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Zande sat next to a small patch of burning ground near the middle of the area, sweat rolling down his face as he vainly tried roasting a skewered rabbit. Oil fire did not a good recipie make. The meat smelled sharp, pungent, foul. The headhunter made small whining sounds as he removed the animal from the flame and examined its black, smoke-basted body. It was ruined. He needed another source of meat to cook. He looked up, glancing around hopelessly. It seemed like he'd need to go on another long hunt. His stomach gurgled pitifully, and he rubbed it absent mindedly, scowling.
Hidden 6 yrs ago 6 yrs ago Post by Diexsmiling
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It had been a week or so since Dartega had accepted the bounty hunter contract for the wild man, Zande. How ironic, he thought, that a bounty hunter would have a price placed on their own head. Still, Dartega didn't care much for the details or the background of the contract. He needed gold to continue his mission, and it was as simple as that. Combat was all he knew, and although he was no expert tracker, the price on the contract would be more than enough to pay for new supplies and continue on his journey.

Luckily for him, a few travellers happened to see a character that matched the description of Zande moving toward the torched wastes just a couple of days ago. At last he had a lead. There wasn't much of a trail to follow, but he thanked them for the information and carried on. Little did they know of the dark deeds Dartega had planned to carry out.

At last, he arrived at his destination. It was no glorious place to be, but Dartega was used to this sort of environment, and of course had been to places much worse. Squinting his eyes, he scanned the area looking for his target. The smoke obscured his vision slightly, but in the distance he saw what appeared to be a human figure, sitting by a small fire. As quietly as possible, he moved to about thirty paces from the figure.

Although he was trained to kill since he was just a boy, he was also raised by a strict code of honor and discipline. Without trying any sort of stealthy attack, he wanted to confirm that the target was who he appeared to be. If at all possible, he wished to avoid shedding innocent blood. All he really needed was a better look at the figure to match the description, and then he could carry out the contract.

"Zande!" He called out, smoke swirling about his armored figure with flames behind him. His two demon blades, K'Girr and Bozar, were still sheathed on his back, ready to be drawn in a split second. With keen interest, he awaited the figure's reaction...
Hidden 6 yrs ago 6 yrs ago Post by Doc Doctor
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Zande peered over his shoulder, popping something into his mouth as he did so. Immediately a childish grin split his face and he brandished the skeweres, badly cooked rabbit, waving it merrily. His dialect was atrocious, a genuine mutilation of the Queen's English.

"Huh? C'mere bwana, ya wanna try somma dis bunny? I ain' no masta chef, but it bedda den' nuffin'! C'mon, pop a squat mon'! I gad some rum 'ere too!"
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Rum? Incredibly tempting. Dartega was absolutely caught off guard by the figure's response, although he didn't show it. For a few brief moments, he actually thought about taking up Zande's offer. To share a simple moment of peace, drinking and eating by a fire. He might even be able to learn a thing or two about his enemy, as well. He seemed like a friendly enough character, a decent human being.

It didn't matter though. Dartega was there for one reason, and that was to kill. He was even disappointed in himself for the brief moment of hesitation. "Shut the f*ck up, you goddamn clown. Draw your weapons!" He shouted, pulling Bozar from it's sheath and pointing it at his target. He wanted a fair battle, man versus man, grit versus grit. That was simply his style, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

"I'm cutting your head off and taking it with me." He continued, in case his purpose wasn't clear enough yet.

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Zande grumbled and rose to his feet, pointing the skewer accusingly at Dartega, the rabbit still sizzling on the twenty inch length of pointy wood in his left hand. His war mask hung from the back of his neck, and despite how he seemed to bristle with weapons, he drew none. Instead, he had plucked a pint bottle of cheap rum off the ground and held it by the neck in his other hand.

"Otay, bad bwoy. First ya calls me a clown, den ya steal me head takin' tingy. Ya a real bumboclot! But it otay. I ain't gon' keel an' eatcha till ya had some rabbit n' rum wid me. Now siddown an' has yaself some good stuff afore' I has ta force feed ya!"
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At this point, Dartega felt as though he was simply wasting time. Obviously, he hadn't come to drink and eat rabbit. If this Zande character wished to defend himself with a cheap bottle of rum and a pointy stick, then so be it.

Casually, he pulled K'Girr from it's sheath and began striding forward, a blade now in both hands. The time for nonsense was over. A swift and powerful front kick straight into the fire would do the job, he thought. And it would even save him the trouble of cleaning blood from his blades afterwards.

Now standing nearly face to face with the wild man, he lifted a greaved knee to his chest and prepared to place a well aimed kick upon the center of Zande's torso.
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Dartega had recognized Zande's arrogance and capitalized on it. He was better armored, better armed, and felt that he could handle some vagrant armed only with a rabbit skewer and a pint of liquor. Zande's jaw worked nervously and his feral eyes flicked frantically from side to side, as if looking for a way to get out of this tight spot. It was just that, getting nearly face to face with the jungle man posed a problem that Dartega had seemingly overlooked. He'd not only allowed Zande into his guard, but at that range it was much more difficult to anticipate sudden moves. As he stopped, about to bring his knee up for the kick, Zande grinned at him with sharpened teeth...

And at this point Dartega might very well find himself no longer able to see what's in front of him, his sight replaced by a wracking, sizzling pain in his eyes. When he had initially called to Zande, it wasn't a piece of rabbit that the savage had popped into his mouth. It had been one of his spitting cobra venom pouches. His speech might've been a bit clearer if he hadn't had it tucked in his mouth. When he worked his jaw under the pretense of anxiety, he'd actually been splitting it open with his fangs. When Dartega entered close quarters, full of confidence, Zande unhesitatingly released a misty spray of venom right at his face without warning.




Dartega could still blindly carry through with the kick he was in the motion of completing, but it'd be an iffy proposition to expect something good to come of it. Zande was likely expecting a fast reaction and a counterattack.
Hidden 6 yrs ago 6 yrs ago Post by Diexsmiling
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The spray of venom was absolutely unexpected, and although Dartega possessed lightning fast reflexes, he could never have been prepared for such an underhanded tactic. By the time he realized what was happening, the mist had already blasted him in the face and seeped into his eyes. It was definitely painful, and the thought of kicking the jungle man into his own fire instantly vanished from his mind.

He staggered backward slightly before regaining his composure and entering into his combat stance. Although the venom might be excruciatingly painful for an ordinary man, it was actually something Dartega was quite accustomed to, and after just a few seconds he opened his eyes again. The demons from his past had done their job well, providing brutal punishments and even torturing those who resisted their dominance. Compared to that, this was quite bearable.

Most importantly, he had learned something valuable about his opponent. Obviously, not just any bandit would have prepared such a devious and cunning attack. Zande was well trained, skilled, and probably had many more tricks up his sleeve. He was exactly the type of opponent that Dartega had always despised fighting. The high price for the contract was beginning to make sense, and from now on he would be much more careful.

At this point, it would be wise to call upon the power of his demon blades. The sooner he could finish the jungle man off, the better. Softly, he whispered the words of power to his blades in the demon tongue. "Zasalamel... Inguz Mahadar Nu Kanta... Mobidir!" When the invocation was finished, K'Girr erupted in flames and Bozar glowed red hot. The conjuring of their power would send a wave of heat outward in all directions, possibly even singeing the jungle man unless he had something prepared.

Now Dartega was prepared to engage Zande with his full potential, and with a much different state of mind. Despite the character's less than honorable strategy, he was still dangerous and would be granted the respect he probably deserved as an enemy combatant.
Hidden 6 yrs ago 6 yrs ago Post by Doc Doctor
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Just a few seconds until he opened his eyes. Dartega was certainly comfy cozy around his opponents. He considered Zande dangerous, but he still assumed he had enough leeway to recover, that his opponent was civilized enough not to take advantage of that scant moment in a life or death struggle.

Those few seconds were all Zande needed to silently, curtly thrust the rabbit skewer out with deft precision, seeking to neatly plunge several inches of sharpened wood through Dartega's visor until the hot meat of the rabbit smacked into his face, impaling his brain through the superior orbital fissure in his left eye socket and immediately killing him if the attack worked. There were no tells to forewarn Dartega of this oncoming doom. It'd be worth noting that Dartega hadn't made any motion after his brief stumble that involved drastically moving his head in a way which might disrupt Zande's aim.
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[Accidental double post lol]
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Although Dartega had taken a few seconds to reopen his eyes, he had instinctually entered into his combat stance as he staggered backward, raising an arm in front of himself and forming a simple guard with his forearm. It was similar to a boxing guard, a reflex that he had learned and perfected when he was just a boy.

It was all he needed to deflect the simple wooden skewer, even with his eyes closed, and he felt it splinter upon the armored bracers he had raised just in time. The jungle man was fast indeed, but not that fast. Surely he would have expected such a reaction from a trained combatant. Perhaps this time, it was he that had been underestimated.

When Dartega's eyes did open, the visage of the jungle man's sharpened teeth was just before of him. He had likely overextended, lunging to reach Dartega with the skewer as he staggered backward and leaving open the perfect opportunity for a counter strike. With a vengeance, Dartega smacked the jungle man's assaulting arm out of the way with a backhand, in an attempt to open him up for a ruthless overhead slash from K'Girr.
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Boxing reach is an iffy thing. It measures the wingspan of a fighter, rather than the length of one arm, because typically when you throw a proper punch, you angle your body into it, adding some length from the shoulder.

The average reach of a fighter sits at around 68", arm-shoulder width-arm, 25"-18"-25".
Zande was unusual in that he had an extraordinary reach for someone of his height, 84.5", or 31.25"-22"-31.25".

Though his fist was closed around the skewer, taking up four inches of it, the shoulder he put into the thrust made up for the loss. Effectively, his thrust would carry across about 4.25 feet, likely quite close to Dartega's reach. Though Dartega's weapon was longer than the skewer, Zande's arm made up for the difference.

Dartega probably wouldn't find it an easy proposition to hit his opponent when Zande, seeing his surprise attack failing and having his rabbit skewer knocked out of his hand by the deflection, stepped back a generous foot and a half behind his left boot, turning perpendicular to Dartega's line of sight, and swayed backwards so that the broadsword passed harmlessly before him, shaving a few strands of his dreadlocks off as they flowed after him. Basically, a proper side step, whose timing was thanks to Zande's sharp perception, his attention to Dartega's core motions, the split second squaring of his shoulders and the motion of his biceps, similar to how a professional fighter gauges when to bob through an overhand punch.

As he did so he brought his left hand swiftly over its relative shoulder to grasp the thick handle of one of his massive war axes, snap button sheathe popping as he gave it a hearty jerk to free the weapon from its leather incarceration, eyes glittering hot behind his dreads, Triassic ambers with the fire of a forgotten age still kindled deep within.

It was a fool's move, trying to unsheathe a large blade when only about four feet from a fully armed opponent. That being said, Dartega probably knew at this point that Zande was no fool, and there was something off about the savage's body language. His chest was heaved out, filled with air, and the muscles in his left bicep were strained taut, coiled tension evident in every molecule of his being. The rum was held at his right side, almost out of sight. What use was it, a mere glass bottle of liquor? Zande didn't seem to have any semblance of a guard up, making no effort to visibly protect himself.
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Dartega watched as his blade passed harmlessly before his opponent, merely slicing off a few strands of hair before lodging itself into the scorched earth with a metallic Ting! The savage moved with an unnatural speed, probably even surpassing that of his own. Although Dartega had not expected to miss with the slash completely, he was still prepared with a follow up, the second strike in the series of a combination he had practiced countless times before.

Maintaining a half guard with his left hand, and having Bozar still grasped firmly within, he yanked K'Girr free with his right hand and sharply twisted, rotating his hips and redirecting the sword to slice through his opponent horizontally and just above the waist line, through the soft tissue of the abdomen. Even though his opponent might be heavily armored, the force of the blow alone would be enough to rupture organs and cause internal bleeding, potentially resulting in a slow and agonizingly painful death.

For some reason, however, Dartega doubted that his blade would meet it's mark, even when his opponent appeared to be completely open. The wild man was definitely up to something, lungs full of air, likely ready to exhale and explode with a maneuver of his own. Still, he wondered how the savage could possibly avoid the strike, his blade already in motion whilst Zande was just now drawing his battle axe.

At some point, Dartega would need to try and invoke the power of his demon blades again, although he doubted he would have another opportunity. The wild man's split second thrusting of the skewer was enough to disrupt the channel, leaving him without the full potential of his kit. It was a clutch move from a veteran combatant, to be sure. The rest of this duel might need to be settled with wit and grit alone, conditions he viewed much less favorably than one with the overwhelming power of his demon blades.

Hidden 6 yrs ago 6 yrs ago Post by Doc Doctor
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Zande's axe wouldn't be out of its sheathe in time to race Dartega's broadsword, alright. He'd lose that contest, if he tried to win it. He was going to put to use a different asset instead. When Dartega's sword struck the ground, Zande stamped his left foot out to catch the end of the rising blade beneath the curved steel claws of his boot and force the sword back down by bearing his weight forwards, preventing his opponent from easily recovering from the swing in time to beat Zande to the punch. And what a punch it was. If Zande temporarily snagged and trapped Dartega's blade, then in short order his sparth axe would whisper free of its sheathe. It was brought about in a brutal arch, the savage slinging it down full force towards his opponent's right bicep, seeking to rend the metal armor and sunder the arm like a summer sausage, potentially taking it right off below the shoulder.

All the while Zande was screaming like a maniac at the top of his voice, shrill and wild. He'd not been about to dodge Dartega's next attack, rather, he had been preparing for the incredible exertion of a diabolically powerful blow, one that could sever a pig carcass in two at a swing.
Dartega might avoid the damage if he released his sword and lunged away. If he tried to tackle Zande, he'd probably wind up with the heavy axe burying itself in his shoulders, back, or skull, maybe somewhere else that would hurt very, very much. Besides that Zande was visibly bristling with knives and other sharp implements. On the ground he'd probably be even more lethal.
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Just as Dartega had lifted K'Girr from the ground, he felt a sudden pull as his opponent's foot came crashing down upon his demon blade, driving it even deeper into the earth. With a very bitter resentment, he released his grasp from it's hilt and pulled away as quickly as possible, managing to prevent his arm from being severed with just moments to spare.

Leaving his blade sticking out of the dirt left a sour taste in his mouth, fueling a rage within him and strengthening his resolve. Either he would slay this wild savage and retrieve his weapon, or die trying. Zande clearly showed no remorse, screaming ferociously, a scene that would intimidate all but the most courageous of adversaries. Luckily, Dartega was one of them.

Immediately after Zande's axe had passed him by, he jumped aggressively forward, stabbing at his opponent with Bozar and demonstrating his military precision.



With his relentless assault, he hoped to finally land a decent strike upon his foe. It probably wouldn't be a killshot, since Bozar was much smaller and lighter than the broadsword, more of a cavalry sabre in concept. Still, it would be enough to leave a nasty gash or possibly sever an artery, if his timing was right.

The best defense was a great offense, he reasoned. That had always been his motto, and it was that very mindset that had brought him here on this very fateful day. No doubt, the stakes were higher now than they probably ever had been, especially with him flying through the air. It was an incredibly risky technique, but it was the only move that offered him the speed and element of suprise he desired.
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Unable to pull his axe back in time and with only a bottle of rum in his other hand, it seemed like Dartega was a shoo-in landing the stab. There was still a missing element to the savage's fighting style though, and in hindsight him initially only arming himself with a skewer and some liquor should have given it away, especially in how Zande had evaded and trapped the broadsword.

It was that he didn't use or need his arms for defense. He handled virtually every attack thrown at him this way, with as little expended motion as possible and keeping his arms free.

A solid thrust could definitely puncture plate armor as thick as Zande's. Head on, that is. Trying to stab through plate armor at an angle results in the blade just glancing off. Zande demonstrated this by twisting his upper body further counter-clockwise, to his left, so that instead of Dartega being able to land a direct thrust the short sword would instead skid across the armor and past Zande, drawing bright yellow sparks. There wasn't enough time for Zande to bring his axe up, but he could turn his upper body freely and quickly.

It'd be unlikely that Dartega would notice the pint of rum had fallen from Zande's hand during the attack. He'd abandoned it as soon as he realized his opponent wasn't going to back away, clawed fingers instead finding the hem of his cloak as his enemy's stab went past the mark, so that he could then throw it up over Dartega's extended arm and drape it over his head and across his field of vision, filling his sight with the ragged black fabric.
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Upon landing on solid ground, Dartega found that his vision was being obscured once again, this time by a ragged black fabric. The crafty savage had yet another trick up his sleeve. Most likely, Dartega expected, he was planning to line up a strike of his own, to take advantage of his opponent's brief moment of blindness.

Instead of simply backing off or panicking to remove the cloak, however, Dartega pressed boldly on with his tenacious assault. After his blade glanced off of Zande's armor and the fabric passed over his field of vision, he squatted down almost to a knee and ferociously unleashed a sweeping slash at thigh level. Despite lacking vision on his target, he still had an idea of where he was, especially being so close and engaged in close quarters combat.

The maneuver was less designed to deal an incapacitating blow to his foe, however, and more designed for establishing a threat and distance as Dartega spun out of the cloak with the momentum of his demon blade. Still, he doubted the jungle warrior would wish to create distance after casting his trap, and Dartega aimed to re-acquire his target as quickly as possible.

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Both of Zande's arms were too busy to be used to attack with, one angling his axe by his thigh so the sword would slash across the broad of its much heavier blade and pass harmlessly by, and his other hand having just thrown the cloak over his opponent. It was inferred that Dartega would be spinning counter clockwise, to his own left in the direction of his thigh slash.

So, as Dartega completed his attempt at a thigh slash, Zande attacked with something else. He let his left foot rock back on its heel as the short sword struck his axe, so he could slide the claws off of the fallen broadsword and plant his boot more firmly on the ground in a fraction of a second. Then hissing through his teeth, he launched into an attack best witnessed in slow motion. He whirled about counter-clockwise, claws gouging at the ground as he pivoted on the ball of his left foot, right leg chambering horizontally at the knee, striated muscles in his thigh bunching up. The knee swung around and the leg whipped out in a white hot roundhouse kick, dust trailing from his heel. The short sword would glide harmlessly between Zande's legs, assuming that Dartega's head was at least above the level of the Savage's groin. It'd be awkward to squat much lower, and if he were, Zande wouldn't aim for the kick in the first place as he'd risk getting his dick cut off. The only other troubling factor might be that Dartega had brought his other arm up in a preemptive defensive gesture, but thus far no mention of it rising again after having dropped the broadsword had been made.

Were Zande's counter to work, Dartega would all but whirl face first into an armor plated shin, unable to see it due to the cloak still over his head. It'd hit almost as hard as a one handed swing with a bar mace, right at the moment when his legs were splayed in the midst of his spin, potentially sending him backwards in a steep arch onto his shoulder blades as if he had just decided now was a good time to perform a bridge stretch. The key to a good roundhouse was follow through. You didn't aim to kick someone in the face. You aimed to kick through their face.

His helmet could absorb superficial damage, prevent broken bones, but his brain might be all kinds of rattled from the hit due the sudden shift in his skull's momentum, resulting in a dazed, bleary state. Strips would be torn from Zande's cloak and left hanging from any pointy bits or spikes on Dartega's armor they had caught on. Only after the blow landed would Zande then unleash another lunatic scream, like a man for whom the world has ended, so viciously that the noise could be heard raking at his throat.
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Strangely, when Dartega followed through with the devious stroke of his blade, he felt a hard resistance as his own weapon clashed with the thick metal of his foe's battleaxe. It didn't bother him at all really, the true purpose of the slash only being a sort of distraction that would enable him to escape the shroud of the tattered cloak. What would bother him, however, was the roundhouse kick that he had unknowingly turned directly into face first, masterfully performed and unleashed with a malicious intent.

The screeching sound of metal rending metal pierced through the torched wastes as an armor plated shin smashed into Dartega's dark forged helmet. The tremendous force behind the blow sent him sprawling onto the flat of his back, arms outstretched, legs crumpling beneath him as they gave way. A once exquisitely crafted piece of armor, the helmet that had dutifully saved his life, now lay at least ten paces away from the battle, mangled and beyond repair after having been knocked clean off.

Jet black, shoulder length hair lie splayed around Dartega's head, now resting solemnly on the darkened earth. Blood pooled around his neck, oozing from various cuts and scrapes on his face and draining from the corner of his mouth. Flames swirled and raged in the background, fueled with fresh oxygen and life as a cool, gentle breeze blew across the battlefield.

Stars in the night sky shined brightly and beautifully, a feature he just now noticed as he looked up at his surroundings. Zande, howling like a maniac beside him, the bits of his cloak falling gracefully upon the dirt after being completely shredded in the fray. K'girr, his beloved broadsword, still sticking ominously from the dirt, symbolic of his failed attempts at bringing down the wily jungle warrior. A raven flying through the air, the only other sign of life aside from the two men who's fate had somehow become so wickedly and mysteriously intertwined.

Thoughts of how this came to be now flashed within his mind, a once mighty grip now loosening around the handle of his shortsword. There were so many ways this could have been avoided, so many opportunities he had missed. Perhaps if he had just a little less bravado, a little more preparation, or the grace of just a little more wisdom...

It was too late now though. Those were alternate realities, and he was here and now, the only place that really mattered. As his head slowly rolled back and forth, frothy blood bubbling forth from his mouth, it appeared that his relentless assault had finally come to an end. Any normal man would surely be finished after experiencing such a perfectly executed, properly timed technique. All evidence pointed toward him being incapacitated and the battle being over.

And yet, very carefully disguised with the rolling of his head and his grimaces of pain, he began whispering words so faintly that they were barely even audible to himself. Under the muffled sound of his gurgling, the words of power used to invoke the power of his demon blades steadily escaped from his lips, fleeting in their nature.

"Zasalamel..."

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