Anointed
To make small adjustments was a sign of fundamentals, at the very least- unlike many of the whelps he saw recklessly swinging their blades in hopes of brute forcing victories. Still, it would take far more than such to overcome the challenge of which he posed. His momentum could not be halted so easily, so utterly against that which held but the weight of an arm. Rather, it simply shifted.
The crusader was left with little choice but to redirect the blow with what he could—the upper half of his haft again meeting with the blade as his torso slightly tilted backwards, the opposing end being brought forward with but a levering motion. He could not attempt to weave the blow as he normally did, for the terrain was far too treacherous, and he was more liable to attempt to motion directly off the edge. Lips thinned beneath the helm as sparks cast into the darkened heights they fought amongst, narrowly catching the crimson blade against the plates of armor with a grit of teeth from the blow. Had he been a less cautious fighter, that may well have been an opening that saw his arm severed.
In the push of his weapon’s upper half forward, the bladed edge came to bear directly towards his opponent’s shoulder and neck, a step taken backward with the strike received to create a measure of distance with the attack. A delicate dance, this one would have to be.
Immediately following, there had been a wrench downwards in a thrust—attempting to leverage the pointed end into an impalement aimed for the gut.
