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Well then. Let's get to it. You pick a battlefield and make an entrance.

Lear jet S.W.A.T. team
On a midnight run
With the M16
And the Ingram gun
We parachute in
We parachute out
"Death from above"
We're screaming now!

Where the pay is good
And the risk is high
It's understood
We'll do or die
Sten gun in hand
Where the gun is law
From Ovamboland
To Ni-ca-ragu-a!

Strenght and muscle and Jungle Work!

--- --- --- ---
He felt naked. Jumps were like that. Terminal velocity was like that. Like stepping under a cold shower. Polypropylene-knit under-garment, ICE-wear, therm-skin protection, it didn't matter. Jumping was cold. There was only then that great sense of speed, that greater sense of speed - where you feel naked, alone, but everything around you is still... still like molasses or scattered photographs... its so loud he can hear it in his teeth, they hum like the circuit-boards of a computer terminal in his skull, and the air is like liquid - cold liquid - around him and it enveloppes him and he drowns in it.

HALO insertion. High-Altitude-Low-Opening. Standard for first-response spec-ops. The oxygene mask and tubule is uncomfortable on his face but he grits his teeth against it and counts the seconds. They are things of enormous significance in his head - terminal velocity, seconds measuring in the thousands. He is face forward, limbs splayed instinctively. Beneath him the mud jungle savannah of the Gohen plains are laid, a cartographical nightmare of swamp-land, Sunderband-rivers, magrove forests and flood trenches, brown and green and ugly like a scab on the earth. Plumes of smoke brustroke themselves across flashings of fire through the bolero of ground warfare. There is no sound but the rushing of air, the roaring silence of his own terrible speed, the weight and knowledge of his powerlessness against the forces at work running their palms across his heart like the coilings of asp-rattlers.

He counts the seconds. They are heavy, enormous things. He thinks of nothing else. His breath dashes strange patterns of fog on the lense of his mask. The land beneath him is ugly. And closer. With every. Beat. Of his heart.

Whump.

The tug is huge, and suddenly he is rising back through the air, just as fast, and everything he is drops down into his knees and he weighs a thousand metric tons but he's floating now, gently, fast, coming in a speeds best reserved for stealth aircraft, and the mangrove trees snaps and crunch beneath his boots and bleed dried leaves across the muddy ground. He grits his teeth, and his fingers slap to the straps of his chute, under canopy, and they release and he's thrown forward.

The impact runs up his legs into his gut and he holds it there, landing in a puma-like crouch, soft muddy earth bending to his will, audibly sucking at his combats. He stands up. Overhead his chute spreads and falters and catches in the branches, breaking up and fluttering with the softness of moth wings, a cloud of olive drab. He stands up. He tears the oxygens mask from his face, the rubber pulls, sucks fast, and breaks away amidst a misty beading of sweat drops. He discards it, and goes about slipping from the drab jumpsuit, sliding from the thermal polypropylene knit into the disruptive pattern camouflage fatigues, a jungle of temperate woodland and arid greens splashing him with earth and clay and leaf.

He rolls his sleeves up against the heat, revealing tanned forearms corded and thick with muscle built upon over a weave of years, his heavy, knuckled hands gloved in thick, DPAt drawstring work-leather. A torn rag of drab material sashes itself about his sweat-sheened brow, trailing torn and tattered to his shoulders, wrapped around a tapered and knotted hairline of dark blondes highlighted by eyes like chips of sea-green. His face, bronzed in the flesh, smoulders tight against the bones of his cranium, giving him a gaunt, even ghastly appearance hard-played about the socket, jaw, and lip. His eye-pits are dark with paint, his face slashed with with dark greens and tans, seppia and earth-tone. His chest and shoulder bulge with the bulk of a standard spec-ops issue tactical vest sewn with magazine-clips, grenades, and a puzzling assortment of bayonette attachments that clatter against each other sheathed by criss-crossing straps. He is heavily belted, laden with canteens and ruck-pouches, an automatic rifle of make and design similar (and yet slightly different) to the standard C7A1-assault rifle strapped to his back across his body, twin P14-45 Para-Ordnance pistols holstered to the same belt sheathing a small variety of junglee combat knives. In abundance, he carries cigarette packs. They seem significant.

He moves at a jogging-pace, neither strictly fast nor bearably slow, his movements alone dictating in themselves a sort of rugged stoicism. His breath hums in his throat, pounding through the air as he hops over unslung roots and rotten logs, silently trekking down trench and ditch, mud spattering his boots and his combats and sucking them to his thighs. Distantly, he can hear the whickering crackle of burst gunfire, and the occasional crumpling of mortar, too far off to be of any meaning. But his ears decipher them anyway, pick them out from the lively, noisy chaos of the jungle sounds around him - chirping baboon and cricketing insects (which slap and sting at his rough jawline in clusters), and the sucking pound of his combat boots on the terrain, and his steady, exerted breathing.

The Tiber Refinery was thirteen klicks from Gohen, but the drop was off to what he imagined was at least a klick eastwards of the designated location. They'd lost contacted with the two sticks of pathfinders assigned to establish radio recon, and the whole thing had got ****ed a whole klick. At least. Pathfinders. Tier 2 Spec-Ops Recon, and the CF made little game of them. To the Rangers what Achilles might have been to the Greeks. Two sticks of them without contact. It was all ****ed. He slowed his advance, pulled something from the right vest of his TAC and straightened it out with a jerk of his arm. He slipped it over his brow - a beret of deep, moody crimson, without a hint of brightness like a drop of blood in the forest, or the fresh-gutted heart of an elk. It glinted with a cap badge of white gold, singed with laurel leaves, winged around a flaring maple and mounted with a steel-winged royal crown. In the light it was like a metallic snowflake against the red felt. His bandanna trailed about him, torn, already dark with his sweat.

His hand played a trick - his fingers skillfully darting about his packs, slipping two coffin-nails from the carton and going about the process of lighting them, the metal glinting of a Zippo flirting naked flame long enough to catch the tip and hit the air with grey-blue puffs of smoke. The cigarettes flared like diodes. They were heavily etched with black ink, hieroglyphic sutras that seemed to hold no English meaning.

Overhead, the whupping rotor of a chopper cut across the jungle noise, blades beating against a burning penny of a sun that seemed to turn the sky to an oppressives, blinding canvas of fire. He sucked back the fumes, blowing them in wisps from his nostril like dragon fire. -Pathfinders, ****.- He thought to himself. -Tiber, back in ****ing Tiber.- He blew more smoke.

He was Jerusalem Kenneth Emmerich. He was called Iroquois.

He took another drag, and kept moving. He could already feel the smoke. And smell the blood.
--- --- ---
Strenght and muscle and Jungle Work!

Three young men
In a Russian truck
With a little Mac10
Sent 'em running to the huts!
A few young men
The few who dare
To battle in hell
Le Mercenaire!

Hm, hm, hm... hm, hm-m hm...

"Jungle Work", Warren Zevon

Bump, dammit.

(Ooc: It has only been twelve hours, have a patience.)

OoC: Sorry about that. Didn't mean to keep you waiting.

A figure sat perched in the limbs of a mangrove tree, a spot of dark green amongst its branches. He drew his cloak tight against himself, trying to block out the winds of the savannah night. His golden eyes peered into the night, trying to catch a glimpse of his coming adversary. He had waited the man’s coming for several hours, and shifted his legs to shake the fatigue out of them. When the shadow of a soldier finally came running along the swampy plain, the man sitting comfortably in his tree perked himself up.

All tiredness and fatigue forgotten, the man reached to his back and drew his weapon. He held in his hands a longbow, its wood stained the deep crimson of blood. A long, serated blade ran down its outer edge, designed to tear rather than slice or cut. From the quiver on his back, the fighter drew a single arrow. He took a moment to admire the craftsmanship of his arrows, the heads forked to tear meat along with them as they passed through. He notched it onto the string, excitement swelling in his chest. He waited for his opponent to stop, and the cigarettes lit up like a beacon for him. He drew the arrow back, and the creak of its straining reached even Iroquois below him. Taking joy from the sudden alertness of his opponent, the archer let loose his arrow.

The Art of War mentions an advantage of arrows as long-distance projectile weaponry over bullets, in that the arrow trajectory is easily detected and allows the user to correct one's aim as per his first shot, whereas bullets move at velocities too great for the human eye to follow. A small advantage, considering the obvious superiority of gas-operated firearms, but one that worked in Iroquois's advantage.

The creaking of the bowstring was not a sound too unfamiliar to him. His peripheral vision gave him an outline of where his enemy might be. The cloaked figure loosed the arrow and Iroquois moved. He did not have to much much, merely cock his head to one side, turning his body as he did. The shaft made a curious whistling noise as it flew - a violent, mean noise as air caught in the head's many serrations. It took a nick of his CADPAT, tearing fabric under the arm. His pistol was up in a movement smooth as oil, smooth as butta, his muscles moving like liquid and he drew a bead in something like the quart of a second.

The tactic for combat firing of small-arms weapons like the pistol is universal. Point and fire until your target falls down. That simple. This tactic applies even to the special forces commandos capable of double-tapping some poor sucker between the eyes at a 100 metres. Iroquois was one of such. He pointed at the centre of visible mass - where in the darkness he assumed his would-be assassin was as per the loosing of his arrow, and fired.

Bang-bang-bang-bangbangbang..!

The reports fell into one another, a singular violent sound, Iroquois walking forward at a slow charge, his aim frighteningly steady, until he shot his weapon empty (there was no "click" - he was as in tune with the makings and using of his weapon as he was the beating of his own heart, and knew when the last round had melted away into shadow). Overlapping the reports, the splintering crashes and crackling of dry african wood as the mangrove branches were blasted apart to clouds of debris, the fluttering of dry leaves, the wet slapping of exploding fruit. From the branches, a clump of darkness sank to the muddy trenches below. Iroquois holstered his weapon at a sprint.

His lungs gorged themselves on the smoke. Plumed from his flaring nostrils and billowing from his pursed lips and playing strange, acrid shadows across the air. The cigarettes had burnt down past the ink markings, the sutra-words drawn into them consumed and inhaled and already he could... feel.

There was a sudden change of his perspective on things - he was weightless and fast and hard a thing against the earth, his muscles knotting and roiling beneath the tanned flesh of his arms like loosed coils of rope bulging and stimulated and impossibly energized. His heartbeat slowed, became more powerful, the echoing footfalls of a lonely titan, flushing blood to his face in herculean sprays. Sweat smoked to vapour off his skin. His pupils did a strange dance, and his vision opened to a spectrum alien to the human optical scope of things. Colours bled from the solid objects around him - in vibrant browns and greens and earth tones from the rots, mud, trees, vaporous from the pooled lakes and drizzle of rain, insects like a thousandfold scattering of fiery jewels across the sky, and inside the light of other things, burning off his own skin.

His adversary stood up shakily, a ghost to him, flickering back from his corporeal form and his light-form with the focusing and unfocusing of his eyes, his heart a nuclear focal point in his chest and his circulatory system an aureate spider-web of fire across his body. In this spectrum, his wounds bled light into the air like smoke or fog, ragged tears where his bullets had punctured the flesh - one throbbing more loudly than the others, a direct break in the clavicle above the chest, the broken bones flaring at him like hot irons.

The cloaked figure had little time to react, throwing a clumsy retaliation as Iroquois came upon him like a panther, deflecting the blow with a cycled forearm in an impressive mastery of hand-to-hand combat. He threw an unorthodox punch angled downwards, knuckles striking him over the apex of his collar wound - bone crackling audibly beneath the thump, the flash of pain seizing the cloaked man's muscles and splaying open his fingers, dropping his weapon to the damp earth. Iroquois rolled into him, an engine of trained destruction, his own light rolling off him in waves - a thousand shades of red from every possible spectrum of colour, turning the air crimson around him in curtains, leaving the afterimages of his blows on the air like scarlet ghosts.

His fists struck, rocks of bone and muscle, slamming repeatedly into his enemy's abdominals, crushing muscle-wall and reverberating through his inside so his jaw gaped open with a hoarse slowness and spit flecked from his lips mixed with dark blood. He brought his elbow up and around, crashing it against skull and tearing open skin, blood beading, flowing in rivers from the head-wound, turning the neck to one side with the force of it. His other arm snaked upwards, bashing fist against the underside of the man's jaw with a snapping motion that closed his mouth hard enough to chip enamel and severe the tip of his lolling tongue and blast dark suns across his vision and the final strike fell palm-open against his forehead (and there was a flare of hot red like brake-lights screaming down a highway as Iroquois's light exploded with the blow), slapping the skull backwards again (and it would be a miracle if there wasn't multiple cases of concussion, head-trauma, whiplash, or all of the above by now wouldn't it?) with enough power his body followed and he fell ass over ankles down the steep, mud-soaked walls of a flood-trench, rolling to a hard stop at its bowl choking and blinded on the flooding of his own blood and broken teeth and drenched in the dark, muddy soil.

He fell relatively still, collecting himself perhaps, and in a second display of liquid-speed Iroquois unholstered and drew his second P14-45 and aimed, at the same speed those commandos double-tap those poor suckers between the eyes, and his enemy's light was like a lighthouse beacon in the darkness of the trench and his own light flowed from his veins to his wrists and hands and into the mechanics of his weapon like arterial blood-flow.

And he fired.

And fired.

And fired. And fired. And fired...

OoC: This are pretty lenghty compared to my usual posts I notice.

OoC: Congratulations, o sodomy tiger. You've volunteered your whole family for a defeat the likes of which they'll write about in the Bible

The Archer dashed through the forest, seeking refuge from the hail of gunfire dogging his path. He ran with all of his speed through the trees until he heard the pistol empty, and dove behind a mangrove to gather his senses. He nursed his wounds as well as he could, knowing his cover would not serve long to protect him from the superb senses of his opponent. Forcing his way past the pain of his injuries, he notched in arrow to his bow, and listened for the position of Iroquois. Still not facing out from behind the tree, he pulled back arrow, and concentrated on its forked tip. The head became the focal point of his bloodlust, and began to heat rapidly. The blade grew hot to the point of glowing white, sending the air around it to sizzling and popping. Only when it got to the point of a near blinding light, which he was sure had caught the attention of the commando he fought, did he swing around the tree and draw his aim on the soldier.

Before shots could be fired, the arrow struck a glowing streak through the night, and found its home in the newly reloaded pistol. All at once, the gun burst into pieces, and all of the unspent shells exploded simultaneously. The blast sent Iroquois stumbling backwards, showered with chunks of hot debris, and clutching the ruined mess of his right hand. The light and force of the explosion had turned his enhanced senses against him, leaving him blinded. The Archer did not hesitate, and his hands disappeared as they reached back to his quiver. The twang of his bowstring sounded three times in such quick succession that they seemed as one.

The three burning arrows left identical trails of light as they sped towards the stunned, blinded soldier. They struck as one, one nailing him through the elbow of his good arm to a tree beside him. The other two each speared through one of his feet, plowing through his boots like a hot knife through butter. They sunk halfway up their lengths into the ground, stuck through the still boiling flesh of his foot. The Archer leaped from the shadows, and bared his serrated bow to the captive wretch.

He slashed the gleaming edges across his opponent’s belly, tearing through the clothing and protection like armor. The serrated edges tore through his stomach, taking with them chunks of flesh, muscle, and organs. Blood pooled on the ground beneath them, and the Archer raised his hand high above his hand. Smiling, the joy of bloodlust still upon him, the Archer plunged his hand into Iroquois’ abdomen. He gripped a handful of all he could get, and twisted, wrenching intestines around in the gap. The Archer tore his hand from this bloody mess, and struck his opponent hard across the face. Jawbones gave way to his fist, and several of the soldier’s teeth fell on the ground in the steadily gathering blood. The Archer turned from his bloody and captured opponent, and dashed into the cover of the trees, safe from the blinded man’s enhanced senses. There, he waited.

OoC: Not quite as lengthy, but I hope it'll do.

OoC: ...sodomy tiger?

Iroquois chuckled. As he did, blood dribbled from his lips. This man's as cowardly as a Taliban bomb-humper. And just as mean. He looked down reflexively. Gut-shot. Fatal. Once he and the boys too sleepless and poker-drunk to allow a place for decency had sat around their barracks boxes trying to line up straights and argued the worst way to die. Stupid. Young. They'd passed from drowning, to burning, every conclusion bringing the same grim audience of nodding and mumbling and comparing until Jackson, thumbing his cigar, had mentioned gut-shot.

"Hurts. Takes a while."

He hadn't put any more significance on it than that, but still the game had fallen silent with awe, unease, distaste. It had perpetrated the casual jaw-jack like the chime of a grandfather clock in an Edgar Allen Poe story. Soon, Niles ecstatically sat us back down for another of his sexual escapades (we loved his idiot stories) and the night went on. Broke even? Doesn't matter. Gut-shot. ****.

His bloodied right hand swept upwards, played its trick, managing to hold another cigarette between crooked, savaged fingers dark with gore, staining it with thumbprints of scarlet. Unable to reach his light, he snapped his thumb - there was a flare like red magnesium burn. The *** danced around his lips like the second hand of a stopwatch. Puff-puff. he lifted his hand again, looking at the frayed palm with a sort of detached expectation.

Step one. Oh christ. It wasn't so much a concentration as it was... effort, like moving something of immense weight and immense size, effort and focus. Light poured into his forearm, flooding at the wrist and hand and knuckles, converging on that singular focal point until it was as plainly visible against the regular spectrum of things as a kerosene torch of swirling ember. He hissed through his teeth and in a terrible instant of purpose plunged the arm into his stomach wound.

At some point during his ministrations he turned his head to one side and retched blood, a tooth, and something thicker and more viscous he assumed was bile. He got as little on his clothes as possible. Nausea filled him like hot lead, warm and sickening, blood spattering against mud and grass, that red light spreading up and down his abdominals as he clenched and twisted and exerted every possible ounce of effort to maintain a steady hand during the traumatic work. Steam spewed from his hand in a white, scalding cloud, the smell of burning flesh and the sizzle of fried meat pungent on the air, and removed his fingers from a frowned mess of raw cauterization and burnt fabric. He gasped, spat. It still felt like someone was lighting matches up and down the lining of his belly but it was better than nothing.

He grit his teeth, a broken line of stained tombstones in his mouth, blood spilling over his lips. And now, now it was time to revenge himself. He couldn't see properly, only shifty brightness, powder-burn and most likely a temporary affair. No matter. In that brightness the light-trance still showed him colours, brighter by far. And Archer was still a beacon of colour against that faltering white canvas. Waiting. Hiding. He chuckled again. Bak-Allah!

But there was still the matter of his being pinned to the tree. He thought for a second. This time, it was not so much an effort as... a great... relaxation. He shut himself off until the only remaining thin was the colour and sank into a world of light (mostly green, the earth), a match-head of guttering red lost in a sea of ambiant life. His body flared, like an effigy brick-layed out of hot embers, and slipped away, leaving only the ghostly, scarlet traceries of a silhouette howling against the bark, and the nails of his adversary's arrows.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Archer waited. Collected himself. There was little need to face this man from anywhere but the shadows - he was armed with an arsenal of firepower enough to rival Communist Russia's and fighting him toe-to-toe would be messy. Very messy. Instead, let him chase me down, wear himself out, and bring him down like a buck at the hunt. He would probably just shoot him dead while his guts fell from his belly on the tree.

Suffice to say, the following events practically had Archer ****ting his pants white.

Some things you just don't expect. For archer, one of those things was Iroquois appearing (rising?) less than three feet from his nose as the crow flies (heh), outlined in a bolero of flames like the scattered pieces of a branding iron, mangled jaw twisted in a darkly satisfied grimace.

In his left fist was clutched the serrated, jig-saw puzzle edge of his junglee combat knife. Archer was allowed a finer appreciation of its blade as it was horizontally scabbarded through his cheek between the upper and lower jaw lines, spiking his tongue like a grub and ripping wide through the other side, sinews uncoiling like piano wire, blood splashing in a pink and dark mist. In the same savage movement, he twisted the pommel. Teeth broke against steel and the writhing muscle of his tongue was ripped off at the root and he was drowning in blood thick and metallic like syrup, so much it was coming out his nose. Iroquois ripped - and I say ripped with all the signifiance applicable - the blade from Archer's face, and brought his ruined palm up and around at the haft of his arm and slammed it square into the man's nose, compressing the cartilage into his skull and pumping more blood from the already busted nasal canal - but even as he did so, the commando again exerted that effort and focus and injected light into the blow and the light spread like a contagion and seized and flared and as archer's face lit up like a red Christmas tree it ruptured every blood vessel across the cartography of his face at the same time, internally hemorrhaging... well, his entire face.

Iroquois's left snaked out, collided with the side of Archer's head below the ear and above the jaw, strategically landed at both the pressure point and jaw joint, turning that half of the face into a splintery mess of bone and compressing his cheeks so that the pooling blood spewed from his ragged mouth in a red stream. That was enough so he fell down.

The commando drew his assault rifle. His light flowed out into it, into the mechanics and makings, into every piece and part, and glowed, and suddenly the firearm became as vividly red-hot as lit coal, swirling with power. He cocked back the action with a snap, switched to automatic (or Rock and Roll as his BMQ Sergeant had called it to much uproar and boyish high-fiving), thumbed the forward assist and pointed the blinding muzzle downwards. archer's bow was already up and around but the arrow was loosed nowhere near anything living - Iroquois' attack had left him with a face that was really one, big, singular bruise, his eyes so swollen shut he couldn't open them or see for that matter, his lips so fattened and broken open he was choking on the produce of his own ruptured tongue-vein.

The report was like a series of red thunder-claps sewn together, the weapon rattled in his arms (and he bit his teeth against the pain sparking from his messed hand) and the left side of archer's body from the knee upwards un-stitched itself to his arm, shattering or bending or throwing away the bow, ripping flesh open wide and putting fracture points through bone like the drill-poles of a land survey and blasting flesh and fabric from the wounds in fiery spottings of crimson light. Blood misted upwards and rained down against the grass and mud and Archer writhed upwards in a powerful motion, screaming, his hip busted open at the joint. Blood turned the mud a brackish, unwholesom colour.

"Your femur bone. Judging from the blood flow your femoral artery as well. I'd suggest you do something. But I doubt it matters." He upholstered the rifle to firing position again. This time he would unstitch the man's skull.

OoC: Mark. My throat hurts, so the end was rushed. Enjoy.

OoC: Bump you lazy mother. And simultaneously I bump the topic your sorry excuse for a sibling is supposed to not be losing to my brother.

OoC: You are weak.

OoC: My tardiness is inexcusable. I’ll get back to the violence now.

The Archer was hurt, to say the least. Had he been able to cough a cry of pain through the ruined mess of blood and tissue that was his face, he would have done so as the rifle rendered his leg useless as anything but a painful crutch. He knew that along with the fact that he may very well never be able to talk again, and realized that if the fight continued too terribly long, the both of them would quickly bleed to death. He only had a moment to contemplate this before he saw the rifle swing upward, aiming to take his head clear from his shoulder. Desperate, his hand whipped out for his bow, and swung it low to the ground. Just as the rifle’s barrel settled on its target, the serrated edge of the bow plunged into the soldiers ankle, spearing directly through his Achilles tendon.

Overjoyed that his attack had found its mark, the Archer yanked on the bow, ripping the jagged edge away. With it came the tendon itself, flecks of skin and blood vessels trailing the weapon’s movement. Iroquois stumbled, his footing literally ripped from under him, and the shots went wild. The Archer took this chance, climbing onto his one strong leg, and whipped his bow into position. Before Iroquois had time to fall, or even to blink, the bowstring sounded its crack three times, and the three pieces of gleaming metal streaked through the air towards the flailing commando. The first struck him squarely in the chest, embedding itself into his chest with a resounding crack. The arrow hit Iroquois with enough force to split a large crack down the entire length of his breastbone, and to send him tumbling backwards. The second arrow took the soldier in the face, coming at an angle almost parallel to his profile. It split straight through the jaw, shattering most of Iroquois’ teeth and his cheekbones in its passing, and glided cleanly through his eye into the bone of his eye socket.

The last arrow, this one imbued with glowing heat, cut a fiery streak on its course to Iroquois’ chest. It cut easily through his ribs, and found its home in one of the commando’s lungs. The moment it struck into the organ, all of the blood in Iroquois lungs immediately set to boiling. It bubbled upward, shooting up his esophagus and into the mouth and sinuses in a bubbling, steaming geyser. It poured from the soldier’s mouth and nose in great streams, leaving trails of scalded hair and flesh along his entire length. After a few moments of such agony, the heat in his lungs grew so that the very oxygen itself ignited, exploding the organ within his chest. The Archer wheezed out a wet chuckle at the sight of Iroquois’ chest puffing outward slightly, the entire cavity and organs around it bathed in boiling chunks of flaming lung and pouring blood. Smoke itself streamed from every orifice it could escape through, and filled the forest with the rank stench of burning meat.

Taking great joy in the opportunity, the Archer hobbled forward, and grasped the screaming fountain of blood by his head. The Archer hardly noticed the blood sizzling over his hands, and took hold of the arrow imbedded in Iroquois’ eye. He then wrenched the arrow from the broken eye socket, and rammed it through the gunman’s lower jaw into the roof of his mouth. He then rammed the jaw shut, nailing it closed and left the geyser of blood without a proper exit. His mauled face twisted into something resembling a smile as Iroquois literally began to drown in his own scalding blood, and the streams of crimson and smoke poured from the soldier’s nostrils with enhanced vigor. The bowman then shoved his hand with all his considerable strength into Iroquois’ cracked breastbone, snapping it in half and breaking half a dozen ribs.

Though barely able to stand himself, the Archer threw his opponent to the ground, leaving him to thrash for a moment in the pool of his own blood. Stumbling across the slick ground, he managed to locate a long, sharp severed tree limb. Settling his bow across his back, the bowman reached down and grabbed the stick. As he turned, he found Iroquois already beginning to stand, the blood still streaming down his face, the collapsed chest cavity heaving and cracking with each labored breath. Careful not to let the soldier attack, he rushed forward as fast as he could, and jabbed the stake into the gash that already split the gunman’s stomach. Driving with all the strength he could muster, the archer pushed the stake further into the gaping hole, eventually pushing its end out through Iroquois’ back. Though he could not properly scream, the agony was apparent on the fighter’s face, and after several moments of struggling, the stake pushed half its through his back, spilling blood and shredded organs onto the ground beneath.

The bowman kicked out at the impaled commando’s leg, once again throwing him hard to the ground. He grabbed Iroquois as he fell, turning him in such a way that the stake buried itself into the ground, nailing the soldier to the bloodstained ground beneath him. Archer’s hand shot towards his captive opponent’s torso, and grasped the still burning arrow jutting from his chest. He then jammed the burning tip into the but of the stake, and the effects were immediate. Upon contact, the wood it touched immediately burst into flames, and spread so quickly that the branch nearly exploded from the sudden energy. Within only a few seconds, the whole mass glowed like the sun in the dark forest, as the roar of the flames drowned out the muffled screams of the soldier.

OoC: That was a little overdue, eh? Ah well