Dark and long silky hair as dark as his conspicuous dagger eyes, Ned doesn't even need his keen senses to realize that the man pointing a sword at his neck was Teklavit. Even closing his eyes, Ned could sense, like a fox marking a prey with its keen smell—Teklavit's smell: no matter how human he was, he reeked of a rotten dead elf. And Ned wondered why, or how?
The energy he was exuding was far from the smell of Tiathe. Ned did not let the deathly smell cloud his judgment. He focused, trying to gain an upper hand against Teklavit's sudden appearance. He found dozens of ways to deal with his situation. Feeling easy with himself, he could activate Overclock, get behind his back. Perhaps do a chop on his neck to disable him momentarily, if not dropping him unconscious. Or break his wrist the second he appeared to his side. He could have the element of surprise from different angles, and Ned had to thank ICE for that.
