A completely emotionless Wylliam watched as his adversary raced down at him from the sky, rapier poised to relieve Wylliam of his spear. Before the attack landed, however, an all too familiar hole ripped across space, throwing Wylliam into a cataclysmic, not to mention highly unpleasant, state of simultaneous sentience and non-being. He could think, therefore, theoretically, he was. However, he was without being, so in another sense, he was not.

These postulations, it should be noted, belong to the objective observer alone, and did not even momentarily flutter into the dragoon's thoughts. The only thing running through Wylliam's mind was: this really sucks.

After an instantaneous eternity passed, filled with many other oxymoronic and paradoxical non-happenings, Wylliam could once again feel himself being deposited face first onto solid ground. One might wonder how someone who spends so much of his time leaping into the air can never manage to land on his feet in these situations, but the fact remained that Wylliam was currently getting reaquainted with the taste of earth.

Getting quickly to his feet and taking a moment to wipe the dirt from his face, Wylliam realized that despite the strange change in scenery, something was naggingly familiar about his surroundings. After looking up, he quickly surmised what it was: he was standing across from a man with an atrocious fasion sense while a robed wierdo hovered above them talking about the fate of worlds.

After the robed man disappeared, Wylliam looked down at himself. What the robed man had said was true; Wylliam felt perfectly energized and battle-ready. He glaced over at his spear in his hand and saw that it, too, was in perfect shape.

Suddenly, a howl rang out across the plain, causing Wylliam to nearly leap out of his skin. As he quickly regained his composure, thankful that no one but his foe was around to see the lapse in his cool, the rugged, hairy guy shouted, 'The great one's have offered us their song, let us not waste their cheer!' Wylliam began to wonder if the man was insane.

Suddenly, Wylliam's opponent began to gnash his teeth and glare like a wild animal, then leapt into the air, flipping straight for Wylliam with an out stretched fist. There was no longer a doubt in the dragoon's mind; his opponent was completely loopy.

As the strike neared Wylliam, he easily dodged to the left, readying his spear to strike at the opponent's soon-to-be exposed back. However, the opportunity never came, as his opponent struck out with a sweeping low kick immediately after landing. Wylliam quickly thrust his spear into the gound beside his right leg to block the attack, then aimed a left-footed kick at his opponent's nose.

[Dice Roll : 5, 4][Goat, Rat = Flight of the Hare]

As the metal foot covering smashed into the shaft of Wylliam's spear, Belselk felt a rush of panic. How had the heavily armored warrior reacted so quickly to the lithe advances of the barbaric Belselk? Before the befuddled berserker could protest a boot swarmed into view from his peripheral vision. A calm counter threatened to smash a permanent dumb-founded grin on the scion's mouth. So carefree was his training that he hadn't even considered bracing for the impact.

Click.

A pointed boot smashed squarely in Belselk's chest, knocking him up off his feet. Shaman, he bleated, I need more time to adjust my landing! Comically, the berserker performed an elaborate backwards breast stroke through the frilly air. This time the little warrior's instincts kicked in and he braced for the impact against the cold dewy greenery.

But there was no impact the second time.

Peering listlessly through one tightly shut eye, Belselk noted that the horizon was in exactly the same place he left it before his abrupt flight. He had expected a cushy landing but this was just too much! It was then that he felt the sensation at about the same time his eyes registered it.

The bottom half of his body was completely encased in a bluish aura!

'Goat plus Rat,' he chortled to himself, 'Goat plus rat. Goat plus Rat, that makes Flight of the Hare!' His right hand lifted to pat the dust from his brigadine, the riveted plate cooed under his calming touch revealing an dull expended gem lodged in its socket atop his buckler. His two hands planted between his legs during the roundhouse kick had been in close enough proximity to set off whatever combination arose. The flight of the hare had instantly lifted him off the ground changing the intended target of Wylliam's stern boot.

'You done good, metal man,' he murmured joyously, 'but...they say...I no play games, not no more!'

Bending his knees and pressing two fingers from his left hand atop thin air, Belselk began to pantomime a bull preparing to charge. Ok, so maybe just one more game. Though his adversary was sure to assume only on his sanity, Belselk seemed to care less. Truthfully, he was enjoying himself.

One boot planted into the ground and his body slingshot high into the air, his right hand curled up compacting tightly against his body as he pulled his legs into a ball, revealing only his pointy elbow which promised to thump the Dragoon on its head. The speed at which he moved was blinding, an effect of the skill. All that remained was a bluish afterimage of his feet as he circled Wylliam, pausing only to rocket a left jab to the back of the knee and a right hook soaring towards the left side of his head. The speed at which he moved turned his dizzying antics into a dangerous death dance!

Wylliam's cocky grin that had surfaced from what he had believed to have been a clever ploy on his part quickly flipped into the proverbial dropped jaw of shock. His opponent was floating, presumably because of the bizzare bluish light surrounding the lower half of his body.

As Wylliam stared in disbelief at the unusual sight, his hairy foe began to speak again.

'You done good, metal man,' he murmured joyously, 'but...they say...I no play games, not no more!'

His opponent then proceeded to do some hand motions and body movements that caused Wylliam to think of a particular moment when he had mistakenly drunk large quantities of alcohol, having believed it to be fruit juice. Perhaps the man wasn't crazy, but...

"Oy!" Wylliam shouted, "are you drunk?"

His foe suddenly made his move, rocketing into the air and rushing down at Wylliam, elbow first. The speed at which the attack came was incredible, but Wylliam still managed to leap back to avoid being hit in the head. He would hate to be taken out by his own signature battle tactic. However, he wasn't prepared for the insane speed at which his foe began to circle him. Not even Wylliam's exceptional reflexes were enough to avoid the man's strike to the back of his knee. He immediately crumpled to the floor from his loss of balance, with the accidental blessing of dropping below his opponent's follow-up strike.

Alright beasty-man, Wylliam thought, grinning despite his comprimising position, let's see if you have the reflexes to match your speed. Without giving warning, he sat up, lifted his spear off the ground a few inches above the altitude of his opponent's feet, and swung fiercely in the opposite direction of is foe's rapid encirclement.

Wylliam smirked at the earth-clod speedily making its way for his head. This man obviously didn't realize who he was facing. The Dragoon with the Wyvern Eye could deflect such a trivial attack with his eyes closed, which is exactly what he decided to do. Smiling, he brought back his spear as he shut is eyes, then swung it forward, grinning as he felt the spear contact the ball of mud. He was still grinning as the clod exploded upon contact, splattering is face and armor with mud, though this was most likely because he had momentarily lost control of his facial muscles. His brain was much more interested in finding a way to console Wylliam's ego.

Suddenly, a cackle snapped Wylliam back into reality. He wiped the mud from his face just in time to notice the rather threatening wall of fire heading directly for him, or rather, where he had just been. It didn't take Wylliam long to get into the air where he was confident the flames couldn't reach him. As he neared the crest of his leap, however, he realized that the furry man had made accomodations for an aerial dodge with his own flaming aerial attack: another mud ball, complete with a fiery exterior.

"Ugh... this isn't going to feel good..." Wylliam lamented as he drew back his spear and slammed it onto the top of the ball. Fortunately, the flames had baked the ball into a more substantial form, meaning that it didn't explode on contact like the previous mud clod. Though pieces broke off and hit Wylliam in the face, burning the flesh where it touched, the majority of the clod rocketed back toward his foe.

Wylliam knew that as long as the blue aura continued to encompass his foe's lower half, he would have no trouble avoiding the flaming clod. Upon landing, Wylliam dashed at the berserker from his left, hoping to bore a hole into the man's perpetual offensive with a thrust to the abdomen to force a dodge, then a full three-sixty clock-wise spear swing in the hopes of catching him off-guard. He would make sure his burned face was avenged.

[Dice Roll : 1, 5][Monkey, Rabbit = Dud]

The blazing ball of earth made abrupt contact against his right buckler only to slide off harmlessly. Belselk stifled a chuckle, his yellowed eye peered out from behind the shield following his opponents decent. It's one of the benefits of defensive weapon, Belselk thought as his sneer subsided, it wasn't the first time he'd considered the God's quirky wisdom.

The devious opponent made use of the momentary distraction by swooping down on the stout warrior from his left side. Belselk prepared to escape the spear-wielders wrath when a sudden rush of panic passed through his body. The bluish aura was dissipating. A sharp blade pierced the air like a hawk through the clouds.

Oh hell...

The hope of rolling right, of ducking, of fleeing... anything! Those thoughts captured the little warrior's panic stricken mind, but then his body felt the blue aura completely abandon him. The dreadnought adversary rushed towards him.

Belselk could only plant his feet and cry loudly as the spear pierced his side. His voice spooled out from his throat massaging his body into a heightened state of empowerment. Adrenaline flowed through the cells in his body at an expanding rate increasing his physical capabilities in excess. The berserker's war cry ended in an audible sputter of blood that dribbled down his chin in rivers. A silvery spear-head plunged through his exposed abdomen but missed the opportunity to instantly snuff out his life.

His mind retreated to the familiar euphoria that kicked in instinctively in response to pain. A berserker was trained to shrug off injury until the fight was won. Engorged in familiar feral strength, Belselk seized the opportunity to charge his adversary. But instead of just assaulting him meaninglessly, Belselk turned his attention to the steppes in the distance. Tossing an oblong kick towards Wylliam's skull, hoping to shake the dragoon free, Belselk turned and ran with all his might towards the cliffs carrying at least the spear embedded in his side with him.

For the night air was still alive with the wolf-beasts powerful calls, and it was Belselk's intention to quell those howls with a rare tuna, this one was called 'man in a can'.