#which is like. HUGE. he's still shorter than kelly in her armor but he's still tall enough to look her in the eye

[savior-of-humanity]

I think you may have a concussion. - kelly @ guts

"I'm fine," came his growling, yet slightly slurred response. Hands wrapped tightly around the hilt of his sword, it was frankly the only reason why he was still standing, what with the blood that dripped profusely from a wound hidden somewhere in his hairline. "I don't need your help."

The wound that was caused by the scores of dead that surrounded the Black Swordsman. Dead that were unlike anything the Spartan would have ever seen in her life - for they looked like demons, crawled straight from the old Christian mythos. It was apparent that all of them, despite their near-overwhelming numbers and enormous sizes, had been slain by the man's own hand. Bisected and dismembered and slaughtered. But even they, these nightmarish beasts that crawled straight out of Hell itself, were not the only bizarre thing of the scene that lay before Spartan-087.

The man, first off, wore armor that looked almost downright primitive in comparison to Kelly's own - like something straight out of the medieval era. There was not a hint of modern technology on the man whatsoever; even the prosthetic arm that made up his left forearm was fashioned of iron and leather straps. Secondly, even with him being somewhat slouched and hunched over, it was apparent that he was tall; had he been standing straight, he would've only been half a head shorter than Kelly in her armor.

And then there was the sword.

It wasn't really so much a sword as it was an enormous hunk of iron, refined into the shape of a blade - so large and long that it was nearly as tall as the swordsman himself. Blood and ichor and gore, still warm and steaming, soaked the blade where it still clung to it - and yet, the man who wielded it had only the single head wound. Though, there was also the oddity of a curious mark on his neck; a brand of some kind, which had once wept profusely with now-drying blood. It wasn't an injury left by his foes but rather an old wound that had been re-opened with the stress of battle.

The man made an effort to properly stand, attempting to lift the blade - he only managed a couple of inches before his legs wobbled, threatening to buckle and collapse beneath him, and the tip of the sword was promptly forced back into the ground with a heavy THUNK and a quiet "Shit." from the swordsman's lips.

He didn't like this. Being so weak, and vulnerable. Not with this knight, this woman, who bore armor and arms unlike anything he'd ever seen before. Guts wasn't one who admitted physical weakness, let alone the need for help, so easily.

"...Alright. Maybe I do have a concussion. So what? I can take care of myself, lady."