The blow had jarred his focus more than he would ever admit, and before he knew it he was hit again, pushed back, and then thrown violently to the floor. He had no defense against it. Neither the Templar nor the Hunters trained much in the art of fisticuffs unless choosing to specialize as such. They always preferred a weapon of any kind. There was no way to defeated a beast with less. Their technology and weapons had always been their advantage against the savage, strong beasts. Whatever sorcery she had pulled had sent him to earth, and his only thought as he rolled over was that she had been so close, had touched him so many times to do so. He felt tainted. Dirty. A foulness that no wash would ever clean. Should his eternal soul be tarnished for it, there was no wrath he would visit upon her head, and that of her kin.

The fiery rage built in his belly as he rolled toward instead of away from his target, intent on grappling her on the ground. A foolish idea perhaps but he wanted the personal satisfaction of dominating her upon the ground, to look her in the eye, and then kill her. His blade was lost in the mud somewhere, his hands would have to do. First he would need to restrain her arm so to stop her attack, and then choke her to death with his other hand.

Solfar give me strength, that I might purge this monster in your name.