Dead Men Tell No Tales

The Heist (2)

Dodge, dodge, throw. Dodge, dodge again and then throw.

His attacker caught his knives as if they were mere harmless, stationary flies.

He snatched a whizzing blade out of the air, just before it hit his throat much to Adam's displeasure, and with a small warning flash from the blade's polished end, it flew right back at Adam with the precision to mirror the pirate captain's.
He always was a quick learner, the words flitted through his mind as Adam evaded with the ease and grace of a saltwater wave brushing onto the coastline's sandy canvas, keeping the weapon's momentum as he spun and fired it off again.

Each fighter switched between taking the offense and the defense, twisting and turning with whole stacks of throwing knives jumping from one rough hand to the next. It continued as seconds and minutes ticked on; not just a battle of reflexes and aiming at just the right angle to reach their chests and their necks and their heads, but also a battle of wills. Who would bend first?

It was an unfortunate realisation, but Adam knew that it'd be him. It'd be close, but it was most certainly going to be him.

This man in front of him, a previous betrayed crewmate, was also one of his only 'students', so to speak. Taught from his very own experience and practice. Nurtured like a mother hen by his-truly. And even though this attacker lacked the experience which Adam had barrels and shiploads of, the attacker had the advantage - they both knew. With only one good hand and a body so used to being out of commission, he had many things weighing him down. Not to mention, although he preferred to think that it wasn't obvious, Adam was more over the hill than just climbing it like the younger man here clearly was. Old age hadn't caught up to him yet, per se, but it was damn well on his tail and there wasn't much he could do at the current moment to shake it off.

So, after knowing his inevitable defeat for quite some time, the temporarily disabled man decided to try out a different fighting style.

Moments passed when they just continued doing the same dance around and around, the only light visible being the moonlight occasionally getting caught on polished metal.

"How'd you survive?" The silence broke with Adam's blunt enquiry, and he noticed an almost imperceptible widening of eyes in the dark gloom from his aggressor at the first initiation of conversation after the formalities (which Adam was sure had been more than half an hour ago).

The man didn't respond and Adam paused his throwing but still made sure to bob and weave when the sharp things darted at him. He didn't retaliate at all and Adam was sure the man got the message that he wouldn't attack back until he answered. In the short time that he waited for a reply, he briefly wondered if anybody else from his ragged band of drunkards survived. Probably not.

"...How did you survive?" His attacker countered and Adam almost sneered at the delayed question and his next words were out of his mouth faster than vomit came out of a landlubber's mouth on the rocking sea.

"Ye already know that, ye rapscallion! We both know, so stop bein' a strumpet and talk like the scallywag we both know ye are. How did ye survive?"

There was a snort and then q short, taunting laugh and then, "The accent's less intimidating without the boat and pressgang to back you up."

Adam grit his teeth together, an unorthodox smile hammered onto his features. "My crew had stronger, more durable men than you. Men that could get hit in the head with the roughest of boulders and wouldn't even flinch. So I'm asking how those men of mine died so easily while you're standing here, as fit as a fiddler." Even I wasn't able to stand against that storm.