Blood.
He could taste his own blood.
The metallic tang filled his senses along with the visceral pain that wracked his jaw, the sensation of dread that followed as his body hit the ground and stirred the dust up from the dirt as Prikaza's body rolled from the impact of that last fist meeting his jaw. Beaten, and battered, but not broken. He was no weakling, just as he was no coward, but a smart man would have ran. The thing was, he was more loyal than smart, and to the side was one of the few friends he had on this dreaded place. Bleeding, his own inner fluids staining his jerkin, an arrow sticking from his side as the cause from it. They'd hunted them, and they'd struck his friend before they descended on him.
Prikaza could not run and leave him. He would not run, would not leave him. He was not the one to go as a dove, to bow his head and accept death gracefully. Deft, calloused, fingers grasped the shaft of his spear as he stood, whipping the weapon upwards to cleave the sharpened tip of that polearm in such a way to ward off the two trying to circle about him, warning the three behind those two that he had no such intentions on making easy.
No words, no taunts, no boasting. He'd let the spear in his hands do his speaking. A thrust, a feint, and another feint, he tried to back the five others away from him, from his friend but his broken ribs, the ache in his jaw, the thundering pain in his temple from the cut there...Their leader, Roshi, moved forward with that massive tetsubo gripped in his hands, bringing it down in an over hand swing, meaning to end the Romany where he stood, but he didn't, not today.
That spear lashed outwards, parrying the war club to the side only to lash to the side like a whip, bringing the edge of the head across Roshi's face in a splash of crimson, cutting him. It wasn't enough to end him, to kill him, but to blind him and hurt him' Certainly! It also left him open! An axe, from one of the others, cleaved through the shaft of his spear. A buckler from the off hand of another smashed into his jaw yet again, sending him off kilter and off his feet and into the dust again, grasping just the broken shaft of his spear, watching through bloodied haze as they advanced.
"That son of a bitch!" Roshi cursed him, clutching his face in such a way that it brought a smirk to Prikaza's lips. "You're fucking dead, Dog! DEAD!" The brute of a youth hefted up that Warclub once more, slinging it over his shoulder, clearly about to slam it down on the lanky Roma's head, intent on finishing the job..
He could taste his own blood.
The metallic tang filled his senses along with the visceral pain that wracked his jaw, the sensation of dread that followed as his body hit the ground and stirred the dust up from the dirt as Prikaza's body rolled from the impact of that last fist meeting his jaw. Beaten, and battered, but not broken. He was no weakling, just as he was no coward, but a smart man would have ran. The thing was, he was more loyal than smart, and to the side was one of the few friends he had on this dreaded place. Bleeding, his own inner fluids staining his jerkin, an arrow sticking from his side as the cause from it. They'd hunted them, and they'd struck his friend before they descended on him.
Prikaza could not run and leave him. He would not run, would not leave him. He was not the one to go as a dove, to bow his head and accept death gracefully. Deft, calloused, fingers grasped the shaft of his spear as he stood, whipping the weapon upwards to cleave the sharpened tip of that polearm in such a way to ward off the two trying to circle about him, warning the three behind those two that he had no such intentions on making easy.
No words, no taunts, no boasting. He'd let the spear in his hands do his speaking. A thrust, a feint, and another feint, he tried to back the five others away from him, from his friend but his broken ribs, the ache in his jaw, the thundering pain in his temple from the cut there...Their leader, Roshi, moved forward with that massive tetsubo gripped in his hands, bringing it down in an over hand swing, meaning to end the Romany where he stood, but he didn't, not today.
That spear lashed outwards, parrying the war club to the side only to lash to the side like a whip, bringing the edge of the head across Roshi's face in a splash of crimson, cutting him. It wasn't enough to end him, to kill him, but to blind him and hurt him' Certainly! It also left him open! An axe, from one of the others, cleaved through the shaft of his spear. A buckler from the off hand of another smashed into his jaw yet again, sending him off kilter and off his feet and into the dust again, grasping just the broken shaft of his spear, watching through bloodied haze as they advanced.
"That son of a bitch!" Roshi cursed him, clutching his face in such a way that it brought a smirk to Prikaza's lips. "You're fucking dead, Dog! DEAD!" The brute of a youth hefted up that Warclub once more, slinging it over his shoulder, clearly about to slam it down on the lanky Roma's head, intent on finishing the job..