It replayed in Kichaa's head. Slow... so slow... everything happened so slowly in retrospect, as if seeing it as it had been could have prepared one for the next instance, but it was never so. Adrenaline and testosterone were the fuel of a melee fighter, something that had ever been Kichaa's mold in combat, and to depend on something else besides training and instinct was death. Sure, solid, cold death was exactly what it was... it had taken him long enough for him to remember that, mind, but he had learned it well. The small being latching itself onto his face hadn't given him time to react, really.

More like just attacking me actually, Kichaa thought sullenly as he batted the air in front of him and tried to get a hold on the small creature. In a bit of anger, he wondered at the fact that if he just punched it, he would probably hurt it quite badly, if not injure it outright. Something held him back though, and he found himself instead trying the pry it away with his left hand while his right searched in vain for his discarded longsword.

Success!

Gripping tightly onto the diminutive man's shirt, the larger, and physically stronger, warrior flung his arm away from his body, jerking it about as if shaking a rat so that whatever... it... was, it most certainly could not attack him again.

Suddenly free from the attack of his immediate opponent, Kichaa dodged out of reach and scanned the foliage underfoot for his sword. It was much easier with the benefit of sight than it had been when relying solely on the feeling of his palm and the general idea he'd gotten of just where it had fallen to the ground; therefore, the familiar weight and feel of his titanium alloy weapon was back within his grip before the small being that had attacked him even had time to react.

A faint voice within Kichaa screamed, at the top of its make-believe lungs, danger. Whirling, the swordsman searched for something, anything, that would provoke that kind of reaction. Certainly not the man that had hit him to the ground... though it was irritating that it had been so easy for it to take place... and certainly not whoever it was in the tree... though Kichaa took meticulous care not to think it, he knew just what it was that had his senses prickling like a bed of thorns. It was that kid, the one that looked like a werewolf or something.

It smelled strange. That was it, most likely. The smell of lingering death, as if he'd killed so many people that it left a lasting echo around the man. Something dangerous lurked around him, and it was probably tied to that barrier of death. This being, whoever it was, was either very dangerous in himself or there was something about his worth considering dangerous. For once, Mesoa had the urge to simply attack now and ask questions later.

Silent as the grave, unlike most warriors who choose to throw themselves into combat, the somewhat young swordsman launched himself at his foe and cleaved with his sword, swinging it over his shoulder in a fully body attack at whoever this person was. Justifying this attack was that little hovering voice that screamed danger, if that was a justification at all.

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[Graphics by Me.]

[The signature links to Aleksandr Sokoll.]
["I believe in sleeping." ~ Bruce Lee]