[@LeeRoy]

[i]Gonad walked towards LeeRoy, his one eye as guileless as the sky on a summer day. There was nothing hidden up this one's sleeve, and not an iota of doubt about what he was going to do. It had not been a dire transgression, certainly not one that lead to death. The barbarian was intent on a simple bar fight, nothing more. His beefy arms remained folded across his barrel chest, even as he got into striking distance. No doubt LeeRoy had his strengths, but this was a whole 'nother world. Gonad had instinct in addition to training, to say the least. A mathematician could spend his entire life calculating the best way to throw a punch that lands every time, imagining an invigorating scenario where it worked perfectly and against multiple opponents. Thinking that, in the right situation, with the right motivation, he could hulk out and beat the odds. Putting such a thing into practice, though, was tragically different. Men of the street, men of the gym, men of the dojo. They understood that difference in its entirety, because they knew what it felt like to have their pride destroyed and rebuilt over and over and over. Someone that knew what to do and had the action of that motion burned into their body through trail and error. That is what training, at its core, is. Doing something many times to get better at it. The greatest way to get experience is through experience.

How many kicks had Bruce Lee thrown in his life? Thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands? When he moved, it was with a stunning decisiveness that most other fighters would fail to register as anything more than a blur, or a flicker. What of Gonad then, who had not lived in the times of modern man and the film industry, but in the primal ages of eternal warfare, wherein disfigured human bodies were piled on high like lumpy mountains, a visceral crimson biosphere tinting the horizon the same color as blood? Where a single misstep meant no second chance, forever after. Gonad did not attack as he strode in, but he wouldn't need to. LeeRoy would be able to see what might happen, to [i]feel[/i] it, almost like a sort of precognition. This one was special. You don't spit into the wind. You don't steal the hat off a policeman in Hoboken. You don't hang your ass over a picket fence with a Doberman on the other side. Why on this realm or on any other, then, would LeeRoy stand his ground and raise his fists against one that lived and breathed knuckles and jawbones?
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