The Still and the Storm

The seafolk barely reacted to the pain, his expression unreadable save for the sharp focus in his narrowed eyes.

His wounded arm hung stiff at his side, blood dripping in slow, steady drops onto the dirt. Yet there was no hesitation as he moved.

His left hand shot forward, palm open. The moisture in the air thickened in an instant, drawn to his command. A thin, twisting water current curled around Arthur's wrist, tightening with unnatural strength. Arthur wrenched his arm free before the grip solidified, but the momentary distraction was enough.

The seafolk stepped in.

A knee slammed toward Arthur's ribs, he twisted, taking the hit on his forearm instead. Even then, the force rattled through him. The next strike came just as fast, a sweeping kick meant to take his legs out from under him. Arthur leaped back, narrowly avoiding the trip, but his opponent was relentless.