Meats wasn't even given the chance to finish the strike, the blade stopping inches from the floor, as he were distracted by a yell, followed up by a bloodied chunk lobbed straight at his face. In a fit of momentary rage, the poor lad's remnants were headbutted into pieces, leaving a heavy, red filled dent on the warrior's thin steel mask. Fortunately, there were nothing else to his cranium but muscle, iron and steel, such a sheningan resulting in no real harm.
While venting his frustration at the unwelcomed interference, he couldn't help but notice that the fool, his fancily dressed victim, played it as he never saw the strike coming, pretending to gawk at something just in front of himself - without any doubt, it was the elven woman, judging by the revoltingly lewd expression the man conjured - and attempting mock Meats, sidestepped in the last moment, Iginbo missing just by a hair. It seemed that after all, he indeed were educated in magic, recognizing a foe in the immobile statue of a man - otherwise, such a feat would prove to be impossible.
Unfortunately, for the show-off twat, he had been successful in pissing of the demon, a foe who always took pleasure in slaying; though Meats still kept his fury at bay, letting small parts of it seep through to form a slightly diffrent feeling. It were nothing like the true fever of bloodlust, but the prickly, thorned seething crawling through his body, tugging at the muscle, had its own flavor - none less enjoyable. Instead of letting anger overflow, engulfing a warrior in its storming flame, this emotion harvested it, feeding him with keen and cunning killing intent. Meats' grasp tightened, his leather gloves creaking with strain; having no mouth, he never could spice things up with a brutal laugh, instilling sweet fear in the prey - but it were only better that way: spending no time on small talk or battle cries, he drew first blood fast.
A petty 8 feet was all that clown managed to put between himself and Meats. Pushing sideways with his left leg, the demon easily covered half of that distance in a dash, landing some 4 feet in front of its target, right foot leading, knees bent. Wasting no effort to lift the sword high, Meats now had it close to the ground and held behind, as if being dragged: a perfect position to strike. This time, he bellowed out a clockwise horizontal slash, lifting Iginbo up to waist level as it gained speed. The whole of his torso put into the motion, it could be mighty enough to cut both the man and the wooden column in half, had he let himself run wild - but Meats was holding back, this time reaching only 120 MPH. Upon finishing, he would take a defensive stance, Iginbo lining up from waist to shoulder, hilt at his right, and the tip's flat resting on his left hand, which now was free and cleched into a fist.