Geez this guy was dense, and not in the "harhar he's an idiot" kind of way. It felt like David's feet were hitting a brick wall when they slammed into his abdomen, but thankfully it was a brick wall that only weighed a buck sixty-ish and was currently free-floating in the air. That meant David's superior mass and velocity would launch Meats across a fair portion of the room, though he didn't expect that to keep him out of the fight for any longer than it took to get back in combat range. The hook at his knee was unexpected, but also not an issue. It was only halfway to its target when feet met abs, and grazed the top of his shin as the compact little muscleman was sent on his way. The force of the kick halted David's forward momentum and launched him skyward just enough to allow him to get his feet back under him before landing.

With the immediate threat removed, and a handy new weapon embedded in the post beside him, David placed a hand on the hilt of the large blade as he regarded his opponent. "Hey, you there with the muscles. I think you forgot something." As he spoke, he gripped the handle hard and wrenched it out of the post with almost as little trouble as Meats would have had, standing it on its tip in front of himself and holding the pommel in his right hand, his left forearm crossing over the right wrist in a casual rest posture. "Want it back?"

Throughout it all, his instincts were keeping tabs on the other occupants of the room around him, and while none of them were yet close enough to engage him, there was a new player in the mix, a man of refined yet gothic tastes. Tall dark and broody appeared seemingly out of nowhere, and immediately ripped the throat out of the pretty elf lady. That was too bad. He would have liked to get to know her. Oh well. There were other pretty elf ladies, he was sure.

Zarkith watched as the dark haired man fell back from his savage blow; faster than Zarkith had expected or could have hoped for. Zarkith however wouldn't have time to relish this small victory. The distinct sound like someone gurgling water struck him as odd and quickly caught his attention. He whipped his head around to see a rather surprising sight. That of the elf maiden now slowly dying at the feet of what looked to be a sickly pale man in dressed in a dark cape, blood dropping from a hand possessing what looked to be elongated nails to the point they more resembled claws than fingers. Something immediately struck Zarkith as 'off' about the man, something profoundly wrong, who wouldn't feel the same at such a sight?

The pale warrior marched forward upon issuing a challenge directly to the Zackarian mercenary. Zarkith soon noticed that the man's eyes are slanted almost as if he was squinting, nothing out of the norm really considering it was often the face some did unintentionally make as their minds focused competently on a specific task. Soon the man had paced the distance between them and entered a comfortable fighting pose, and he immediately struck the experienced mercenary as a swordsman of some skill. Still, was it odd that this made Zarkith feel somewhat relieved? Here was what seemed to be competent straight forward swordsmen, one who did not seem to rely on any foreign magic, deception, or attempted to hide in the rafters above like some vile coward. Though speaking of the coward Zarkith had made sure to continue to be aware of that one’s movements at all times, they had been spattering some nonsense or another, but Zarkith had long since drowned out his words entirely.

It was not unheard of for some trickster fighters to throw off their enemy using taunts even during the midst of a fight to rile up their competition (A dangrous prospect when dealing with a berserker though it may be). That little man had sprung to the other side of the room to catch the sword of the recently slain man from earlier. Zarkith was not too worried, it had not helped the dark haired fighter and he doubted it would help the little trickster coward above. Zarkith himself thought better then to use any sword recently acquired off of the battlefield unless circumstances forced the issue. After all, regardless of the skill of a swordsman, wielding an unfamiliar weapon was best avoided, especially in a life and death situation. Every sword was different, each its own weight and means of use, and while being unfamiliar with a foreign weapon might not be seen as a large factor in a battle, it often could make all the difference.

No, better he keep to the weapons he had trained and fought with and was intimately familiar with. The pale warrior had stopped just within range of Zarkith's impressive reach and Zarkith took the time to study his fighting pose even as he settled into one of his own. Zarkith entered into a plow stance, his left foot leading and legs spread, the point of his sword aimed directly at his opponent's throat, rather than his chest considering the pale man’s height, finally the hilt was held more off to the side in front of his hip joint rather than dead center between the legs with the long edge held up. Zarkith could see a few openings within the pale ones non-traditional guard, and he would normally capitalize on them quickly and brutally. However, he also had other opponents who would no doubt step in at a moment notice. He was going to have to probe his opponent quickly, until a moment revealed itself for him to fully throw himself into an attack as it presented itself.

It wouldn't do to commit to a finishing blow so out in the open this quickly. Thus Zarkith came suddenly forward with a quick controlled thrust toward Vanarus's chest, fully expecting the man to parry the blow, still a good 7 feet out he was beyond the reach of Vanaurs's weapon for now. If the pale fighter came forward quickly, Zarkith was in the perfect position to intercept with his sword. His right leg would come forward just as his sword came within reach, striking for his right shoulder (assuming this is his weapon arm), if the man moved his sword to parry, Zarkith would come down and across with his own weapon to meet the parry head on, the greater, position, momentum, weight of his weapon and his greater strength, as he was using two hands and his opponent one, he would seek to skillfully bring the pale man’s sword to one side, specifically Zarkith's left and thus out of the way, leaving the man open to a quick death blow.

Of course that was only if he attempted to parry, if the man fell back as Zarkith truly expected then Zarkith would end up resting in the same stance only with his other foot leading and the pommel resting next to his other hip. All the while Zarkith's keen senses were aware of his surroundings, his legs still coiled ready to quickly disengage or defend as the situation called for.

Grasping the sword that was hovering in the air before him he looked down, noticing even more blood on the floor. It was comical how quickly these 'trained' warriors were dying. He plucked the blade from the air and hopped across the room again, trying to get a better look at the fighting going on below him. As his feet slid into place on the small foothold he looked down upon the corpses of both Mordem and the Elf bitch. Nice, the cannibal and the elf were dead. Who killed the elf though?

Bah stared down and made an attempt to get a good look at the newcomer past captain bulky. His eyes were greeted with the site of him licking his grubby hands clean. Really?!

"Hey you! Can you people stop eating eachother? Sick bastards." Realizing now that he was going to get absolutely no action up here, he dropped down to the floor and hopped to the back wall of the room, away from the majority of the crowd. Didn't want to be standing in the middle of the battlefield, Bah's skilled, not invincible.

The humiliation of being countered so easily brought Meats back to his senses, forcing him to think of a new approach to this enemy. It was obvious that rushing forth all too soon were the mistake which let his opponent strike back: exasperating foolishness, given that Meats hadn’t even made any proper judgment of his ability yet. Yes, as unpleasant it were to admit, the lack of a true rivals had relaxed him, luxury of long-living dominance leading to faulty performance, blown up confidence and pride tampering with his insight into the battle’s flow.

Though the situation was far from hopeless for the demon warrior. Landing on his feet and then standing up, Meats did what he had already planned to do some time ago: immersing into this task, he expanded his field of view into an omnidirectional sphere, skimming his gaze over the combatants, managing to notice a few interesting things, both good and bad. The good news were that no other foe was threatening him yet. The bad news were that his current one had just ripped Iginbo out of the wooden post, leaving Meats with just a sidearm and knowledge of his opponent’s unnerving strength.

Fists clenched, the demon headed towards his foe with slow, wide strides, paying no attention to the giddy mocking. He had to be cautious. Previous memories of the hardest battles to commence surfaced, all reminding him of the lessons learnt, the priceless experience obtained – there were more to his reputation than just the magecraft body, it were the skill and unruly determination that all feared. Defeat resulting in no more than being expelled from the physical plane for him, Meats took on every challenge met, his power growing with each victory, and it seemed like time to show what it was worth.

His fervor rekindled as the warrior stopped in front of David and then dashed, his feet skidding across the ground; in a blink of the eye he entered the swords range, 3 feet away from it’s wielder, standing in a battle stance: feet parted at shoulder’s length, right leading, and hands raised. Should the man strike first, swinging at Meats with the sword, he would throw a left-handed jab towards the enemy’s chest – the fastest punch in his arsenal, it kept the arm nearly limp, instead, the torso twist throwing it forwards like a ragdoll’s. Should he not, Meats would be forced into attacking first, for which his current position was highly unfavorable. To avoid being easily countered, he would move to his opponent's left flank, stopping in the very same stance, slightly more than a foot away from David - from this position, he would throw a hook, aimed for the set of ribs just beneath the shoulderbaldes.

Vanarus had of course calculated his opponent’s reach and stepped just within range of it, mimicking the wiggling maggot pierced upon the hook while he was in fact the hungry fisherman. It was just enough to provoke an attack, albeit a probing one, without endangering the Vampire, who could easily skip away from any strike his burly foe deemed it wise to launch from such distance. However, he was all too content to observe him, his casual stance further hiding his own skills while he took in the heavy-handed approach of his bigger opponent.

Neatly, as one may expect from a vampiric opponent far faster than any mortal man, and with reflexes to match, Vanarus skipped slightly back and to the left of the encroaching sword point, avoiding near certain death by a perilous degree, the blade barely scraped his cloak. What his opponent had perhaps overlooked was that although Vanarus had seemed out of reach before, now he quickly settled into a more traditional fencing style and lunged low and forward on his right foot, his sword piercing through the air quicker than the cumbersome sword could adjust to parry the push-cutting attack aimed at his opponent’s sword wrist and forearm.

The unfortunate issue with such an attack for Vanarus was that it was not going to have a hope in hell of doing any lasting damage to his foe, if it even cut through the armour at all. Such a sacrifice had to be made however if he wanted to gain anything from his initial advantage, that of his previously unknown speed and fighting style.

Regardless, hoping he had managed to make his small cut unscathed with his surprising burst of inhuman speed, Vanarus quickly pulled back and further to the left, aiming to cause a pulling-cut with his rapier as he pulled his weight back and moved out of harm’s way. Provided he escaped without his opponent swinging his beast of a sword into his body, he would settle the same distance as before away from his foe and begin to circle clockwise, his footwork reminiscent of a more traditional fencing style, right leg slightly forward with the knee bent, and the left leg back pointed away from his body, poised to propel Vanarus forth should he wish to make another strike.

He raised his blade slightly, no longer fully extended but slightly upturned, brandished with an unnecessary and slightly theatrical flourish. Vanarus had seldom opportunity to duel with someone who thought it wise to bring a claymore into a private battle, and he was interested to see if the reach was worth every other limiting factor of such a weapon.

David wasn't so foolish that he would try and use his new weapon in the same manner the previous owner had, he lacked the familiarity and training with it that would make it most effective, and so simply stood and watched as his opponent strolled closer and stopped just out of the sword's range, then dashed forward in what had to be a move intended to provoke an attack. The body language told him that no attack was forthcoming, and so he didn't move from where he stood, seeing no reason to defend or attack as of yet. Both men knew the stocky one would be at a disadvantage if forced to attack, so why give that up?

When he jumped to the left, however, David began to move as well. He stepped slightly forward and to his own right, away from the oncoming fist, and twisted the sword so the sharp edge faced the fist, leaning it directly into the path of the attack. If all went well, the momentum of the punch would carry the hand straight through the blade, severing the fingers just below the knuckles and the thumb at its base.

Zarkith realized almost instantly that his opponent possessed uncanny speed and precision unmatched by any mere human he had ever met before. He watched his thrust narrowly miss his target, with his wily opponent shifting to his left. His only warning to what was to come next was from the telltale tensing of his opponents muscles as he dropped low. Zarkith came down on his right foot, leaning back on the ball of his left leg which allowed him a quick transition into his next maneuver. The pale warrior’s rapier lunged forward as Zarkith had expected, the thin blade moving faster than his eyes could track.

Zarkith didn't even bother trying to parry the faster, smaller, sword, by coming in from Zarkith's left and thus into the strongest zone of defense of his right leg leading plow stance, the other warrior had presented an all too tempting target. The man’s speed may have caught Zarkith off guard, but he had a few surprises of his own. His heightened instincts and years of experience had anticipated the move, his body moving all on its own from countless decades of ingrained responses. Zarkith quickly brought his right arm down with his left hand pulling upward, thus tilting the sword slightly downward bringing it in line for his follow up cut while helping to avoid the lung simultaneously. Having only gone into a tight thrust, he did not have to fight the swords inertia to bring it into a quick and precise swing counter clockwise, to his left as it was, aimed at a spot just behind the pale warriors head.

The maneuver would have completely brought his arm's out of harm’s way had a mere human been his opponent. As it was however, the rapiers tip cut along the length of his vambrace leaving a telling scar on the steel. The thick steel, but more effectively, Zarkith's potent perception saving him from an otherwise grievous wound. A moment slower would have easily made all the difference Zarkith realized in the very back of his mind even as the central ridge of his great-sword sailed toward the left side of his opponents skull aligned just under their nose. Perhaps his opponent thought him slower due to his choice of weapon, that was only half true, for while recovering from a powerful swing would have taken longer than with a shorter weapon, his blade moved with the same control, precision and speed as one might expect from a one handed weapon, only with far greater degrees of each as he had the advantage of using two hands instead of one.

The angle of the cut insured a hit even if his opponent fell back, something that would have been impossible for a human fighter, but his opponent had proven to be much faster thus far. However if he ducked under the swing with it now inches from the mark, Zarkith would quickly respond in a maneuver that would further shatter a lesser experienced swordsman's views on such weapons, Zarkith retracted his sword to his shoulder mid swing even as his left leg dropped lower than brought the blade in a tight figure eight. Working with the momentum gained from his initial swing, he brought his swords tip up, around then down again, effectively swinging at another angle altogether then he had been earlier but instead towards the right side of opponent’s skull downward at an angle. The the transition from feint to right left to right horizontal swing all within the blink of an eye, to an observer with knowledge of the craft, they might recognize that Zarkith had effectively transitioned into an 'X' cut, shifting from the ball of his left foot to the front sole as he did.


Of course the x cut would only follow if his opponent attempted to drop under his swing, to then press forward. Assuming his opponent escaped the surprising counter, he would fall back into plot stance his right leg still leading, and legs apart and slightly crouched.