[@FalloutJack]

[i]Untelegraphed, a straight-line blow combining Gonad's stiff-armed thrust with the Trygon's momentum at the point of no return. No flare of the elbow to give his counter away, no hints until it was too late, point A to point B. One moment the monster was pouncing upon a victim with a steely gaze. The next sight harkened visions of Dante's Inferno, flashes of drooling crimson hellfire and pitch black oblivion drenched in chill salt water, Satan's sub-arctic lake embracing the creature's midriff in an eternal emrace of Old Testament hatred. The warrior's pipe may have been potentially thrust soundly and with phantasmagoric impetus through the Trygon's left eye and into its brain with so little preemption that the thought of catching the blow in its mouth or on its forehead would be a sweet fantasy for the disembodied soul after death. Its arms were born for Gonad's torso and thus had no hope of defending the head even if the neurons had time to transmit the sentient notion to safeguard its mortal existence. If the potential flying corpse carried through with its threat, the warrior's left bracer would have simultaneously struck both limbs and perhaps have broken/powered them harmlessly aside like chocolate straws with naught but a multi-kilo'd mace-weight combined with the diabolical timing of a man who lived for nothing but wrestling with Death's embrace alone in a flamberge festival of feeling. All this was completed with the the brainless speed of a martial artist who had transcended the need for contemplative thought, who made such notions of a flawed effort die screaming in the inferno of his transcendental passions. Could death truly be painless? This creature was be a contender to find out.

In short, Gonad struck with such unexpected speed, power, and precision that death seemed to cling to his blows like hot tar. Not reacting was far and away from being unprepared, for at the heart of all combat lies deception.[/i]