Two down. The arrows are nearly silent, but the men's screams of pain ring in his ears. Guess alerting them wouldn't be a problem anymore.
"Want to join your friends? Or do you want to tell me where you came from?" he raises the blade off the hair's edge of his neck.
'You rotten brat-,' the man spits at his visor as he uses the brief opportunity to slip an arm free. The two struggle in the dirt. It appears less like a coordinated fight and more like two animals twisting their bodies around each other, one desperate to escape further and the other trying to keep his catch pinned long enough to tire out his victim.
The size of the blade works against Guts so close, and he is forced to half-sword to maneuver it around each other's limbs. A knife slipped from his enemy's belt, the blade flashing sparks on steel, edge briefly tasting flesh. It ends up knocked a few feet out of grasp with a good elbow from his gauntlet. Blunt metal strikes skin.
In the end, once the dust settles, said brat finds himself still on top, collecting a few cuts and deepening bruises for the trouble. His knees are braced against the ground, his arms pressing down against the weakening struggle of the man's crossed forearms beneath. A wrong slip could send the longsword's tip plunging deeply into his neck.
'Wait - ' the man wheezes out, spitting blood from his mouth where it painted his nose and lips, freshly stricken by blunt metal. The yellowish white teeth were painted red.
'To hell with this.' he coughs out, the man - mercenary or otherwise - appears to be second-guessing whether he wants to die for his cause. 'Ain't worth the damn money like this.'
The pressure lets up between the two of them as Guts slowly sits straight. He doesn't keep his eyes off either hand, grip on the sword tense and ready to spring to action. He was coated with a fresh layer of sweat.
"Smart move." he says, eyes black in the shadow. It appears that he would be honoring the promise to talk.
The intruder lets out a sigh of relief, letting his trembling arms finally rest. Once he catches his breath, he opens his mouth to speak again, but his words appear be caught in his throat.
'It.. He...' The man's eyes go bug-wide as his words turn to wheezing gasps like a fish breathing air. There's an unnatural gurgle up his throat that Guts couldn't help but compare to a plague victim in a late stages of their disease. The gasps turn into violent coughs, the man's hands grasping at his own throat in futility.
Guts looks down in alarm, leaning back as a glob of dark blood erupts from the man's mouth. The coagulated mass ruptures and coats his jaw and neck in black-red fluids, settling into a wet halo in the dirt around his head. His eyes were rolled back into their sockets, but the rest of the body rapidly slackens beneath his weight. Just like that, he was dead.
"What the hell...?" Guts stands to his feet, disturbed. He'd seen many ways men could die by the sword, but never like that. His blade hadn't nicked any major arteries or veins, he was sure of it!
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"Want to join your friends? Or do you want to tell me where you came from?" he raises the blade off the hair's edge of his neck.
'You rotten brat-,' the man spits at his visor as he uses the brief opportunity to slip an arm free. The two struggle in the dirt. It appears less like a coordinated fight and more like two animals twisting their bodies around each other, one desperate to escape further and the other trying to keep his catch pinned long enough to tire out his victim.
The size of the blade works against Guts so close, and he is forced to half-sword to maneuver it around each other's limbs. A knife slipped from his enemy's belt, the blade flashing sparks on steel, edge briefly tasting flesh. It ends up knocked a few feet out of grasp with a good elbow from his gauntlet. Blunt metal strikes skin.
In the end, once the dust settles, said brat finds himself still on top, collecting a few cuts and deepening bruises for the trouble. His knees are braced against the ground, his arms pressing down against the weakening struggle of the man's crossed forearms beneath. A wrong slip could send the longsword's tip plunging deeply into his neck.
'Wait - ' the man wheezes out, spitting blood from his mouth where it painted his nose and lips, freshly stricken by blunt metal. The yellowish white teeth were painted red.
'To hell with this.' he coughs out, the man - mercenary or otherwise - appears to be second-guessing whether he wants to die for his cause. 'Ain't worth the damn money like this.'
The pressure lets up between the two of them as Guts slowly sits straight. He doesn't keep his eyes off either hand, grip on the sword tense and ready to spring to action. He was coated with a fresh layer of sweat.
"Smart move." he says, eyes black in the shadow. It appears that he would be honoring the promise to talk.
The intruder lets out a sigh of relief, letting his trembling arms finally rest. Once he catches his breath, he opens his mouth to speak again, but his words appear be caught in his throat.
'It.. He...' The man's eyes go bug-wide as his words turn to wheezing gasps like a fish breathing air. There's an unnatural gurgle up his throat that Guts couldn't help but compare to a plague victim in a late stages of their disease. The gasps turn into violent coughs, the man's hands grasping at his own throat in futility.
Guts looks down in alarm, leaning back as a glob of dark blood erupts from the man's mouth. The coagulated mass ruptures and coats his jaw and neck in black-red fluids, settling into a wet halo in the dirt around his head. His eyes were rolled back into their sockets, but the rest of the body rapidly slackens beneath his weight. Just like that, he was dead.
"What the hell...?" Guts stands to his feet, disturbed. He'd seen many ways men could die by the sword, but never like that. His blade hadn't nicked any major arteries or veins, he was sure of it!