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Cicada Nights
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me_irl
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They fell together, Paris grimly determined to not let go. He didn't know how to fight, he understood, but all the same he knew he had to. Soren was getting out of there, good. Paris had an inkling he just had to disarm Jason somehow, and make his own escape. A few more violent tugs, Paris' arm burning evenly on both sides from the effort.

It didn't work. Instead Paris was suddenly falling, grunting as the front of his nose was suddenly flattened. He no longer thought of holding onto the sword. He fell to one side, trying to hold up his arms with his knuckles pointed outward, elbows close to his body. A defensive stance. Maybe a fetal position.

The counterswing from Jason landed on the broad of Paris' shoulder. A millisecond of a wooshing metal chop, then a blinding sting. It had just broken skin, but close run. Paris grit his teeth and lashed out with as stable a kick he could manage. He engaged his core, huddled his body around his center of gravity. Paris forced himself up efficiently, into a defensive crouch, he didn't drop his eyes from Jason for a second as he began moving backward. Swift and smooth motions of front foot to rear, front foot to rear. Passe arrière.

Paris moved as fast as he could to his bag, ignoring the dampness of the thick blood trails forming over his shirt.
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The Land of Shadow · The Tar Pits
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