His mouth is sharp and full of hunger; gnashing ambition and crudely crafted slaughter between gleaming ivories. Azhdaha has seen that look a million times. They have even felt the primal desire for destruction once before. Fights are only as thrilling as their combatant. These bodies painting the fields in red are nothing to the Lord of Vishapsーthis man? This man is but another blip within their extended life. Albeit a more interesting one than these chunks of meat.
Their movements are fluid, as if the two were dancing to a well rehearsed number. Azhdaha puts themself on the defensive to gauge the observe the human for the time being. Elementally manifested blades aren’t something new to the Lord of Vishaps, but they mentally praise the man regardless. He recognizes the time and training that would go into mastering the technique to such a degree considering how short-lived human lives are.
Azhdaha sidesteps the dual blasts of hydro. Millennia of fighting experience tells them that this human is no mere soldier or everyday adventurerーno, he’s been trained to kill. All the attacks have been aimed at where their vital organs would be had this vessel contained them. This was no ‘friendly’ sparring match like he has had with comrades.
Tartaglia was on them again, viscous like a one-man pack of wolves. There’s no need to unleash their true powers or reveal their identity in this fight. Azhdaha has decided to mostly live as a human would, so, they would fight as one. They swing the claymore in a wide arc, sending out a massive spray of jagged rocks to push the other back. If his opponent was a normal person, they’d likely be shot full of holes, leaving behind a lump of disfigured meat.
But as luck would have it, this man is anything but normal….
“You’re skilled, but you should quit while you’re ahead. Explaining the murder of a foreign national to the Millelith would be a pain…” The last thing Azhdaha needs is yet another run in with the unformed soldiers.
The veritable meteor shower being sent his way is honestly impressive. This one uses that claymore of theirs more like a shotgun than a sword. With an onslaught like this, there's nowhere to run, but Tartaglia is not known for running. In one slick motion, the Harbinger jams his blades together into a polearm and spins it in front of himself, deflecting the earthly shrapnel as he pushes forward into the storm, eager to continue his assault.
A full offense is not always the best defense. A rock slips through, clipping his cheek, yet the bright blossom of pain blooming under his eye only makes his smile widen even further.
Oh, this is getting interesting.
"Quit?" A scornful laugh escapes him, dull eyes gleaming. "That's like asking me to stop breathing." Tartaglia does not wield weapons, Tartaglia is a weapon, determined to whet his edge against the strongest opponents he can find.
Heedless of the warning he's been given he lunges forward again, feinting an attack before dropping low to the ground in a Hydro-infused slide to take a swipe at his opponent's backside instead. Water takes the path of least resistance, same as the Harbinger doggedly searches out a gap in this warrior’s defenses.
