No luck. Sir Aslain was like an iron wall, ceding no ground to Favian's relentless pressure. The blue-eyed knight grunted with effort as he pushed against the axe's shaft, the cold machinery of his mind racing to line up a new strategy. He could not win in a contest of strength, that much was clear. How, then did he break through the lion's defense. [i]Should I back off now, and seek an opportunity in the next exchange?[/i] Trading blows with that poleaxe was a risk every time, and Favian had no way of being sure he would come out on top if they went toe-to-toe again. No, he had to make a move now, while he still had some inkling of an advantage. His grip on his sword grew tighter in readiness. The crowd roared, cheering on their favored knights or simply enjoying the spectacle of the two warriors straining with all their might. When Sir Aslain suddenly gave way, it caught Favian by surprise. He fell forward slightly, losing his balance for just an instant before shifting his weight onto his leading foot to steady himself. Already, though, the lion knight was crashing against him again, giving Favian no time to adjust his posture. He would be pushed back, forced away— —but not before his own trick came into play. Even if he hadn't anticipated a feint, he had been waiting for the moment he could move his blade. And that brief interval, that false respite when Sir Aslain gave way, that was enough. Enough for him to angle his blade, eyes fixed on his target, and thrust it forward with brutal intent. Yes, he would be pushed back, but in the process he was going to get in one good stab, jabbing his sword up like a crowbar to shove it into the gap between the breastplate and the gorget. Plate armor could protect very well against sword cuts and thrusts, but the joints were more vulnerable, and with the strength of Favian's well-muscled arms added momentarily to the forward momentum of Aslain surging back from his faked moment of weakness, he just might be able to force the blade through to the other man's neck. A ruthless move, no matter its outcome. But that kind of steely resolve had carried Sir Procell through the wars of the past, and engraved itself into his soul. [i]How does no quarter taste, Sir Aslain? Like metal? Like blood on steel?[/i]