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Nailing what little remains of your courage to the proverbial post, you tighten up your grip on the awl-pike and hazard a bid to knock out the peep-lantern, having at some point made the decision unconsciously to keep the pole-arm at half-length and just thrust long enough to land on either the lantern on the leather mitts of the Shootist ... and while perhaps 'thrust' is too generous to describe your shoddy effort, it is not gainsaid by the results. A harshly discordant ping echoes up and down the hallway, only to be drowned out by wordless profanities from your foe. Your aim was not entirely true, you caught a wing of the awl-pike head in the ring, not the tip as you had hoped - but now seeing that you had, you realize that this is much, much better than what you intended. And while you are not, nor may ever be a fighter, you can pry, for a surety. Years of cutting and carving graves have taught you that much. Twisting the awl-pike to set the purchase, you spread your grip as wide as you can, pushing up with your left hand and down with your right, and offering up a silent prayer.
And for once, it seems that you are not found wanting. With a dramatic clattering, the peep-lantern skips off of the rough floor spewing oil out in fashion you can only imagine looks like a stuck pig being drained. Desperate to not lose any precious momentum, you rip the awl-pike back into position, only to find that the top half of the lantern is still around the wing of the pole-arm, the ring askew on the haft, like some great brass torque. When the Shootist attempts to press in, you bring the awl-pike up and try your hand once more at his face. You cannot quite say what you are doing wrong, but you are not able to land anything, in spite of your advantage in reach and in sight, however, you are ... if not entirely fortified, then at least mollified that your efforts are pushing him back. Finding him now shuffling side to side, trying to peer through the light coming off of your eyes you shift your grip once more, into an approximation of a more typical hold, and on seeing him starting to straighten up out of his crouch, you push yourself forward; pole-arm first. You have disabused yourself of hoping to nick the hollow of his throat open, but you find yourself believing that you can manage to land a thrust on his face - and you damn near jump out of your own skin in surprise when you actually manage to do so, as the brunt of the impact and its vibrations echo their way up into your arm. Maker's Mercy, that hurt - you cannot even imagine what that felt like on the other end of the 'pike.
Or then again, what with all the strained cries and pained bellows, you might be able to hazard an inkling ...
