A heavy exploding and bludgeoning force struck Mark's arms, he was blown back–thrown upwards in the wind from the recoil.
He gritted his teeth as he tumbled in the air, heat searing across the nerves of his arms.
"Oh fucker." He mumbled once he found balance. He wasn't given a moment of reprieve and the metallic Ockler launched at him again. This time however, the gap between them was wide and Mark had seen it coming, he sidestepped, avoiding the blow.
The Ockler had thrown himself at him like he was a spear. Mark felt the power of the propulsion as the beastkin passed with a sharp whistle, the hair on his skin stood.
The Ockler new form was too powerful to trade blows with Mark acknowledged. Perhaps he could use the force of his offence against him.
He crouched, holding out his arms for a hold, largely unsure of what he was doing–all that was in his mind at that moment was a "come, hold and throw" set of instructions.
