I would like to practice realistic melée with anyone who thinks they're up to the challenge. Characters must be of human strength with no powers or magic. This is melée so no guns or throwing weapons, sand is an exception.

Rules

-Realistic Melee between low tier characters

-each fighter is allowed to begin the fight with one weapon (though it is conceivable that in the course of the battle a combatant could end up wielding multiple improvised weapons)

-each participant is expected to the basic notions of good form (no godmodding, no power-playing, no auto confirming)

-respect the game, respect the opponent. This extends to following all the rules of the forum.
- first post should be none combat/prep and be purely introduction.

-no Hall of Records

-The time limit will be four days before you can enter a follow through attack if your opponent fails to respond. The match will continue on until either one character is dead or retreats. This will not be indicative of who wins the fight.


The character you will be facing:http://www.roleplaygateway.com/roleplay/the-multiverse/characters/bison/

Thunderstruck woke opening a blurry eye only to stare directly into the harsh noon-day sun directly over head. His head pounded and swooned as he sat up from the prone position upon his back from the large outcropping of flat rock and brought up a cupped hand to shield his eyes from the brilliant glare. That’s what he got for indulging on the White Man’s “Fire Water” the night before. The dull repetitive thumping that drummed in his mind and aggravated by the sun’s brightness was to be the least of his worries upon hearing the rattle of the iron chain aroused by his stirring against the stone. He immediately turned to confront the noise only to have the hard cold links brush down his back.

”Whaaaat?” escaped the startled exclamation staggering slightly from the sudden change in elevation as he rapidly rose to his feet. Almost instantly both his large muscular hands levitated to the two inch wide band of metal that encircled his thick neck attached to the chain. Will, less affectionately Strong Will as they referenced him outside tribal circles, a mocking reference to his “stubbornness” and not his physical prowess fixated upon the twenty feet of interlocking links his dark chocolate eyes following them to the point where they terminated. Desperately he shook and pulled at the confining restraint staked into the stone slab by a long iron pin trying to escape the imprisoning grasp but to no avail.

“Ya should conserve your energy savage. Ya will be needing all you can muster soon enough.”

The condescending remarks surprisingly reached the warrior’s ears in his own tongue. The Native American Indian wheeled to face his petitioner only to find the white man from the previous evening’s festivities holding the reigns of his painted. The stranger not only proudly stood there with Will’s horse but his weapons as well. The red skinned warrior fumed at the sight of his prized possession in the hands of another. Furiously he rushed towards his tormentor, his explosive temper getting the best of him momentarily, only to be unceremoniously dumped upon his ass as he ran out of chain yanking him backwards. Will landed with a hard thud enough to knock the wind out of him escaping the foolishly hasty attempt at retribution with only a few nasty bumps but luckily no broken bones.

“Now that ya have that out of your system ya may wanna listen a little more carefully to what I ‘ave to say.” The sickly man chuckled with arrogance as he spoke revealing a set of crooked yellowed teeth behind his thin weathered lips. Turning his attention momentarily towards the sun he continued his address. “ Judging by the time your executioner should be here soon.” He taunted. ” And just so ya can’t say I didn’t give ya a chance here’s your knife back.”

Out of the corner of his mouth came a disgusting black wad of spittle in the direction of the seated Comanche warrior. Smiling cheekishly at his oily tobacco discharge the white captor tossed the metal blade towards the toxic pool and slightly out of the warrior’s reach. The man then turned taking with him the Indian’s possessions heading north towards the small mountain that rose above the tree line in the distance. Seeing a small window of opportunity before the thief ventured out of throwing range Thunderstruck scurried on his hands and knees to retrieve the bladed weapon. He strained against the metal collar wiggling his long fingers as he stretched towards the prized object less than a foot away. Fruitless in the attempt the industrious warrior quickly switched tactics shifting sideways and using the added length of his leg to sweep the blade closer.

“Ya might wanna do something about them chains in the mean time.” The stranger offered a final titbit of advice not even looking back to acknowledge the man he left behind.

Grasping the bone handle of the six inch blade Thunderstruck drew the sharpened blade across his body and back behind his left ear. He hesitated momentarily taking a few extra seconds to ensure his aim with the man at the outskirts of his effective range. Slowly he lowered the cocked projectile, the pale skin’s words appealing to his common sense. Even if the gods were on his side and the blade struck home killing the shady interloper he still had to face the inevitable. If he were to remain strapped in place to the slab and weaponless he was easy pickings for the arriving executioner.

At least with a weapon in his possession he stood a better chance, a slim as it may be, from walking away from this alive. If the gods so blessed him in that regard he would make it his life’s ambition to seek out this scraggly white wanderer and make him pay in blood. Thunderstruck sought the means to turn the odds of survival a little more in his favour. It wasn’t long before he settled upon a solution found in the form of a four pound teardrop shaped granite stone.

Without delay he began working towards his freedom. Kneeling before the thick iron restraining pin Thunderstruck rested the blade at his left side grasping the improvised hammer firmly between two hands. Methodically he raised the oblong stone mallet over his head smashing it down forcibly where the metal stake met the stone slab. Over and over again he struck near the obstruction in hopes of loosening the restraint. The only indication of the time that had passed was the setting of the sun reflecting off the miniscule blip he considered to be the last salute of the wanderer heading north and the small pile of crushed stone strewn about the work area from his efforts.

With the setting of the sun the ambient temperature began to drop as well. Despite the cooling temperature made worst by the prevailing winds from the north the Native American captive had managed to work up quite the sweat in his efforts to escape. He paused momentarily to wipe the sweat from his brow, the headband holding his silky black hair dripping with an excess of the salty liquid expelled from his body. His warm breath, now visible in the cool evening air, was slow yet deep from the physical labour a testament to the warrior’s exceptional stamina. He took the opportunity to stand stretching the stiffen limbs that had been tucked under him while he worked.

“Perhaps the stranger had been lying all along. Maybe, just maybe, there was no executioner that would show. Doesn’t matter really, the wolves will make their appearance once the sun faded.”

The target is a man captured by the state, and he is to be executed ad gladium, by nightfall. For a very hefty reward... we have chosen to send you, young Lamina Manira, so that we can truly assess your ability and moral standing as a warrior. This will be a test of your integrity, loyalty and determination.

The words of the man responsible for the payout of arena matches repeated like echoes through the girl-fighter's head as each little rustling step brought her closer toward the heart of this sea of grass. While quite the prodigious fighter in the eyes of some spectators, Lamina was little but a piece of the game to the higher echelons of the coliseum's administrative structure, which clung to few morals and decided the payout, if any, gladiators were to receive for their popularity in the sands of the ring. Well versed in a couple styles of combat and very disciplined in the fighter's frame of mind, Lamina was still relatively new to the actual public scene of life, death and bloodshed. Despite the talents she may possess, she was still learning and still in limbo about her ominous new mission: murder.
She'd bear the same rigid personality and mindset of the coliseum, she personally decided as she grew nearer to the opponent under the setting sun, her lithe figure now within range for her ill-fated victim to scan and study.
It would become very obvious then just how different the two people were. While small, Lamina was armed and armored and presented a dazzling display of cultural variety and flare, from the sidelong topknot extending from her shoulder-length brown hair and tied with beads and a red feather, to the loose collection of colored metal bangles looped around each of her skinny forearms. Her attire consisted of a black battledress of native american cotton armor, sleeveless and ending just below the knees. From the hem of it's skirt to the leather, exterior-steel toed boots hidden beneath tall blades of dark green grass were nylon leggings of black, modestly matching the dark hues of her clothing. A wakizashi in it's respective scabbard clung to each of her hips, a dagger of stone and obsidian resting just before the hilt of her left sword. Slung across her back was the unique shape of a black kpinga frighteningly distorting her otherwise minuscule silhouette against the darkening orange horizon.
This was it. This was her assignment. She fought the emotional turmoil that it had brought her under with the reassurance that it would probably involve fighting, and that the only difference was that there was no crowd. Emerald eyes met her victim's with immeasurable deliberance, her expression stoic and cold as the night threatened to be.
"I am here... to kill you."

(edit of my initial post involving name change, correcting a few spelling errors and a few minor edits to accomplish a better flow has been verified and approved by Sara)

Satisfactorily rested, Thunderstruck once again brought both monstrous hands to grasp the thirty pound length of chain, this time, roughly eight feet from where it remained pinned to the solid slab of rock. What began as a gentle sway of the bowed metal binding soon erupted to a mighty whipping motion with the muscular warrior forcibly swinging the iron line hard to his left, jerking it taut, and then to his right with a similar motion. The repetitive side to side jarring, coupled with the chain’s own weight as it rocked vehemently against the secured ring, released immense torque wrestling the iron retaining pin to and fro within its confined housing. Little by little the slab’s tensioned grip began to loosen and the metal stake started to shift further in the elongating hole with each swipe.

He now panted heavily, the result of the vigorous workout, his hot breath steaming as it released into the cool evening air. Encouraged with his progress the young Comanche brave could almost taste his freedom choosing to cease his assault bringing the weighty chain to settle to a stop. Altering his grip upon the metal links Thunderstruck bent deep at the knees to grasp the chain just above the circular retaining ring. With a mighty heave he pulled straight up from his squatted positing above the peg, putting his entire muscular six foot three inch frame into the lift using his powerful legs as leverage. “Uugghhhh!” the warrior cried struggling as he fought the stubborn six inch fastener from its resting place.

“At Last!” came the weary half-hearted celebration with the fastener finally gave way.


Free for the most part anyways, it was a hollow victory knowing there was still the thirty pound anchor he would be toting with him during his escape. Such a weight would seriously impede the duration and swiftness of his travels running down the transient horse thief. Not to mention, hamper his style should he in fact encounter this alleged executioner while tracking his quarry for he had no idea from which direction and in what form the threat would present itself. All he had been informed was his time was near.

And then he saw it, a minuscule silhouette standing out against the darkening orange horizon. As luck would have it the figure made its approach from the North limiting the young warrior’s options of flight should he wish to pursue the White Man’s escape. “Perhaps it had been the horse thief’s intentions all along to have me chase him down and run into the conflict unprepared..” Thunderstruck reminded himself. “If it was a fight they wanted, it was a fight they were going to get.”

The Comanche warrior knelt before the length of chain keeping a wary eye on the approaching figure as he prepared to lighten his burden. Once again he raised the teardrop shaped stone in two hands smashing it down, more zealous in his endeavour spurred by visual knowledge of a genuine threat. Over and over again he raised the oblong stone mallet smashing it down repeatedly upon the small section of iron links roughly three feet from where it attached to the collar. His goal was to weaken the links enough that the battered metal would give way when he forced the thick metal stake into the small opening between the connectors.

As he worked to soften the metal of the linkage more and more details of his oppressor became visible as the distance closed. Although garbed in the familiar black cotton armour of the Navaho, cousin to the Apache and equally as dangerous, his opponent did not arm themselves in typical tribal fashion. The wide array of exotic weaponry that stuck out from the miniscule framework of his executioner indicated they were well suited for the task of killing. One thing was certain he was severely out equipped in this matchup. What he wouldn’t give to have his trusted war lance at his side in this moment.

The opposition’s slight size had added significantly to the illusion of distance effectively cutting down the time in which he had to prepare for her arrival. The diminutive killer would be upon him sooner than expected and there was still work to be done. Placing the battered link over the elongated hole in the stone he had exposed earlier Thunderstruck had little choice but to act now wedging the metal stake into place. If the gambit failed he feared he may well be pinned in place once again. Hesitantly, the improvised hammer was elevated in preparation for an action that could very well prove to be his demise before the burly red skinned warrior threw caution to the wind and struck the spike squarely.

CLINCK

It was an odd yet inspiring sound that reached his ears, his success confirmed as the warrior looked down in awe viewing the broken links. The gods were watching him upon this day.

"I am here...” The cold feminine voice pierced his enthusiasm. “...to kill you.”

From the highest of highs to the lowest of lows in that one moment, that is what the young Comanche brave felt in the instant the statement was declared. Thunderstruck left the large stone to rest in front of him deflated and shocked with the abruptness of the female’s declaration. His left hand slowly extended to encompass the bone handled blade that sat near the fringes of his buck-skinned leggings. Quickly he chased the voice orientating himself upon the shiny steel caps of the leather boots that stood some thirty feet away.

Little by little his dark eyes travelled up the black leggings to the hem of her skirt focusing on the three blades clinging to her hips. Fortunately, the tiny hands remained empty as they hovered motionless near the sheathed weapons. The native warrior shifted his weight unto his right arm momentarily while he positioned the soft soles of his moccasins under him in case he needed to spring into action. All the while, his prying eyes stared intently studying her body language before travelling beyond the loose collection of colored metal bangles that looped around the skinny forearms and locked upon her unfeeling emerald green eyes.

“A girl?”
"Is this why the White fool has staked me to this slab like an animal and armed me only with a knife?”
"He sends a girl.?"

“Ha! It is not your blood I want woman.” The warrior proclaimed grasping the six inch blade tightly his fist forming a reverse grip to defend himself, thumb capping the handle, cutting edge facing away from the muscular forearm. “It’s the blood of the scum who sent you that’s important to me.”

"Well unfortunately for you, it's your blood that's important to me," she lashed out in her young voice in a somewhat bratty tone. Her eyes had narrowed as if she were confronting an age-old adversary.
Lamina's right hand crossed her small body to the silken-laced hilt of the wakizashi worn on her left hip and drew it in a delicate arc before her, the sunset glinting off the traditionally tempered blade as it fell to swing lackadaisically from her right arm as she approached. Only before she approached him did she raise it, swinging it upwards in a controlled diagonal arc meant to graze the opponent anywhere between his lower left side to his right shoulder, wherever the wakizashi's tip may find first. It wasn't so much a deadly attack from this range, the intention clearly was to quickly start a fight in order to expedite this process that she already felt uneasy about.

“Twelve.”

Thunderstruck quickly derived from the matter-of-fact tone delivered in response to his justification the girl had no time for small talk. She was all business and he apparently was at the top of her to do list. His attempt to engage his adversary in small talk and steal some time to recuperate from the vigour of his escape had failed. Hell hath no fury and this little woman was on a mission to seek and destroy employing little stratagem in her steady purposeful approach. The empty right hand elevated to his chest resting near his heart, fingers outstretched, elbow near his hip to protect against the chance of retaliation that could come from his right.

“Six more.”

The single-edged blade she had drawn, left to swing lackadaisically at her right side did little to unnerve the Comanche warrior. The nameless executioner, though dressed similar to his tribal cousins bore little resemblance past the initial visage. It insulted him that she chose to engage with exotic weaponry of foreign cultures knowing she displayed the obsidian blade once wielded bravely by the elder plainsmen in times of dispute. Her blade still dangling lifelessly at her side played to his favor limiting her attack options. “Closer.” Thunderstruck silently instructed, not only as a reminder of patience for himself but mentally urging the foreigner to further close the gap between them.

“Three, Two,…”

He in no way flinched finalizing the countdown of the incoming steps as the tip of the assassin’s tempered blade began its ascent tracing a diagonal path from a position just below his fisted blade. His guard for a weak attack which came so low from his left was fortified by his crouched position. His vital organs shielded by the leather clad shin and knee of crooked left leg facing her advance. In reserve, the six inch blade aligned with his left forearm capable to intercept the sweep of the ranging strike should his timing falter protecting the vulnerable region exposed above the knee and beyond.

“NOW!!”

In that instant the Comanche warrior sprang into action sliding a half step forward (fifteen inches)with his left foot and exploding upward out of his tight lunge position. Once Thunderstruck had pushed past the pointed tip of the wakizashi, there would be little threat from the blade’s travels until its inevitable decent. It was the red skinned warrior’s intention of taking the chopping option away from her as well. With the forward shift as well as the sudden change in elevation the athletic brave positioned himself out of the immediate danger of the upward angular attack where it would strike ineffectively against the side of his leg. Once inside the projected arc of blade Thunderstruck simultaneously launched his counter-attack as he had exploded out of his crouch.

The attack came in the form of a jolting punch bringing the left fist from its guard position nestled near his hip towards the exposed chin of his much shorter assailant. Thunderstruck pushed the punching arm forward, power generated from his legs and hips from the upward motion. The weighted hand twisted over as it neared its mark so that the palm of the extending fist faced downward. The attack’s momentum was designed to travel well past the targeted area with the six inch metal blade extending naturally increasing the viable contact area of the blow. The right hand naturally retracted from its mid guard position to the waist coiling with the clock-wise rotation of the hip that provided added torque and range to the shovel hook.

The comanche's defense was a logical one; having read Lamina's approach, he positioned himself for a powerful counter-attack that would seem to put the young girl on the receiving end of great striking form. However, there was much more to the start of the bout than could meet the eye, and her opponent reacted favorably to her feint.
As Lamina originally approached Thunderstruck, her emerald eyes remained locked on the man's sternum, for behind her display of stoicism the girl was truly focused on watching him and the motions of his limbs from a point of reference that allowed her to view the entire body's range of motion. This cued her in on the muscular tensions that could otherwise precede a surprise knockout. Coupled with his positioning and the countdown of her approach, the gladiator sensed his intention as clearly as he had telegraphed a reaction to the wakizashi's lazy arc. Her immediate response was to move out of the way of the oncoming punch with a rightward lean and step in the same direction, in order to face his left flank by the peaked extent of his uppercut. Lamina's anticipation, the inward diagonal angle of the shovel hook and the strike's relatively small target all worked simultaneously to provide the Artful Dodger a small timing and geometric window of opportunity.
The girl's approach to beginning the combat was a psychological ploy meant to lure the opponent into a false sense of security. Her attack was no different; with the relatively small force of inertia behind the gentle swing, she fully intended to redirect her blade to the proverbial flow of the fight that the comanche's reaction and subsequently, her footwork, had set--and that is exactly what she did.
So in a single fluid motion, Lamina bobbed and weaved out of the strike's path, moving swiftly with a single step that landed on her right foot. Once the foot grounded, it functioned as a pivot upon which she twisted counterclockwise to face the man's extended arm and left flank. Her sword still struck Thunderstruck's armor with a dull thud, though in tandem with her evasive maneuver, she redirected its killing power, deftly switching to a reverse grip upon her weapons initial contact with his leg. Feuled by the centrifugal force of her pivotal motion, her reverse-gripped wakizashi rode up the opponents leg and into a shallow, vicious overhead arc intended to cut deeply into the left shoulder or bicep from close proximity, at an angle that near perfectly intercepted the limb with a perpendicular cut. The force of his punch and the twist at his hips as he chambered his right arm applied a twisting force in the opposite direction in his body, and this was something Lamina knew he'd have to fight against in order to present a formidable defense to the target shoulder.
Her own counterattack, gracefully well coordinated, was just as swift and brutal, and bespoke astounding union between the girl and her body and blade.

Thunderstruck knew the shovel hook had a setup time. In other words, he couldn’t avoid telegraphing it. This left him two options: to perform it as fast as possible or divert the opponents' attention choosing to rely on the former instead of the latter. He was also aware that the punch would miss more often than it landed because all the opponent has to do is lean back a few inches. Why should he expect this occasion to be any different and for that reason he was prepared for its inevitable likelihood.

Unfortunately for the young gladiator that opposed him, the choice to bob when in all likelihood she should have opened with a weave came at a cost. Call it inexperience, call it misfortune, either way her untimely order in defensive actions would prove to be a fatal error in reasoning. One does not duck into an incoming uppercut without suffering devastating consequences. It was perhaps the worst thing she could do.

Instead of moving the targeted chin away from the blow she had inadvertently placed it directly in its path. Choosing to bob had closed any window of opportunity she had hoped for, shortening her reaction time significantly and making any chance of avoidance, highly improbable. Thunderstruck was twice the slender girl’s weight, easily three times as strong and in close proximity with a height advantage. It would be a miracle if the mini flyweight would be able to continue if on the receiving end of such a blow from the heavyweight.

(OOC: The above entry has been edited by permission after being deemed an invalid arguement by judge)

Thunderstruck realized the shovel hook had a setup time. In other words, he couldn’t avoid telegraphing it. This left him two options: to perform it as fast as possible or divert the opponents' attention, choosing to rely on the former instead of the latter. He was also aware that the long looping punch would miss more often than it landed because, in seeing it coming all the opponent has to do is lean back a few inches and allow it to pass. Why should he expect this occasion to be any different?

For this specific reason Thunderstruck was prepared for the probable likelihood of striking nothing and the brief instant he may be vulnerable. The Comanche warrior was also well aware he had exposed himself with limited risk with his opponent’s right hand currently on the rise from below her waist. The explosive low prospect punch was issued to at least force his opponent off balance. Instead the skillful magician simply took advantage of the elongated distance that spanned between them skirting the bladed fist with a quick step and sharp lean to the right. A maneuver that effectively weaved her to the left of his thick arm placing the elusive executioner adjacent to his exposed flank.

As with any punch the looping uppercut was designed to be retracted just as quickly as it was thrown after reaching its apex to limit the warrior’s exposure. He wasn’t hanging laundry after all, this was combat and there was no reason to leave it out there dangling. Or was there? Unfortunately, a reverse swipe with the meager scalping blade he possessed would only result in the same emptiness the outgoing blow had suffered with his opponent still dancing precariously on the outer boundaries of his reach. Out of the corner of his eye the Comanche warrior witnessed his opponent had already begun to draw the deadly two foot blade dangerously upward reversing her grip mimicking his own. This time failure to connect could produce more devastating consequences as his foe angled to strike.

An exchange in grip could only mean she was prepared to engage in close proximity. Thunderstruck quickly began to answer the forming threat uncoiling counter-clockwise to face his provoker keeping his guard held high sweeping the bladed fist horizontally right to left instead of returning it to his side. The controlled motion was designed not as an attack but to regulate his personal space to intercept incoming razor sharp blade at its guard. The warrior’s left leg followed forward as the hips rotated to square up with his flanking opponent pivoting upon his right foot.

Lamina's opponent brought his right arm and corresponding blade into a forceful horizontal arc as he twisted to face her. While her opponent had to reverse the momentum of his original twist and turn to her, the time it took to bring her wakizashi from a missed swing to the leg to an overhead reverse-gripped slicing swing matched his defense. Her opponent's timing was thus well calculated and the result was a loud clang.
As the knife of her opponent slid to the brass habaki of her wakizashi's guard, Lamina angled the little short sword against the knife, forming a brace from her body. Her left hand dashed beneath her extended right arm as Lamina slightly altered the angle of her sword as necessary to keep the opponent's knife in the perpendicular angle shared by guard and blade. The left hand grasped the second hilt of her right wakizashi, poised to bring it into the game with little distance between the two fighters.

CLANG

The lethal inertia of the chopping thrust had been successfully stopped short with the tip of the wakizashi hovering dangerously close to paydirt. Thunderstruck recalled the wise old chief’s teachings, “Fights are for survival. Any weapon at hand can be used and should be. To fight any other way is foolish.” The youthful warrior would put the advice to the test. What followed was a fluid symphony of well executed manoeuvres resulting in an almost seamless ballet of move and counter move.

Thunderstruck was easily twice the diminutive girl’s weight, quite likely three times as strong and in close proximity with a height advantage. His talented opponent angled the little short sword against the knife, forming a brace from her body. Her left hand extended beneath the arched protection to grasp the hilt of the duplicate wakizashi situated at her right hip. The Comanche warrior seemed unruffled by her action trailing behind the snatching left with his right hand skillfully cupping the girl’s upper arm above the elbow with the “L” formed by the fingers and thumb of his right hand. The effortless defense would leverage the opponent’s arm forward jamming the weapon into its scabbard preventing the deadly blade from being withdrawn.

The simple but effective stop measure was further supplemented as the massive warrior stepped forward with his left foot closing the gap. Effectively pinning the crossing arm between the two bodies as the two combatants converged. Thunderstruck simultaneously pushed up and out with the blocking blade held in his left to force the opponent’s weak brace backward clearing the path as he moved forward. The female executioner slightly altered the angle of her sword with every movement to keep the opponent's knife in the perpendicular angle shared by guard and blade during the change in position. In due course he extended twisting his thick wrist clockwise angling the tip of his diminutive weapon upward towards the ten o’clock position taking advantage of his size, strength and leverage.

His right leg back, his left forward and softly bent, the knife gripped tightly. The warrior’s movements while simple had placed him in a strong position in close proximity across the body of the sword wielder. The Comanche peered down upon the smaller fighter glaring momentarily into the deep emerald eyes while launching a spray of expectorant in disgust. The mildly acidic spittle would most certainly prove disadvantageous to his foe likely forcing her to turn her head away from the vile incoming projectile out of instinct. This would give him the small window of opportunity needed to complete this sequence.

Movement and momentum would be the masters of his crowning action yanking the knife forcefully out of the defensive bridge driving the pommel towards the cluster of nerves located directly behind her exposed jaw. The rapid withdrawal of the blade, the extremely short distance in which the blind side attack had to travel and the warriors closely entangled all worked in his favour to ensure success. Should his opponent attempt to pull away from the attack the sharpened edge of the blade would likely sever the exposed throat as it finished its travel. Likewise, if the female warrior chose to press her head forward the attack would find its way into the base of her skull.