Interlude

Mundi swings and whirls the blade swiftly, cutting the air with a distinct whick-whick every time he strikes at Hellbind. In his defensive posture, Hellbind analyzes the swordsmanship style even as backs away and parries each lunge.

Whick-whick, the air issues forth -- the noise of the blade's tip moving faster than the speed of sound. Whick-whick, a quiet whisper that betrays the imminent danger of the magma-forged blade in the hands of a master.

As Mundi swings high, Hellbind bends backward like a beach-reed in a breeze. As Mundi swings low, microseconds later, Hellbind's legs are a blur as he steps around the attempt.

No matter the tactic, Mundi is unable to nick even the outermost layer of fabric on Hellbind's topcoat. He's only getting within a micron's distance: Dangerous, yes, but well under a lethal threshold. And I'm not getting any nearer.

Hellbind maintains eye-contact with his assailant -- a necessity in this sort of close-contact combat. The eyes, he thinks, reveal everything about his strategy.

Mundi swings forth with unflagging speed, a whirling dervish of coruscating effort attempting every attack plane imaginable -- but for every strike, there is only a hiss of whick-whick, the chime of futility. Hellbind is too damn fast.

From his defensive posture, Hellbind issues his taunt. "You can't strike me. You couldn't ever hit me."

His opponent tries to not get flustered -- but he believes the truth of it.

"And besides, what would you do if you could land a blow?" Hellbind says as he stops moving backward, placing his hands on hips -- the perfect akimbo target.

Mundi moves in and slices through the air between he and Hellbind, one final whick, before he makes contact with his quarry's organic left arm -- there would be no point in striking the obsidian-steel right arm. But the result is unexpected all the same: CLANG!

The vibration traveling through the hilt of the sword into the handle stays Mundi's hand for a moment -- As if I strike metal! His attention flags for a second before he begins chopping downward, as if wielding an axe.

An axe that strikes unbending metal.

A slight smirk curls the corner of Hellbind's mouth. I live for these moments.