Shit, so much for trying to talk. He dives out of the way into a clumsy roll, barely getting to his feet again in time to avoid the next strike. He can hear himself still babbling, practically begging- âFors, c'mon, itâs me!â- even as he realizes itâs truly pointless. Nothing is getting through, and he doesnât know what to do besides run and try not to be gutted. Normally, this is the point where heâd fight back- heâs no swordsman, but heâs gotten decent enough with a knife to take out an enemy quickly before he can be overwhelmed at close range. But itâs Forsyth, he canât, so overwhelmed he absolutely is. He wracks his brain for reliable ways to incapacitate without killing, but comes up short- heâs never had a need to fight that way. Where the hell is Lukas when he needs him? The only thing he can think of is an arrow in an arm or leg, but Forsythâs new armor is heavy enough to block arrows easily, and unless Python can knock him out, that seems likely to just make him angrier.
He narrowly dodges the lance again, and it strikes the wall hard enough to chip the stone. Forsyth is barely even fighting like a proper spearman, alternating between stabbing with the point and hacking with the halberd blade as though itâs little more sophisticated than a club. The lance swings down from overhead while Python is still clutching his bow, and out of thoughtless instinct, he does the stupidest thing possible and thrusts it upwards to guard himself. Thereâs an earsplitting crack, and moments later he has to duck again to dodge both the spear and the splinters of his own weapon.
Itâs at that exact moment that Python realizes just how much Forsyth holds back when they occasionally spar hand-to-hand. Python still never wins (most of the time, he gets tired or bored and gives up halfway through), but itâs never been like this- itâs relentless, like fighting an angry bull. He might not even be capable of this much strength with his mind right, but heâs capable of it now, and Python is very aware that only his greater speed will afford him even a chance at survival.
This brief moment of thought turns out to be a grievous error- the spear thrusts lower this time, and he doesnât quite manage to skirt out of the way before choking out a scream as it rips a deep gash in his leg. If it werenât so excruciating, heâd laugh pathetically- so much for an advantage in speed. Without even looking down, he can feel the warm stickiness of blood, and heâs already wobbling, though somehow still on his feet. For a brief, futile second, he thinks maybe this will be enough to snap Forsyth out of it, but the red staining the tip of his lance seems only to have fueled him, and heâs already moving in again.
Forsyth uses his halberd like a madman with an axe, looking like he walked out of a horror story and onto the battlefield next to Python. If he had any kind of reason at the moment, he would know that his rage makes no sense. Although his mind sees Python as a cruel, disgusting monster, he also feels an anger - and perhaps this one comes closer to home - that Python wonât defend himself.
âStrike me, coward! You utter waste, you filthy, stupid man! You would be so lazy not even to defend yourself?â The spell is beginning to wear off, if only shown in his ability to use coherent sentences, even if they are laced with hatred. Unfortunately, the spellâs waning does bring back some precision in his strikes. He still sees red, but thoughts are beginning to return to him, signaling to Python that so long as he can survive this onslaught, Forsyth will return to reason.
He thrusts lower as he spots an opening and his spear connects with Pythonâs thigh, the scream he lets out only spurring Forsyth on. âLet me kill you and be done with it,â he snarls, preparing to stab again.
