Finally, his first good look at his would-be murderer. The man was all black – black clothes, a black trench coat, black hair – except for his face.
A mask, stark-white and perfectly oval. Two black slits let him see out, a purple thunderbolt lanced a jagged path over one. A red line split the mask in a grim imitation of a dangerous grin.
Conrart adjusted his stance as he noticed that the masked man was poised not to pounce, but to jump. Whatever else he was, Conrart’s attacker was an expert in both melee and projectile strikes and, it would seem by his confident, unmoving poise, hand-fighting in various forms.
This man was more than he seemed. The air seemed to move in sharp waves around him, as if in preparation for him to slice through it. The masked man would not make a single mistake. Conrart could not allow himself even the slightest slip.
Conrart’s instinct’s piqued and then he reacted - moving left to drive the masked man right, pivoting and circling, seeking an opening. On his end, Conrart would be sure that he left none to find.