Parries and Provcation

The tried and true method was always preferred when dealing with a threat and you saw no reason to change up a winning strategy. You would wait for the furious onslaught and riposte when the crazed kitty overplayed his hand. Taking advantage of the fleeting moments the feral needed to rise from its knelt position, you risk a slow blink to chase away the last of the daze from its previous attacks and fill your lungs with a fresh helping of air. Similarly paced is your measured exhale as your fists come up to bare once more, the last of the melting ice dripping from your right cuff. As the familiar calm of heightened focus washes over your practiced stance, the rage that had been building in the mindless male opposite you finally bubbles over.

An ear splitting screech accompanies its frenzied rush as the infected closes in all four limbs furiously beating at the dirt. Clearly taking some offense to your deception, the Liepards desire to have some fun before mealtime has been left in the dust. What barreled toward you now was nothing but a streaking blur of searing feral anger.

And anger, you could use.

With just moments left before contact, you don’t have time to grin. As with before, the cat makes its leading claw all too obvious, wanting you to focus on his coming right. You know his game, though, and keep your eyes on the false right whilst subtlety aligning your hands with his trailing left. As melee is joined once more, his right pulls back a half second before an admittedly cunning left hook whizzes toward your exposed cheek.

The **** behind the punch, had it connected, might have been enough to knock you clear on your back. Instead, the fire in the feral pale gaze is extinguished as it feels your firm grip snap shut on his forearm. Not wanting to waste the momentum the cat had so graciously donated, you turn in sync with his missed jab, spinning into his fuzzy embrace. The warm fur of his chest isn't entirely unpleasant on your back, though you don't let such thoughts linger as your free hand comes up to grasp under his shoulder. In the blink of a baffled purple eye, you pull hard against his arm and, with the added velocity of his attempted tackle, easily send him flying over head.

The shoulder throw goes about as well as you hope, causing the dumbfounded feral to crash down hard before bouncing along the path a fair distance away. When at last he comes to rest, wobbling on all fours and sending pained growls your way, there is little more than ten paces between you. Though emboldened by the successful maneuver you might be, the look your foe gives you now leaves no room for interpretation. Shaken as he might’ve felt after being humbled by this impudent morsel twice in a row, it was clear he was far from finished. Still, the simmering glare was about all he was levying against you at the moment, seemingly trying to gather the wind you’d so ‘elegantly’ deprived him of. The few moments reprieve are welcome, however fleeting, and you match his ire as you temper your own breathing.

Though it was to be expected, the Liepard is back on two legs and looking for **** a bit sooner than you’d like. What does bolster your confidence is the hesitation with which he does so. Mindless but not stupid the corrupted are, and whatever passes for his brain is likely trying to work out how best to confront your trickery. Stoic as a block of ice you stand there, denying him any more clues as to your soft targets. If he wanted to fight, it would be on your terms and matching his sharp claws against your sharp eyes.

Or so you thought, anyway, as at the same time you’d been expecting another reckless ****, the feline surprises you. With another venomous hiss through its dripping teeth, the Liepard kicks off to the left, becoming a blur once more and slipping into the foliage beside the trail. The reminder of this one's agility is a painful blow to the cautious optimism that had been building within you. Gritted teeth bite back the desire to curse yourself for letting the feral slip from view. Eyes still laser focused on the spot in the overgrowth the corrupted cat had disturbed with his passing, you feel the prickling doubts beginning to well up as the last of the leaves flutter to the ground. The thought of fleeing while you can is starting to make sense in your panicked mind…

Focus..!

You shake the notion away, a firm denial of the feral's attempt to shift the advantage back his way. Impulsive actions would do you no good here and what was needed now was patience. You still had the advantage and the larger cat, quick as he was, would still be **** to attack directly. Fleeing would only present more opportunities for him to utilize his speed to ambush you. A course of action chosen, you take in another steadying inhale and allow the distraction of those nervous thoughts fall from your mind. Hands come up defensively as you take a neutral stance, not directing your attention to any one spot along the tree line. As your breathing slows and the adrenaline dies down, senses heighten and are put to work searching for evidence to your foes passing.

The unnatural quiet brought on by the presence of the infected threat serves you well, and it’s not long before the occasional snapping of a twig or the swishing of a branch being pushed past become the focus of your perception. Normally undetectable disturbances in the undergrowth are magnified when played against the commonplace sounds of wind through leaves and it's not long before you have a clue as to the whereabouts of your quarry. A particularly close *SNAP* is heard near your left flank and back a ways along the trail.

He’s coming up from behind..

It is a struggle to suppress your reaction to the loud pop just paces from your unmoving form. Thoughts of turning to face the coming threat or perhaps putting distance between you and the nearby tree line try once more to invade your hard earned serenity. They are suppressed just like before but leave in their wake another worrying revelation.

If misdirection is this felines game… then what if..?

That last audible protest of stick under hind was louder and much more obvious than the previous reports. Could that have been the newest misdirection or did he make a mistake in revealing himself to your sensitive ears. Carefully curated tranquility starts to crack under the strain of these fresh doubts that begin to plague you. Time was running out and an attack was imminent. Finally, your resolve wavers and it is decided that you're done waiting until the truth behind the Liepards deceptions are laid bare. Clinging to the hope that your read of the man held true, you spin on your heel toward that last splintering of wood, snarling as you go.

Taking the bait leaves your right flank completely exposed, presenting a far too tantalizing target for any hungry feral to ignore. As if to confirm your theory, a tremendous calamity is heard as the cat's ambush is set into motion. Though you are proven correct that the first sound was a mere distraction, you are only half-right about the angle of approach for the coming retort. The tumultuous explosion of motion and shredded plant life comes not only from the rear, but even more distressingly, from above!

Acting purely on instinct alone, you drop to the side into a less than graceful roll before a furious heel drop crushes into the earth right through where your head had been. The dodge saves you from a nasty concussion, though leaves you prone before the infected Pokemon that would make you dinner. Seeing you left low by the **** avoidance of its failed drop kick, the feral wastes no time in sweeping another leg toward your face. You are able to push up to your knees to avoid the first swipe and cushion the brunt of the follow-up round house with a blocking forearm. The feral doesn’t let up and continues to launch lightning fast jabs and leg swipes to keep you on the ground.

It’s all you can do to stay upright under the barrage, ducking the worst of it and tanking the rest. Through it all, the growing soreness in your blocking limbs and the rapidly draining pool of stamina, you wear a toothy grin. This only seems to anger the violent cat further, subsequently prodding him to pour it on all the harder to **** your submission. His wild blows crash against your weakening barrier, his unmatchable agility denying you the chance to repay his wrath in kind. Not that any of this matters, of course. His hand has been played and you’ve taken your measure. Though the withering **** continues to rain down upon you, there is finally a rhythm to the onslaught that flows with each attack. Blinded by his hatred for the mewling kitten that dares to oppose his might, and sent into a frenzy by your cocky façade, he has abandoned the feints and false strikes that had earned him an early advantage.

It was time to capitalize.

Despite the blur of purple and gold he threw against you, it’d been easy to pick out the next strike he’d launch. As his left withdrew from another hindering parry, sure enough his right was quick to replace it with a straight jab directed at your panting jaw. Having neither the speed or the reflexes to match the punch, it is on prediction (and luck) alone that you manage to reach out with your left palm and lock his leading fist within your own. Annoyance tempers his anger when he finds his hand trapped, though that doesn’t last long. Just as the thought to free himself crosses that hazy mind, it’s stopped as abruptly as his fist when the first tingles of biting frost begin to snake up his wrist.

Risking a glance at the odd sensation as it continues up his fur, his expression of confusion is abandoned with a shocked grunt as he looks upon the ball of ice you’ve encapsulated the blocked punch in. You drink in the panic as it creeps across the ferals features as the grim realization penetrates the singular purpose that had driven him since his initial infection. Not one to waste a golden opportunity and eager to repay the pain he’d caused, you lean in ever so slightly and through clenched fangs you whisper..

“..No more running.”

Instinct overrides whatever the virus had programmed into the corrupted pokemon as he immediately attempts to pull away from the cunning Sneasel wearing a sadistic smile. You allow him his retreat as your tiny build would have no chance in reigning in his chaotic strength. Instead, you leap into his back step, using the pull of his arm to propel your knee into his bewildered face. A pained cry is your reward and prompts you to continue to hammer down upon the falling Liepard with your free hand. You manage to score another hit before the unyielding dirt rushes up to disrupt the progress you’ve made.

The ground takes no sides in your dispute and judiciously removes the air from the lungs of both of the feuding felines. Coming to rest upon your back and wheezing for every breath, it is the stubborn feral that recovers first. He begins to pull at your arm in earnest, his flailing limbs causing only superficial nicks and bruises as his main focus is to end your **** pairing. Not keen on losing your leverage, you roll to your knees in between his disorganised swipes. Finally giving up on trying to free itself, the vile thing instead chooses to redouble its efforts at slicing you to ribbons. With its free hand lunging toward your belly, you’re given no other option than to leap up and over, landing awkwardly upon your thrashing foe.

You briefly question the wisdom of tying yourself to an unflinching monster as the Liepard wildly bucks its hips and swipes its claws as you try to stay straddled, **** to maintain the pin. With its legs kicking uselessly, though no less savagely behind you, its only method of attack is to try and gut you with those razor sharp piercers adoring each finger. The wild gyrations of its virus empowered body combined with the fury of its last stand make it difficult to coordinate a proper defense and it isn’t long before the turbulent winds of fate shift once more.

Amongst another bout of thrashing, your own fist misses the lunging hook of its left and instantly you feel the bite of those nasty claws upon your mid section. The rational part of your mind knows that the adrenaline coursing through your veins will only stem the effect of such a wound for so long before the last of your energy begins to wane. This needed to end now.

The Liepard, supremely satisfied with the results of its latest attack, takes a half moment to relish in your pained expression. That simple pleasure would cost him dearly as your trailing right arm clamps down over the offending limb, pinning it to your side. Without waiting for his response, you launch a reckless head-butt directly into the same spot your knee had punished earlier. This must have stolen some of the cat's remaining sense as you didn’t even get an agonized yelp in reply. Spurred on by the building heat in your wounded torso, you furiously set your frost-free fist to work upon the half conscious feline.

The feral has no chance against the ‘ground and pound’ frenzy of blows and it's barely another ten seconds before its free hand ceases its pitiful attempts at blocking all together. Out of pragmatism or perhaps out of simple spite, you aren’t ready to let up just yet and, upon feeling the cracks forming between your twin trapped hands, you strain hard against the frigid bond until eventually your ice coated fist is wrenched free…

..and driven straight into the flopping face of the oblivious virus bearer.

The blow is more than enough to send the cat into a deep slumber with enough left over to throw you over and onto your back. For a few blissful moments you simply lay there, panting into the afternoon air with sparse laughter in between bouts of **** coughs. Eventually, the pain that had once been so kind as to wait until after you’d survived your near-fatal brawl finally makes itself known. The searing heat grows quickly across your right side as the last of the numbing battle lust retreats, leaving you to curl inward toward the worst of the pain. The dull ache in your skull, a just reward for the frantic headbutt, is next to join the party and familiar blotches begin to dot your vision.

..Don’t stop…

…k-Keep moving..!

Tough as it is to think through the waves of throbbing misery radiating from within your brain, you know the idea is a sound one. With a grunt of bitter resentment, you manage to pull yourself to one knee. The movement didn’t cause you to faint (lucky you), so you decided to press your good fortune and inspect the worst of what the Liepard had visited upon you. The gash appears as three thin lines that cut deep past your bluish-black fur and left a vicious path extending from your right hip to just beneath your bosom. On the bright side you still appear to be watertight as evidenced by the fact that you aren’t a leaking mess. This good news does nothing for the angry stinging that now runs laps across those three fresh lines so instead of good vibes and best wishes, you handle it yourself.

The biting chill in your left claw has almost abated, leaving mostly tiny chunks of ice dripping away in the lazy noon heat. This won’t do so you reform the frosty bludgeon before gently pressing it to the wound. The sting protests loudly against your makeshift compact, burning all the hotter to punish the affront. In the end, though, heat gives way to merciful numbness, allowing you to gather your thoughts. A cautious glance to your right reveals the Liepard limp and drooling into the dirt, a far cry from the threat he’d been just moments earlier. Still, you don’t want to stick around for the righteous headache he’s sure to have when next he wakes so you decide it prudent to make tracks.

As quick as the aching in your side will allow, you grab your gear and secure it before hobbling on your way. The going is rough with the new injuries though. Thinking that the Liepard might come about early and continue the hunt makes your reduced pace all the more distressing. No, proper rest and treatment of the wounds would have to wait until safety could be assured and so, through the undergrowth beside the map's charted trail you would go. Despite the pain slowing your stride, the shadows of the canopy are most welcoming to one such as yourself and the next few hours are spent carefully picking your way past shoots of plant life and over exposed root systems. The sun, though obscured by the tall trees overhead, has taken on the rosy hue informing you that the last bits of daylight are fast approaching. That knowledge, tempered by the need to fill the void left by an interrupted lunch hours earlier, has you looking for quiet, out of the way hovels for the night. Once more the roots, this time belonging to a creaky willow, provide you with ample lodgings with which to secure your rest.

After a hasty meal, you withdraw from your satchel the cloak you’d rescued from the ruins of Yelsdin, the last vestige you had of the life you never asked for, and tore a long strip off the bottom of the teal-dyed fabric. Not once did you miss that accused place after you’d been **** out, but still… something felt shameful about ripping up one of the last bits of home you had. When the deed was finished, you wore an amateur’s attempt at first aid around your middle and were left with a half ruined travelling cloak. Perhaps enough remained to craft a simple head scarf or even a cowl to keep the rains at bay, though more important than that silly thought was that the ache in your side had gone down considerably. Despite your slap-dash job, the compression of the wrapped cloth held snugly against the scratch and the fiery pain from before had been reduced to a somewhat irritable throbbing.

Weariness comes on quickly, aided by the fresh wounds and dismal happenings of the day. Planting your back against the bark of the willows gnarled lifelines, you turn your thoughts to the fight that almost ended your journey. Letting the stress of yet another near **** experience wash over you, it is then that the realization hits home.

“.. I beat one…”

It had all happened so fast that you’d never taken the time to truly reflect on your accomplishment. You’d always run from the infected, fighting only until a viable method of escape was presented to you. The Charmeleon had chased you from the forest and the fight with the Venomoth had been abysmal thanks to Rowan's questionable aim… Even when you’d squared off with the Quadsire in Cove Crest you’d had Arro backing your outlandish scheme. But somehow, despite all you’d suffered these past 24 hours…

… there were the beginnings of a smile creasing your lips as a bit of pride bubbled up out of the gloom. You end your evening on that bolstering thought as the moonlight begins to poke through the trees. It was time to wish this day, with all its ups and many, many downs, a less than fond farewell. A contented sigh escapes you as your eyes ease shut as all that was left to do was to settle in and get a restful night's sleep. Question is…

Would you be so lucky?