[center][h2][color=ed1c24]Lord Alistair Blackwood[/color][/h2][/center][hr]
Alistair steadied his breathing and relaxed his shoulders. He held the sword almost loosely between his hands, swishing it around in the air and then holding it directly up the middle of his frame. If you were to look at him straight on it would be like he was split in two, with the impressively polished blade reflecting both sides of him back towards themselves.

He closed his eyes for a moment - just a second - and centred his breath within his core, pushing his 'chakra' down into the centre of his body. It was a technique taught to him by a canny warrior-philosopher, and an old friend that he'd met during his time in Burma. Whether Blackwood believed in such things as spiritual energy or not was irrelevant. He had seen enough of the world to know that there were forces beyond simple explanation, and even if there was no hidden power flowing through his veins, the discipline itself had value. Control of the breath. Control of the body. Control of the mind. Control of fear.

The noise of the world seemed to fade away. The crashing of the waves beneath him. The noise of violence at the top of the statue. The distant calls of birds, shouts of onlookers, even the booming whooshing noise of the jetpack on his back became nothing more than background static. There was only the sword, the space in front of him, and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

Then he moved, as quickly as his eyes opened.

He rushed forward, dropping the blade down to his side and adjusting his grip for an upward slash. The Silverwing barreled towards him, shouldering his automatic rifle and aiming it directly at the Gentleman explorer. Something at the back of Blackwood's mind prevented that automatic fear response from triggering. That thing that would make a do or die situation like this fall much closer to the latter result. In moments like this there was no room for second guessing, no room for hesitation. It was kill or be killed.

And yet, he felt nothing at all of fear. Was it the breathing technique? He'd used it previously, but it was never this effective. Especially not in a new situation like this, one where he was floating above certain death still working out just how this infernal device worked.

And then he saw why the fear response hadn't triggered.

His 'ward', Nate appeared almost out of nowhere, his awe inspiring abilities sending a flash of light directly into the German's eyes. The joke that pranced through Alistair's mind wasn't one he'd repeat to the 'boy'. The one about him being a [i]true Deus Ex Machina[/i] - it would only send the demon into a fit of ironic laughter, and frankly Alistair didn't find the topic very funny at all.

He thundered towards the still advancing Silverwing. His stance remaining solid and fixed despite his movement. His eyes were like cold steel, and his face was expressionless all but for a furrowed brow. He was closer to one of those new fangled lock-on missiles being devised behind closed doors than a swordsman.

The German called out an incomprehinsible explitive, drowned out by the beating of blood in Alistair's ears coupled with the noise of the wind this high up. Surprisingly he altered his course, pulling back strongly enough that his legs buckled forward slightly in response. He shielded his eyes with a black gloved hand and turned in the air, his other hand gripping the rifle beneath his armpit.

The Silverwing had turned towards Nate and was pointing his gun directly at him. Blackwood felt like he could see him squeezing the trigger in slow motion, although this was probably the fight-or-flight response that had triggered within him during this change of events.

His expression changed from the icy cold visage of a duellist prepared to die by his blade into one of shock and desperation.

[color=ed1c24]"No!"[/color] He called out, his heart speeding it's previously low beating into the thump of an expert bongo player.

Recklessly, flying in the face of his previous plan, he sped up. Making what use of his rudimentary knowledge of the device on his back to burn as much of the energy within it as possible. 

The first strike came without warning, a clean diagonal cut that sent a shower of fallen metal spiralling into the air. The gun had been halved like one would an orange. The second followed before they had even fell past their owner, a falling slash that flowed naturally into a horizontal cut. Each movement was deliberate, economical; there was no wasted effort, no unnecessary flourish. Alistair did not wield the blade like a knight of old seeking glory on some forgotten battlefield. He wielded it like a man who understood that a single mistake could be the difference between life and death.

The sword became an extension of him. Not a weapon in his hands, but a continuation of his intent.

The Silverwing gasped in equal parts shock, horror, and pain. What remained of his beloved rifle, having been personally engraved with what was no doubt his callsign and the logo of the Silverwings, fell lazily out of his hands and tumbled towards the water below. With his last few breaths, ragged through the blood rising up into his lungs, he glanced down at his own ruined body and held a hand to the blood leaking out of his wounds. He looked up for a last time into Alistair's eyes, now blazing with fury, and hadn't the breath to squeek out any last words before time ran out and he slumped down into the rocket pack. His corpse barreled off somewhere into the distance, no doubt towards a watery grave.

Alistair regained his composure, clearing his throat a tad as he flourished his sword and flicked the wet blood off of it and down below. He adjusted his collar with his other hand and spoke.

[color=ed1c24]"Well, that was quite the show, dear boy. What's say next time we give them a fair chance, perhaps  we could tie our hands behind our back, eh?-"[/color]

His attempt at regaining his familiar air of nonchalance was interrupted by an unpleasant mechanical sputter from behind him.

The jetpack gave one final, pathetic cough, and then died as quickly as the German.

Alistair's eyes slowly shifted downwards, glancing at the device strapped to his back as the familiar roar of the engines began to fade into silence. For a brief moment, he simply stared, as though sheer disbelief might convince the machine to continue functioning.

It did not.

[color=ed1c24]"...Oh dear."[/color]

The last remnants of thrust disappeared, and gravity remembered him.

The sudden drop caught him completely off guard. His stomach lurched as the statue, the Silverwing, and the battlefield in the sky rapidly moved away from him. The sword remained firmly in his hand, but there was very little use for a blade when the enemy was the several hundred feet of open air beneath him.

For perhaps the first time that day, Alistair Blackwood experienced a situation where neither skill, preparation, nor a well-timed remark seemed particularly helpful.

He reached instinctively for the controls, attempting to coax even a flicker of life from the exhausted machine.

Nothing.

The wind tore past him as he fell. Any call for help was swallowed up by his impending doom.