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You part ways and swing about for the counter, each warrior faster than they eye can see. Einar re-adjusts his grip for the backswing, sure to carve open the back or side of your plate with the next blow. But you are faster, faster by far. With a piercing chime that carries above the din of the cheering throng on either side, your claimed blade rings out clearly and finally. The slice of flesh as your blade parts the tissue of his throat is less clear, but the sudden spray of arterial blood makes it immediately clear to every onlooker that a fight-ending blow has been struck.
The giant Norsikaan stumbles, his expression indignant rather than pained as his hand clutches at his throat. His eyes are almost entirely rolled back into his head, but that is almost certainly more from rage than the onset of death. Determined to take you down with him, Einar Witchbane discards any forlorn attempt at staunching the bleeding and bares his longaxe in two hands again. He makes two steps in your direction, then three, before his lifeblood ekes away and his body fails him. The northman slumps to his knees, the longaxe clattering from his lifeless fingers.
The great hall of the Norsikaan Cohort is deathly silent.
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