874 Dishonored

Tycondrius held his adamantine scabbard poised to strike.

He placed his weight behind a forward swing, delivering a solid strike to Tarquin Wroe's outer thigh.

Precise. 

Professional. 

Without mercy. 

The Daeva's pale face turned sheet white. He opened his mouth to scream, but the pain did not allow him the privilege. He crumpled to the ground, curling his body while cradling his injured leg. 

He writhed in the dirt in pain, unable to vocalize the agony he was experiencing. Judging by the tears at the corners of his eyes and his rapidly contorting expressions, it was... excruciating. 

Tycon granted him several moments. 

--but several moments later... on the dirt, the wriggling Hexblade remained. 

"Get up..." Tycon muttered underneath his breath... "Don't tell me this is the best you can do, Tarquin Wroe..."