[@Doc Doctor]

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 [i]would[/i] 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.

[color=red]"Zasalamel..."[/color]