"YOU'LL NOT BE USIN' DAT ON MY WATCH!" Rotendo bellowed as he became a blur of blues, reds, and browns, barrelling towards the sailor. There was a sharp report as the man sent the leaden ball digging into Rotendo's chest, but the pain of the impact didn't even register with the gnole. He merely continued his charge, his left hand coming up in a wide slash, the sailor making a lame attempt to block the blow with his rifle. The swing knocked the weapon out of the man's hands, leaving him clutching at his throat, blood gushing from between his fingers.
Rotendo's breathing was deep now, and slightly ragged. The spirits were guiding him well, but he knew, deep within his gros bon ange, that soon their hold upon him would begin to weaken. He was skilled, as cheval went, but his time for preparation had been limited. He hoped that this would end before he was left unguarded on the enemy ship.
That was all deep within him, conscious thought buried beneath layers of instinct and influence. Almost without his guidance, his body had already rushed forward, and was currently fighting a man who had decided he would rather try his luck with a blade. Machete clashed against cutlass, Rotendo gaining ground but losing positioning of his hands, wild swings pushing the man backward but throwing Rotendo off balance. The man smirked at Rotendo. The duel was in his hands, now. He had maneuvered the gnole into a position where, after blocking this final wild vertical swing, he would be perfectly positioned to lay open Rotendo's guts. He brought his cutlass up to parry, steel meeting steel.
The cutlass snapped in two. Gnoles of all stripes had long been looked down upon, their cultures considered uniformly primitive. It was just as widely agreed, however, that they forged the best steel in the world. Rotendo left the man and his spilling guts on the deck behind him as he continued to press forward, seeking his next target.
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