[@Zyamasiel]

[i]Gonad himself couldn't detect pressure shifts well enough to avoid attacks based on the readings. No man could, least of all because of how closely behind the air pressure the blow followed. It left no time to react even if one noticed the miniscule shift. That was one ability Lysander'd find no success with in this fight. But he was still able to react to Gonad thanks to a compound of the elements, his keen instincts, and having seen the blow coming out of the corner of his eye. He recovered well enough, right arm likely weakened noticeably with numbed forearm and sprained wrist. And then he took his eyes off his opponent. Or, at least, he seemed to. Lysander believed Gonad to have the intellect of a child, and thus had figured that the berserker wouldn't immediately see through the ploy. Lysander was turning away to face his sword, intending to walk towards it to make the barbarian rush forwards... Only to unleash a counter-attack thanks to having seen Gonad's reflection in the blade, perhaps? The berserker was having none of this.

If anything Gonad took it as an insult. This one wasn't just in the process of looking away, but also sought to defeat the Lord of the Rising Sun with a party trick? Tinctures of maroon anger spread throughout Gonad's chest like spider legs, a cold heat blossoming at his fingertips. He left the ground silently, with no more noise than one would emit from a casual shift of the bare body, nothing that would even remotely alert suspicion. A quarter second after Lysander's eyes fully left him, the barbarian had let loose with a broad jump, his bulk compacted behind the breadth and height of his opponent's own enlarged (due to its closeness to the sword) reflection with razorous efficiency, limbs tucked in. The world record for broad jump was 12.3 feet. Gonad could cross 7 at a bound with little effort. Lysander's eyes would have no sooner focused on his blade, not even having yet deciphered the images refracted therein if such was his intent, than he'd both hear the clatter of Gonad's boots right behind him and at the very same time, if all went accordingly, realize that both his arms had been pinned to his sides in a gargantuan bearhug, Gonad's mitts clasping together just above the belt line, not with fingers locked but almost as if he was shaking hands with himself. Having not been looking, there was no foreseeable way for Lysander to have quite prepared for this, as ready as he considered himself.

No sooner would he have been potentially seized than the ceiling above would invert itself, colors blending into a vomit-hue of acceleration, the air whistling past his ears like Comanche bone flutes. In the entertainment industry, when one sees a wrestler land a German suplex, it is a carefully practiced stunt involving a canvas convolution of wood that absorbs the brunt of the impact. Gonad weighed a Big Mac short of a quarter ton and Lysander himself tacked on another two-hundred or so. The floor of the Hall consisted of inches of solid marble over hard, unforgiving earth. 326 kilos of weight projected by the pneumatic physical might of Gonad, whose exquisite form carried himself into a steep back bridge, and all of it centered upon the head and shoulders of Lysander. If successful, Lysander would arc unceremoniously into the floor such that his brains would scatter all the way to the scale, his scapula shattered like china plates, and his vertebrae pulverized below the bone-flecked soup of his skull.[/i]