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You ready yourself to dodge.
Whack-sticks are easy: they have to pull back for a stab, heft for a clobber.
You being at a weird height means the attack will always be downwards, whether it's a stab or -
<span class="mu-r"><span class="mu-i">gsssss!</span></span> doublehanded overhead chop. The spiked head of the pole-club sinks into the ground.
>See? Eas-
The stick's coming up again! You cross your body with Daggy n Noiffy in icepick grip, ready to parry, but the head of the stick, the part that went into the misty ground, has vanished!
It lifts - and comes down again, with a sikky on! You roll on your back, swinging Noiffy out to parry, and Daggy to Eatva Fingies touch the opponent's weapon and slide down hard, to catch his fingers - and the sikky's gone from the head of the stick!
The stick is snatched back, shortened again, - THRUST - <span class="mu-r">SPEAR!!!</span>
It stabs through what would have been your 'nads into your body. It hurts like blazes, not at all like a spear: you feel it as a press of cold needles throughout your body.
You're not bleeding, or crippled, even though you should have skewered past halfway through your bowels. But you're hurt. It's bad. You feel a warmth over you that you somehow know is your own blood, followed by the beginning of a chill that doesn't leave, like when you're fevered sick.
You roll, get back to Stance.
The stick, now drawn behind her waist to swing, is an pole axe. A scythe. A spear.
The face looking at you has eyes you can't see, a mouth too wide, both teeth too many and lips too thin melting together into string, always pulling closed.
It mouths sounds, not words; the last cogent memory in the last of its mind.
The last thing YOU said that stuck, now its only thought.
<span class="mu-r">Fukkk. FUUUKKKKK.</span>
> -9HP
>Toady 5/16HP
