The Daeva reeled back, standing still for a moment. Suddenly, his head snapped forward, his eyes unfocused.
A trail of blood and froth ran down the side of his lip...
--which soaked into his disgusting neckbeard.
Tycondrius groaned in disgust, "Ugh. Wipe your filthy mouth, you."
Heedless of his sound advice, Tarquin Wroe rotated his heavy sword above his head and charged forward, screaming at the top of his lungs.
Tycon took note of the strange and shimmering ⌈Hexblade⌋ he held.
It was a mana-creation and potentially dangerous.
And then its wielder... he exuded an aura of unmistakable killing intent, attacking with the same lethality without hesitation.
Tycon saw the movements.
He clearly sensed the shifting of the air... the vibrations in the ground.
...He also had the misfortune of *smelling* his opponent's recklessness.
