Heh. Tough little shyke.
Makah'a would probably argue that opinion - especially the "little" part - but the chuckling tone of Konrad's thoughts would rankle more. As the man scooted away from him, back to his feet, the scarred up Sunberthian grinned and spat to one side, grinning up at the foreigner standing there.
His polar opposite. Taut, coiled, alert, watchful... and there was Konrad, smirking and not even breathing hard. He even paused to take a deep breath, showing Makah'a just how little that double-fisted blow to his chest mattered.
"Dun' know where y'learned dat one," he said as he rolled backward, planting his feet and shoving himself upright, facing the Chaktawe. "Budit's not as useful as yeh think. Shoulda' gone fer me throat, or me eyes."
Konrad flexed his head from side to side, feeling things crack as he did so... and none of it was from anything more than the way he'd slept. His ribs tingled and his temple throbbed for a moment, but with another shake of his head and a yawn - yes, an actual yawn - he buried the twin sensations.
Dunno who you think you're fighting, boy, he thought, keeping it to himself as he observed his opponent. But that ain't gonna be good enough, here.
No more words, no more tricks, no more distractions. At least not the kind he'd used so far. This wasn't the murky, foggy prelude to a brawl, where there was time and place for those things. Makah'a knew what was coming, and was prepared for it. Konrad would just be wasting his time, and so instead he-
-came in close, head tucked a little between his shoulders, hands up and half-curled into fists-
But he wouldn't be throwing anything. That was Makah'a's game, not his. Clearly the man thought this was a boxing match, or a wrestling contest. It wasn't, and he was determined to make the kid see that. So Konrad would wait for whatever limb Makah'a cared to throw his way - be it a fist or a leg - and then he'd snatch out and grab it as it hammered into his body.
He wasn't worried about the damage. Makah'a had already shown him that he didn't have the will to seriously hurt him, nor that sheer, manic, street-fighting aggression. Konrad would grunt at the impact, but nothing more.
If it was an arm, Konrad would pin it to his side, and jab forward with the crown of his head. A nice shiner for the young man, as his craggy cranium smashed into his face.
If it was a leg, Konrad would do much the same, keeping that lower limb off the ground and swinging his own up between Makah'a's legs and into his crotch. Not one of his usual ball-bursting blows, like he'd learned back home, but enough to fold the kid up and send him down to the ground.
"This ain't a petchin' sport, boy," he's growl as Makah'a collected himself in the aftermath. "Youse gotta start thinkin' nasty."
Makah'a would probably argue that opinion - especially the "little" part - but the chuckling tone of Konrad's thoughts would rankle more. As the man scooted away from him, back to his feet, the scarred up Sunberthian grinned and spat to one side, grinning up at the foreigner standing there.
His polar opposite. Taut, coiled, alert, watchful... and there was Konrad, smirking and not even breathing hard. He even paused to take a deep breath, showing Makah'a just how little that double-fisted blow to his chest mattered.
"Dun' know where y'learned dat one," he said as he rolled backward, planting his feet and shoving himself upright, facing the Chaktawe. "Budit's not as useful as yeh think. Shoulda' gone fer me throat, or me eyes."
Konrad flexed his head from side to side, feeling things crack as he did so... and none of it was from anything more than the way he'd slept. His ribs tingled and his temple throbbed for a moment, but with another shake of his head and a yawn - yes, an actual yawn - he buried the twin sensations.
Dunno who you think you're fighting, boy, he thought, keeping it to himself as he observed his opponent. But that ain't gonna be good enough, here.
No more words, no more tricks, no more distractions. At least not the kind he'd used so far. This wasn't the murky, foggy prelude to a brawl, where there was time and place for those things. Makah'a knew what was coming, and was prepared for it. Konrad would just be wasting his time, and so instead he-
-came in close, head tucked a little between his shoulders, hands up and half-curled into fists-
But he wouldn't be throwing anything. That was Makah'a's game, not his. Clearly the man thought this was a boxing match, or a wrestling contest. It wasn't, and he was determined to make the kid see that. So Konrad would wait for whatever limb Makah'a cared to throw his way - be it a fist or a leg - and then he'd snatch out and grab it as it hammered into his body.
He wasn't worried about the damage. Makah'a had already shown him that he didn't have the will to seriously hurt him, nor that sheer, manic, street-fighting aggression. Konrad would grunt at the impact, but nothing more.
If it was an arm, Konrad would pin it to his side, and jab forward with the crown of his head. A nice shiner for the young man, as his craggy cranium smashed into his face.
If it was a leg, Konrad would do much the same, keeping that lower limb off the ground and swinging his own up between Makah'a's legs and into his crotch. Not one of his usual ball-bursting blows, like he'd learned back home, but enough to fold the kid up and send him down to the ground.
"This ain't a petchin' sport, boy," he's growl as Makah'a collected himself in the aftermath. "Youse gotta start thinkin' nasty."
