[@Diexsmiling]

[i]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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