Snippet #2548804

It was dawning on Pendwil that the Dark Mage was baiting him, but with what purpose? Then, the Dark Mage was kind enough to tell him. He was hunting Spirits to tap their magic and the blade was certainly leeching power. Power, Pendwil had, the trouble was that there was only limited means of directing it. The arm and the gash made by the blade were fast on the mend, but without any really useful weapon, this was a losing fight. The diamond had not escaped notice and was a problem. The Dark Mage would almost certainly attempt to catch him, if he left the host and leaving the host was the only option for launching the only weapon he had at the time.
Time was what he needed and it was running out.

With quick series of jabs, swings and thrusts, he flailed the hands at the mage's face, pressing the attack and ignoring the minor damage that was incurred. The speed and force thrown into the fight tore ligaments and damaged muscles, but the damage wasn't a problem as he just as easily mended it.
He feinted a final punch, straight at the face, but rather than follow through on the punch, he grabbed at the wrist of the sword-wielding hand. He intended to hang on to that wrist, preferably breaking it. Broken wrists were a nuissance, he knew from personal experience.