[@ELGainsborough]
[i]Zande was quick and agile most of the time, but here he was actually at a disadvantage. His boot claws allowed him to sprint and climb with ease on nearly any surface...

Save for a marsh. And indeed, whenever one of his massive swings missed, it took a good moment for him to recover. His front right foot was caught by some sort of root buried in the muck, which the force of his swing had made him sink in to. 

With a hiss of effort and a wet plop, he pulled his foot free and swung his right axe back up over his head. Nope, the target had already gotten back to his feet.[/i]

[b]"Mudderin' bumbyclots!!"[/b]

[i]With a tropical curse and a grunt Zande began stalking towards the knight, whom he no longer deemed a trifle that could be grouped in with the paltry rabble he slaughtered on a regular basis. This one was worth something. The tribesman's default stance seemed to involve keeping his right arm raised high as a threat, whilst the left was kept chambered by his side with considerably more subtlety and his left foot leading. He would without a doubt be willing to trade blows, and to take up such an offer was near suicide. Yet, to play defensively was a like bid to survive a lightning storm by sitting beneath a tree. 

He'd move closer and closer, hunched over with a plump red tongue lolling out and dark eyes bulging. There was a different vibe about him now, far and away from the toad pissing loony that had been the opponent thus far. If the knight didn't do something, the headhunter would gradually wind up within, say, smooching distance.[/i]

[i]Yes, yes, very much so, yes. Smooching distance would be worse than the axes, so much worse. Something had just changed, just snapped. What did it really mean to lose in this situation? [/i]

[color=ed1c24]*Rolling in the mud. Fat lips part. The teeth within are thick and strong and sharp. No mere schoolyard tumble where a teacher can intervene. High pitched screams. Worse things than death*[/color]