Metz was not gifted with the immense ocular gifts of his opponent, but what he did have was a naturally uncanny gift of perception that some ordinary Torm (or humans even) sometimes have. It’s this trait that sometimes creates immense marksmen, but in Metz’ case it made him an exceptionally dangerous mage to contend, as he could launch projectiles and be confident his target would not be escaping him. That was not to say that he could necessarily negate his opponent’s erratic yet skilful weaving and hit him regardless, but it did give him a certain advantage that his foe may not be aware he had. However, when considering the affect mana had on the Mage when imbibed, namely increasing his physical capabilities to beyond thrice what he was usually capable of by his estimation, it made the man’s movements ultimately in vain. Metz could keep up with him, and he could hit him, accurately even, at the speed he could maintain. Hell, he’d just been fighting an opponent far faster than this to his own perception only a few moments prior, so this was a noticeable downgrade to his mind. Still, he gave the man credit as he charged to meet him, tracing his diagnol trajectory as he weaved a bolt. Metz would not have liked to face him in a fair fight.

Due to their speed, Metz was not confident his spell would be ready and unleash its desired effect in time, and so he mimicked his opponent’s movements and darted rightward somewhat, setting them further apart as they closed on each other. He was dangerously close to being slowed down by the edge of the water, but avoided it narrowly, noting that his foe had taken the better ground, but had also risked slowing himself by running through loose sand. It was an interesting comparison, or so he thought, as he raised the pistol in his right hand and levelled it, using it to test his foe and slow him. He fired on the move, aiming for his opponent’s mid-section and compensating for his low stature, aiming for roughly central, judging how effectively he could avoid the 9mm round or if he would need to avoid it at all. They were under ten feet from each other when he fired his shot, though the distance was actually increasing somewhat as they parted rather than heading straight for eachother.

Creepy bastard, Metz thought to himself, catching the singular eye of his masked foe glaring at him unnaturally.