krigskamrat:

_{⊰ ✥⊱:—Ｔ’was not of something the soldier had expected.  At least not in it’s entirety.  He figured the one acclaimed to be a dragon would fight by fire not steel.  But even seemingly without the flame he was formidable force.  A graceful yet powerful swing of the blade that if not dodged in time would have felled the blond.  Ralof’s heart already pounding within his chest.  There was fear.  Though the Stormcloak did not wear it for long, it was there.  Calloused hands tightened around the leather-bound handle of the hammer.  How it felt heavy in his hands.  For a moment he cursed his weapon of choice.  It was slow, cumbersome, heavy.}

_{—-Ｓtill he drew himself back.  A warm scarlet brine dripping from his brow.  Seems Alduin’s sword did not entirely miss.  Perhaps to true flame was not present, but certainly was a game of fire that he played with this adversary.  Ralof needed to stagger the World Eater, or at least distract him momentarily.  “For a beast once dead, you are cocky.”  Again another pace taken back and the hammer being drawn up.  “Not a pretty thing are you?”}

        ⟫»–> Catching your opponent off guard spoke for much in the realm of steel; the blonde joor had made the mistake of assuming that despite his denounced form that the Bane of Kings would be of no consolation or consideration. Oh, he was very wrong. Not only had Akatosh been the Dragon Father, but he was a special divinity all his own; both man and beast, depending on which depiction it was the subjugator took. General knowledge of man and mer were established, hidden within the confines of a dov state of mind. Without the primeval callousness of the majestic drakes, Alduin could tap easily into necessary knowledge.

        When blade swung back at the read already the hammer of the foe was prepared as to come down upon him, the offensive mortal spitting insults as if words could distract him from occurrences literally at hand. Throwing self aside, in an estranged pivot, the World Eater avoided becoming but a nail, though his rapier was jostled and hung lamely at his side, defenses down; an acceptable loss in comparison.

        “Not cocky, joor, but confidant. Confidant in my abilities to best you even at your own primitive forms of battle.”

        To put force behind the blade, the Firstborn spun on his heels, as to bring the blade around in a horizontal slash, forcing momentum behind the now expelled weapon.