Figures. Nov gallantly offers to fight with his fists, and his opponent returns his honorable offer with a flying sword to the face.
Thugs. They never learn.
The cook improvised in his weaponless state. Instead of dodging to one side, as was expected, he turned around. Then he propelled himself backwards and fell flat on his back in a puff of snow, tucking in his legs as the sword came down in an overhead strike. With his weight and momentum, he had sunk considerably into the cushion of powdery ice. His rival, whose feet still hadn't touched the ground after his showy leap, stared wide eyed down at him for half a tick, sailing over in an almost graceful arc. Nov gave a nasty sort of grin.
Then, with a ferocious cry, Noven shot his legs upward as hard as he could and kicked the guard right in the gut. The man grunted an oof! of pain. Somewhere midair, the sword dropped from its wielder's hands and sank into empty snow. Meanwhile, the guard tumbled through the air, arms wheeling and legs kicking, before he crashed face first in a similar fate.
Scrambling back to his feet, Nov hoped his opponent had impaled himself with his own sword. Alas, he was blessed with no such luck.
The quick little bastard was already standing upright again, albeit slightly hunched over as he clutched at his sore stomach. That was going to leave a nasty bruise in the morning, assuming he lived to see it.
Spotting the glint of metal, Nov picked up the fallen sword and feigned as much confidence as he could possibly muster. He had little to no idea how to use the thing, but now was not the time or place for his enemy to know. "What say you for another round 'o pain, eh? I think your pal over there quite enjoyed it."
He pointed at the guard's fallen comrade, the one he had vexed only moments before. Then he leered, holding the sword out before him, fully expecting this little worm make a run for it.
Instead, the thick headed thug ran straight for him, bellowing in desperate fury. At the last possible tick, Nov cursed, threw the sword aside, and braced himself, arms crossed before his face. The guard balked a little in surprise and confusion at this sudden change in tactics, which was all the cook needed. Nov leaned in and took the brunt of the impact, but before the man could tackle him down he brought up his leg and kneed the man right in the groin.
Down he went, though not without a struggle. Gods, these idiots were stubborn. Nov pinned the guard down by the throat, watching him gurgle and turn all kinds of interesting shades of purple and red. "Stay down," he snarled. "You're done."
One look at the man's defiant eyes, however, told Nov his answer well enough. The guard was struggling more fiercely now, punching and kicking and scratching every which way he could. It was all Nov could do not to lose his hold on the squirming rat. His arms were covered in cuts and bruises and his muscles were burning from exertion. Left with no other choice, he reluctantly called upon his mark again, freed one of his fists to raise it high in the air, and then brought down on the man's nose.
Shrieks of pain ripped through the air, echoing off the cold streets and walls. It caught the momentary attention of the other guards, whom Noven hadn't even noticed until then. As the man beside him convulsed and howled in unimaginable pain, the cook turned to face his friend's attackers.
Glory, he mused. This day just keeps getting better and better.
