be able to sneak up on some normal-sized creature or man! 
..Ye.

[Vio]

^{Johnathan #2}

---

Boots cracked pebbles and soon enough flattened coastal grasses as Anstis Johnathan made his way inland from the islet’s empty, unappealing shore. The archipelago hardly spoke to him as a place of grandeur or wealth; perhaps a good thing given his nature, and the natures of the people who called it home. In stern silence, broken only by goliath footfalls that snapped fallen branches and pounded loose soils, he walked ever onward. Beneath gnarled boughs he was, much to his chagrin, forced to bow — even a king who made his own laws had no right to oppose Mother Nature’s commandments.

“Damn well ought to be worth it,” he grumbled, scratching softly at the grizzled beard that hugged his jawline as he batted aside the hanging foliage of a rather unfortunate tree. “Else I’ll have to do it the old fashioned way,” Johnathan added, more for his own musing than in communication. Time alone had hardly worn upon his sense of socialism, but sometimes the only intelligent conversations one could have were with one’s own self. At least there was no threat of being mutinied by his own person.

Crack! Rustle… Snap! Nature’s reaching arms betrayed him at every yard, his great frame necessitating force to bend branches and crush roots, lest suffer their lashings twofold. Minutes had passed, the average man’s pace perhaps only a smaller portion of his own stride. Even the threat of thickened roots tripping him failed to impede the pirate’s advance for much more than a half minute, eventually breaching the tangled undergrowth and arriving at a slightly more open, lenient stretch. Hardly could it be called a clearing, but it gave him a moment’s breathing room as he glanced down at crumpled paper once again.

“Where stone faces gaze six ways, fifty paces north,” Mister Anstis read again. Already, he felt as if his chances of catching a wild goose were better than this, but even so he did not let it dissuade him. This was an opportunity — one to be seized. With perhaps a dozen more strides, he finally stumbled upon an odd sight. Amongst the whitebeams whose strange branches resembled deer antlers, a rocky outcrop no taller from the earth than a pack mule’s withers breached the greenery. A basalt mar amidst the temperate forest. Maybe eight or nine hexagonal pillars protruded, packed together in a pattern akin to honeycomb.

Johnathan hummed quietly, unaware.

---

SPOILER: Click to show

{Post Synopsis:—}
_{Johnathan follows the clues through the islet’s woodland, finding a small number of basalt columns protruding from the ground, but failing to notice anyone hidden nearby.}

---

Anstis Johnathan | #65000b

[Smiley]

Never would Marshall be able to sneak up on anyone smaller than him ever. After all, he was just to big that it was likely the sun itself would alert some poor prey about his looming presence. Just his luck, then, a blessing if anything, that the one who would show up, just as the hopeful tyrant had expected, was not some random guy looking for treasure, but a hulking beast of a man, someone even taller than him by a good few feet.

Though it might just happen that, because he's just so massive, he won't go down with just a good whack to the head. In fact, Marshall was not the acrobatic type, instead, he was the more methodical, slow-moving unstopable onslaught kind of man. Not someone equipped to fight a being much stronger AND taller than him. Still, he had to try and he had to get that treasure.. in worst case, he had to get the loot off of a body.

Springing up an ambush and sneaking, though, was decidedly against what he liked..

No only was he unable, he preferred the opponent know his face before they die.

"It's great seeing someone in the middle of dogshit nowhere North. Are you here for that fabled treasure as well?" Asked Marshall with a slight tilt of his head to actually be able to look at the man's face, should he have enough decency to actually turn around and talk back. After all, two warriors have to look at each other properly before they fight to a bloody death!

"Honestly, I only came here because I was close.. I was waiting, instead." Just as he'd say it, the Tyrant slowly raised a large, X-Shaped, pearly white mace, which he had created priviously as to conceal his true power, both hands on its grip, holding the handle ever so slightly above and parallel to his shoulder, the tip pointed straight at the veteran pirate. He knew that he looked like some kid testing his luck against an old veteran, sure, but what could he do about that?

"I figured the trinkets from someone's corpse are a much more viable source of money."

A grim chuckle later, Marshall remained still, waiting patiently for this man he just met to draw out (or create) his own weapon, so that they could finally get to fighting.

[Vio]

^{Johnathan #3}

---

A brief glance about his surroundings revealed nothing else of immediate interest to Anstis Johnathan, but it wasn’t what he saw that changed the game. No. It was what he heard. To be caught with his guard down was both shameful on his part, and on the part of the soul that had apparently snuck up on him. A man — an admittedly tall man in the grand scheme of things — stood there before him at a reasonable, respectable distance. Dark skinned, ashen haired, bearing overall an impressive physique, what stood there was an oddity.

Brown eyes focused upon him.

^{“What of it?”}

^{“Honestly,” the figure replied:
“I was waiting, instead…”}

Who does this damned fool think he is… John’s eyes briefly assessed the weapon being raised. It wasn’t an immediate threat, no, but the kind of gesture one would expect of someone challenging another. A pearly bar-mace, itself a rarely seen armament — people preferred the sword or sabre, a club, or even a gun. To see something he had perhaps only ever seen once before in his nearing five-and-a-half decades was a bemusing experience to say the least, though his visage gave no trace of his inner bewilderment. Rather, he turned to face the man fully, sizing him up proper.

“I figured the trinkets from someone’s corpse are a much more viable source of money,” the woollen-haired warrior proclaimed, offering a small chuckle that perhaps betrayed his intent more so than a mere gesture. Johnathan’s own lips curled slightly, perhaps in mockery of the youth. What was he in? His early thirties at most, perhaps? He couldn’t be younger than twenty, without doubt. His musculature was a testament to that, as was his height. Regardless, the onus was placed upon the youth’s wisdom over his physicality, for the latter he did not doubt.

“Well, isn’t that interesting,” Captain Anstis chuckled, though his smile quickly revealed itself as a falsehood — lips curled back into their gruff scowl as he placed a hand over his shoulder to grasp the hilt of his own weapon. Though he did not draw it at first, he remained primed as he spoke: “An upstart looking for a scrap in the middle of ‘dogs#¡+ nowhere’? I’ll give you this,” he added, now drawing the bizarre blade from his back — an enormous hook of peculiar design whose dark, sharpened steel culminated in a serpentine head. “I appreciate people with spirit and conviction, but yours…? You might just have wrongly identified your hubris. What’s your name, whelp…?”

---

SPOILER: Click to show

{Post Synopsis:—}
<sub>Johnathan observes Marshall as he challenges him, but finds his hubris amusing, more so than threatening. Johnathan draws his weapon and asks Marshall’s name.

Zwart-Stalen Olieslang
An enormous weapon akin to a Khopesh or a Shotel in that it is a sword with an extremely prominent curvature to the blade. To suit Johnathan’s size, the blade’s reach is approximately 8’ (2.45 m), with the hilt sitting at an additional 3’ (0.91 m) long, making the whole weapon nearly twice as long as an average human is tall – not accounting for the actual blade’s circumference. From tip to base (where it juts perpendicular to the hilt), the blade itself has a 225° angle, giving it a hook-like shape. It is composed of dark steel with a slight zigzag hamon despite being a double-edged sword, with the tip of the blade being designed to resemble the head of a dragon or serpent, thus making the design somewhat similar to Ouroboros. The hilt is capped and crested with a golden guard and pommel, with a wrapping of dark red.</sub>

---

Anstis Johnathan | #65000b
Marshall Marrow | #eeeeee

[Smiley]

Truly fitting of a man of such size and imposing demeanor to have a weapon that seemed designed to cull people like wheat in a farm. A curved sword, much like a stylized Shotel, with a blade size that made even Marshall feel a bit small for a moment or two. A not unpleasant feeling, all thinsg considered, since it did make him feel a bit of quivered excitement stir deep within his heart.

"My name? I am Marshall of Alabasta! En Garde!"

No more words needed to be spoken, simply because Marshall couldn't care less about that man's name, not at least until they either came to a draw or a complete loss on the side of the young upstart. No, instead, going with the obvious assumption that a curved blade like that, on a man of that size, simply was not made for thrusting, the tyrant chose to rush in a straight line instead, still holding his barmace in position..

For, with his intuition, he could see one proper way of attack, which really just referenced those same wheat farmers he saw a long while ago: a swipe, one that could go through shields that one held in front. Hence, he assumed that by holding a side guard, he'd be able to get a proper approach!

So, with steeled mind and an excited heart, Marshall began giving, finally, the first few glimpses of his true personality towards John, when, as his large, thick arms tightened and bulged out, his firm grip became harder than ever and, with an experienced, yet incredibly brutish movement, swung that barmace towards John's stomach, one that showed no restraint on his part: no matter the fight he got on, he didn't hesitate. Whenever he makes a threat, he'll follow through to the best of his capabilities.

In fact, even though that barmace had no ability to cut, he still swung as if he could just cleanly slice through a person, attesting to his lack of restraint -- and to a lack of caution.

[Vio]

^{Johnathan #4}

---

Alabasta…? The kingdom on Sandy Island? That means he’s from Paradise, Anstis Johnathan noted duly as Marshall spoke his name. He supposed it made sense — that a man of such stature and skin tone would herald not only from a harsher place, but also a significantly hotter country. It was almost fascinating how a simple explanation could answer so many questions about a man. Still, as anticipated, Marshall gave little opportunity for the buccaneer to process such information for much longer.

Johnathan wasted no time.

Many might have expected him to lead a retaliation with Zwart-Stalen Olieslang’s serpentine tip, but that would have been a foolish endeavour. A weapon in part designed to bypass the defence of a shield held more than its fair share of secrets, the most readily identifiable of which he was quick to call upon. With an almost casual flick of his wrist, Anstis turned the blade in his grasp, guiding its weight into a counterattack of his own as he brought the blade to bear.

Clash! Ivory club met with near ebony steel as the back curve of Johnathan’s blade — a still sharpened edge to be sure — crossed paths with Marshall’s own brutish swing. Subtle sparks shed from the point of impact, but here was the ultimate measure of his man’s might. Muscle to muscle, Marshall had made it clear that he was no pushover; as if John had doubted the potential in this man’s body, his control over his weapon affirmed it. But weapon alone was just one wave of the test, for in its wake was the weight of that peculiar, hooked sword.

^{“Not bad, whelp,” he growled, holding deadlock:
“Shame you won’t be leaving this rock alive!”}

With a fierce push, Johnathan broke the apparent stalemate of strength, blade moving into an offensive position as he brought it back down upon Marshall’s location. A normal man could not hope to survive such a blow, such was the weapon’s ferocity. Already an immense tool of battle, surely the ashen-haired upstart had realised that this weapon’s weight seemed far more intense than it let on — a blade crashing down to cleave him from shoulder to hip…

---

SPOILER: Click to show

{Post Synopsis:—}
Johnathan parries Marshall’s initial blow, fending off the first assault before retaliating with a downward strike using his weapon’s immense weight.

Zwart-Stalen Olieslang
An enormous weapon akin to a Khopesh or a Shotel in that it is a sword with an extremely prominent curvature to the blade. To suit Johnathan’s size, the blade’s reach is approximately 8’ (2.45 m), with the hilt sitting at an additional 3’ (0.91 m) long, making the whole weapon nearly twice as long as an average human is tall – not accounting for the actual blade’s circumference. From tip to base (where it juts perpendicular to the hilt), the blade itself has a 225° angle, giving it a hook-like shape. It is composed of dark steel with a slight zigzag hamon despite being a double-edged sword, with the tip of the blade being designed to resemble the head of a dragon or serpent, thus making the design somewhat similar to Ouroboros. The hilt is capped and crested with a golden guard and pommel, with a wrapping of dark red.

[/b]
Zwart-Stalen Olieslang is a very heavy weapon, even for its size. Much of the weight is focused into the blade, meaning a single swing can quickly generate a lot of force – enough to shatter stone and snap smaller swords with a good hit. Due to its shape, such a weight distribution barely affects the weapon’s balance, though it is certainly not designed for speed.[/font][/sup][/ul][/font][/sub][/spoiler]

---

Anstis Johnathan | #65000b
Marshall Marrow | #eeeeee[/font][/sup][/div][/blockquote]

[Smiley]

As hard as it may be to actually admit, Marshall may actually be outmatched in a direct clash of strength, something that had never happened to him in his life, not since he actually grew into an adult. Not only that, the man he was facing had a terrifyingly weighty weapon, leading to the Tyrant becoming a bit more like a simple soldier in the face of someone that powerful. Sure, the difference may not be that wide, though it was slight enough to matter.. and the weight gap did not help.

For once, Marshall got repelled back. In a clash that Captain John himself broke, Marshall found himself skidding back on the dirt after being pushed back, leaving himself in a perfect position to get attacked with the outside of the Kopesh, having already taken him by surprise when he realized that the blasted thing was actually double edged, something that he never really expected.

Now, in position to get attacked and with a fast approaching weapon, the only option that he saw himself with at the moment was not exactly dodge, simply because he was neither agile or quick enough for something on that split decision, but to swing and clash.

From the side.

After all, not only did he not have the time to raise his weapon to a defensive stance, smashing into the blade by the side would allow it to divert away from him, allowing the large alabastan to stumble to the opposite side and regain his footing and posture, once again holding his stance - with a bloodied arm. A parry like that was never gonna be perfect from a man such as Marshall, leaving the edge of the parried blade to graze against his upper arm, leaving a nasty-looking cut that wetted his arm.

The man seemed unphazed by it, other than a grim smile of someone who likely hadn't felt his own blood leaving his body in a good while. "Die, here..? I cannot die now, this world and these people.. it's just too much fun to let go!"

Screw the strategy and screw hiding. Marshall's bloodlust and excitement, as usual, were quick to take over his better judgement, leading the hulking, yet simulteanously dwarfed man to stomp his right foot into the ground below him, crushing the very earth, his body tightening and focusing.

"An Alabastan Warlord will not die until he has repelled a thousand blades!" With that warcry ripped directly from his father, a white, ivory mass violently grew out of all corners of Marshall's body, twisting and molding themselves around his body, gripping at his flesh, casing itself around his entire self, down to his fingers.

Ventilation holes that appeared, spikes that potruded and sockets that opened for his eyes and nostrils, Marshall had finally revealed his admitedly dangerous devil fruit powers, as his very eyes seemed to faintly shine red, staring up into John, unflinching and unbending. The upstart had eaten a fruit it seemed and, once again in position, seemed to be giving him another shot.

A reward for parrying his first attack, a challenge for him to break through his defenses.. it was hard to know and neither would he answer that question should it be asked.

Only option's to fight.

[Vio]

^{Johnathan #5}

---

Krang! Dark steel once again met with pearly white, this time as Marshall attempted to parry the downward swing of Johnathan’s blade — and a mostly successful parry at that. The curved sword was not so much repelled as redirected, drawing some blood out of dark skin as it grazed an arm, but cleaving the earth beside the Alabastan’s feet rather than flesh and blood.

“Die, here…? I cannot,” Marshall’s voice exclaimed, alive with vigour.

Anstis grimaced slightly as he pulled at his sword, raking it free from the cold soil with one heaving motion. Luck would have it — perhaps more hubris instead — that his moment of vulnerability was not capitalised upon. Before his very eyes, Johnathan watched as the upstart warlord’s form was replaced with something altogether more alien and otherworldly. Ivory substance seemed to seep from every chiseled line in the man’s body, enveloping him in a bleached plate that hugged tight his form as a beetle’s carapace.

So, he’s an ability user, too… Was this a surprise? Yes. Did Johnathan show it? No. Though arguably far from the prime of his pirating career, this man from the New World could not say he hadn’t already seen his fair share of Devil Fruits in action. Zoans. Paramecia. Logia. Many mysteries regarding such odd abilities still existed in his mind, for in five decades he could hardly say he would have seen it all, but this? Seeing that ivory visage form across dark skin was confirmation.

^{“As if a mere Paramecia,” John bellowed:
“Would save you from me…! Naschok!!”}

Schwash! Again, Anstis’ curved edge cleaved through the air in a wild and dangerous swing, accelerated by strength and weight alike. This time, the serpent’s head led the charge, the blade first outreaching only to coil back as it reached the crux of its arc — a hooking motion apparently aiming to pierce the now armoured adversary’s porous hide. But this was different from previous swings. Successful or not, the power of such a strike would not be determined from the initial swing, no; but from the fierce wave of force that would echo in the blade’s wake…

---

SPOILER: Click to show

{Post Synopsis:—}
Johnathan’s attack is mostly unsuccessful, but Marshall instead reveals his trump card in the form of a Devil Fruit’s power. Surprised, but not fazed, Johnathan makes another attack, this time using another trick he learned.

---

SPOILER: Click to show

{Naschok}
_{“Aftershock”
Johnathan swings his blade with force in what seems to be a regular powerful attack, triggering a secondary wave of force shortly afterwards as the displaced air collapses back into the blade’s wake. If Johnathan manages to dig the blade into timber or stone, the following and rapid change in pressure can cause it to splinter or crack substantially.}

---

Anstis Johnathan | #65000b
Marshall Marrow | #eeeeee

[Smiley]

Calling it a mere paramecia could be a serious mistake, one that would spell the end of any lesser man. After all, Logias are limited and Zoans, though versatile, still pale in comparison to what some paramecia can do and create. To create bone at his will and design, though still yet to be properly developed in a creative sense, could still do more than enough with the two meaningful designs that Marshall had created.

In fact, his best design was soon proved more than efficient enough, though, perhaps a bit too much as Marshall had fallen into what should have been a very simple trap to someone who, for example, had a LOT more experience fighting people than beasts.

Marshall had dashed forward, into the inside curve of the blade, having shifted his mace to his side, so that he could block the slash that was SURELY coming. Not the tip that came first once the arc was ending, slamming directly into the tyrant's back!

A rather boney <<WHAM!>> had Marshall harshly thrown away, jumping and tumbling over the ground like some sort of oversized skipping stone, directly into a bundle of weirdly shaped rocks behind John, crushing a good deal of it, leaving him nicely wedged inside the pit his body had created, only falling to the ground once the force that had thrown him finally met its equal in the rocks.

With a lame, boney thud, Marshall fell in a rather limp fashion into the ground, face first, taking more than a moment to actually stand up yet again. Now, the armor proved itself fantastic: a few scratches and a noticeable crack where the stylized tip of the rather heavy weapon had slammed into, however, it held solid and strong, seemingly becoming more imposing once its durability finally showed itself.

Sadly, it was still a rudimentary design by all means, lacking any sort of impact softening or ANY sort of mechanism or property that could have made the impact softer on the man inside. If anything, he felt like an egg, protected by a very durable steel box - being thrown around might not be as hard as a direct blow, though it still hurt. Thankfully, this egg has a great deal of stamina and an unshakeable desire for bloodshed.

"..Blasted hell, that's a heavier blow than a Sandora Lizard's charge.."

"Means I have to put some gusto into this next blow." Marshall murmured to himself, once again holding up his heavy barmace, this time, in a more aggressive position. He knew that John needed minimal time to recover whenever he swung, even from a weapon like that.. after all, those swings would not be possible if the weapon was too heavy for him. He needed to take his chances now.

A short running start was all that Marshall needed to use the intense power of his legs and the fact that his armor, made by his own devil fruit, did not weigh him down in any significant way, taking into the skies with a simple, yet wonderful jump, holding his weapon high.

A deep, enraged yet excited roar came from Marshall as he swung his weapon towards John as he fell, fully intending in having it blocked. Fully intended on it simply because, as they were to clash, Marshall let go of his weapon, choosing to fall straight down instead, clouded by what would surely be a great impact, mixed with the sparks that would release from his shotel. On the ground, as he landed crudely into a crouch, yet another barmace was created as quickly as it could be in his hands, in an attempt at trickery and what could easily be called foul play, hoping that he had a free, yet rather crucial window to swing his mace as hard as he could from that position..

Diretly into John's right knee. Hopefully, it'd cause enough damage to make it harder for him to stand and, therefore, harder to swing and move.

[Vio]

^{Johnathan #6}

---

It seemed the percussive wave was not needed, for Marshall’s defence was neither ideal nor swift enough to save him from the hook’s impact. A sound somewhat akin to cracking bones filled the air, followed soon thereafter by stone giving way to a sheer impact as the armoured upstart’s form was tossed into the strange, basalt pillars that protruded from the earth. With a deep breath, John turned.

“What are you muttering about, whelp?” the goliath did ask, stepping forwards slowly. Not once did he take his eyes from the bleached berserker — not once did he risk himself being caught with his guard down. Something in his gut told him that the Alabastan was far from beaten; proven by the fact that he stood again, quick to engage in yet another reckless charge.

A leap.

A move like that will be your last, John noted in silence as he watched Marshall gain altitude. For some combatants, to be airborne was a blessing. To most, it was a foolish move that erased your best defence against a direct attack — the ability to move of your own accord. Again, the shotel carved through the air as the brutal buccaneer aimed to parry the incoming mace. A move he was sure would serve as the perfect set up for a finishing blow. But when ebony met ivory, the latter had lost something crucial.

^“What?!”

Clang! Whoosh! Quick as the man could, Anstis made to step aside, but wasn’t quick enough on his feet to evade. Pain shot through his leg like lightning as an immense force crashed into his shin, maybe an inch or two shy of his kneecap, causing the man to bellow and curse. A wild swing of his blade followed, churning up soil and root alike as it arced around him — a reckless attempt to hook or strike the cause of this sudden agony.

“You little f*¢<!” Half fallen, propping himself up with his blade, Johnathan’s free hand swung to his side, snatching something from its holster — a loaded gun. A pistol scaled up to suit his massive frame, he thumbed back the hammer with a loud click, pointing the muzzle in Marshall’s direction. “I should’ve blasted your skull open from the start,” he hissed, grimacing in pain as his finger squeezed the trigger. A flintlock of such calibre was more than enough to shatter bone, but…

^Bang!

---

SPOILER: Click to show

{Post Synopsis:—}
Johnathan parries Marshall’s attack, but realises it was a trick a little too late, barely avoiding the brunt of the strike. Angered, Johnathan draws his gun and fires upon Marshall.

---

SPOILER: Click to show

{Handcannon}
_{For a normal man, such a weapon would require two hands to wield due to weight alone, but Johnathan has no trouble using this enormous flintlock as an average man would a pistol. Armed with pellets as large as a small infantry cannon, and the gun itself being a rather heavy weapon, a single shot strikes with incredible force. Due to its size and comparable shortness of the barrel, it’s not too accurate at range.}

---

Anstis Johnathan | #65000b
Marshall Marrow | #eeeeee

[Smiley]

A success! A resounding success! John was caught off guard and found himself unable to defend against his real attack, the clever, yet functionally simple use of his devil fruit having greatly paid off when that slam rang true against his shin, surely leaving him crippled with the pain and damage to his leg, something that Marshall planned on so that subsequent clashes of strength could be a lot more favorable to the tricky, underhanded tyrant. 

The wild swing of the shotel did not surprise Marshall at all either, having already figured John for the type to really lose his calm once he was defied, though the way that he swung did force him to back away or get smacked again, his vision briefly clouded by the amount of dirt he whipped up with a single slash. 

"Ha! I will neve--!" That loud click, the threat to blast his skull open. In the brief moment of the cloud clearing, the gun pointed at him, Marshall tried to raise his arms to protect his face, though, he had been too slow. A man that relied so much on his armor to protect him and be unbreakable, he just wasn't ready to actually raise his arms.  

The shot rang true, directly into his head. The helmet, thankfully, did hold the bullet in place, wedged in the bridge of the nose, with the sheer impact shattering his helmet completely, in a loud, almost explosive-like skull crushing noise! Marshall was thrown to the ground in front of John, though, just like the first time, he was quite quick to throw himself back to his feet, staring the man in the eyes, once again, raising his mace. 

"Yeee thouuueeh.. that I woo' die to a bullet?" So he sarcastically asked, in quite the slurred manner. Slightly glazed, uneven eyes continued to stare at him, while the very much concussed warrior continued to move towards him, holding onto his mace, helmet slowly regrowing, a conscious action to close up his armor.. "Ye can't kill me!" Marshall boasted, unwilling to admit that enough shots like those to his head, even protected, would surely knock him out cold..  

Fuck, he felt like vomiting right now, honestly.

[Vio]

^{Johnathan #7}

---

The sound of iron and fire erupting sent birds screaming from the trees and into the skies, bringing a solemn and eerie silence to the islet. Marshall had taken the shot, knocked to the dirt by the sheer force of the impact, if not by the bullet having punctured the bleached bastion’s protection entirely. John’s eyes, alive with the fire of combat and fury alike, did not peel away from the would-be corpse. Even seeing red had failed to cloud the once saltwater scourge’s judgment and, true to form, it was the Alabastan who clambered to his feet.

Alright… Maybe I underestimated how tough that armour is. Either that or he’s just got a thick skull, Anstis duly noted as a rather shaky Marshall advanced once more. Hardly did the man look as if he were capable of taking another blow, even as ivory slowly reforged itself into that bizarre facade he so insisted upon using. Though his shin still stung, the buccaneer simply did what any stoic soul would do.

Grin and bear it.

^{“Ye can’t kill me!”}

“I hate to break it to you, whelp,” John growled, standing proper and even going so far as to step to meet the man in the middle. Admittedly, something of a limp was at first rather obvious as he bit back the shooting pains emanating from his knee, but that seldom prevented the man from holstering his handcannon and readying his blade once more. “But you’re not the one who decides,” he continued gruffly, blade swinging in a wide, horizontal arc with the back edge, “who lives and who dies by my hand! … Naschok!”

---

SPOILER: Click to show

{Post Synopsis:—}
Johnathan sees Marshall’s resilience, but all the same aims to finish off the upstart with one last hit!

---

SPOILER: Click to show

{Naschok}
_{Johnathan swings his blade with force in what seems to be a regular powerful attack, triggering a secondary wave of force shortly afterwards as the displaced air collapses back into the blade’s wake. If Johnathan manages to dig the blade into timber or stone, the following and rapid change in pressure can cause it to splinter or crack substantially.}

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NOTE: Johnathan’s swing will cause the air to collapse in its wake, so even if Marshall dodges it, there’ll be a second shock wave that follows the path of the swing.

---

Anstis Johnathan | #65000b
Marshall Marrow | #eeeeee

[Smiley]

The slow reacting Marshall was, thankfully, given enough time to see John walk up and holster his gun, presumably, to ready his rather terrifying shotel. It was enough time, in fact, for him to raise his weapon, in position again, for a strong swing, even if he looked a bit more wobbly than before, his eye sockets not seemingly focused on anything.. while looking at everything. A confusing thing to explain, yes, but not a hard concept to understand.

Marshall was present in body -- partially in mind.

"My life is mine .. mine only!" What would have been a good quip to hit back at John with became slurred and slightly confused, interrupted once both men took their strongest swing at each other. John, crippled by his shin and unable to get a proper footing without some harsh pains mixed in and Marshall, who couldn't focus on much other than swing his mace as hard as he could, like the brute he can - and likes to - be.

A clash! A slam! The earth seemed to stir once they met at their compromised best, dirt and grass below them flying away, as if fearing the very moments where blade and mace met. A clash that first ended with Marshall resisting for a few moments before being thrown back rather roughly, this time, seemed to have a struggle involved!

It was not to be, however.

Marshall's devil fruit and the special durability of his armor and weapon require him to be in an alert and focused state of mind, to regenerate and reinforce in response to great deals of damage, from impact, from blade.. from shot and from flame!

There was no focusing he could do now.

As strong as any swing, his weakened mace could not handle neither its creator's own strength, neither could it handle the well swung "Nashok" from John, buckling and shattering under the pressure, leaving Marsrhall to swing in empty air with a broken weapon.

Too mentally slow to realize what happened to him, before that blade hit him.

Marshall's armor, just the same as his mace, buckled under the weight and speed of the slash, cleaving past the armor, crushing and cutting in equal amounts. Such a swipe, mixed with the blade of air that came from it, were more than enough to send the large Alabastan warrior through the air, followed by a trail - a cloud - both! -- Of his own blood, before he'd crash into the forest itself.

Cradled by crushed wood and leaves, by rocks and an unfortunate bush, Marshall lay motionless, armor slowly crumbling away like dried, rotting bone, bleeding from his gut, staining the grass below him. Hell, couldn't even see how deep the cut was, with the way that blood continued to spill.. moments passed. He didn't rise. 

Minutes.. and he still didn't even move a finger. Presumably, one could figure he had died, failed in his word.. and shown himself to be a talented, but reckless upstart.