In spite of the earlier unflattering comments intended to provoke, the good doctor decides against chuckling in response to his opponent's brazen and simplistic aggression. The young lady may have youth and spirit on her side, but it is still embarrassingly easy for him to cup his palms outwards and shift his stance in preparation to receive her first strike, anticipating the right moment to snap his hands shut and disable her. Clearly, someone hasn't been learning their lessons in underestimating opponents. The first attack comes. He remains still, waits for his moment, and...!
"-wh-?!"
His hands make contact with her forearms, but where he was expecting skin, he only finds thin layers of pure spiritual energy gently pushing his fingers back as if he were trying to shove them through the surface of water. Decades-old memories of medical school and martial arts training in the old monastery come rushing back to the good doctor unbidden, the shock of this new revelation threatening to send his entire mind reeling. Ki. This young lady is a Ki user. It's unmistakable in the way it subtly brushes him off, in the way it accelerates the speed of her closed fist, in the way it shunts forth into his body upon contact and sends nauseating vibrations through his solar plexus.
It's all he can do to even sputter, saliva expelled from underneath his bag from the enhanced force of Beau's punch, threatening to stagger his entire body before several more strikes come his way and sending him stumbling backwards anyway. Multiple clean hits leave his ribs crying out in betrayal and his skull horrified at its owner's failure to protect them, mind still refusing to cooperate until this new mystery is resolved. Fortunately, where the brain fails, instinct prevails. Falling about like a drunkard he may be, Faust's body still attempts to use the knockback from the assault to increase the distance between him and the annoyed monk.
And sure enough, once he's gotten even the slightest bit of ground, a distraction is deployed: Each fist into Faust's bag-bound face thus far has met with a barely-protected jaw, as one would expect - the bag is very much not built to cushion blows. The next hit, however, ends up scrunching the bag inward entirely as if empty, and a bulging eyeball catapults out of the good doctor's eyehole like a stress toy that just got stepped on.
"OUCHIES!!!"
Here's hoping she's taken aback long enough to not notice one of his five-foot-and-a-bit-long legs coming around for a ki-infused sweep at her knees...!
no subject
The first attack comes. He remains still, waits for his moment, and...!
"-wh-?!"
His hands make contact with her forearms, but where he was expecting skin, he only finds thin layers of pure spiritual energy gently pushing his fingers back as if he were trying to shove them through the surface of water. Decades-old memories of medical school and martial arts training in the old monastery come rushing back to the good doctor unbidden, the shock of this new revelation threatening to send his entire mind reeling.
Ki. This young lady is a Ki user. It's unmistakable in the way it subtly brushes him off, in the way it accelerates the speed of her closed fist, in the way it shunts forth into his body upon contact and sends nauseating vibrations through his solar plexus.
It's all he can do to even sputter, saliva expelled from underneath his bag from the enhanced force of Beau's punch, threatening to stagger his entire body before several more strikes come his way and sending him stumbling backwards anyway. Multiple clean hits leave his ribs crying out in betrayal and his skull horrified at its owner's failure to protect them, mind still refusing to cooperate until this new mystery is resolved.
Fortunately, where the brain fails, instinct prevails. Falling about like a drunkard he may be, Faust's body still attempts to use the knockback from the assault to increase the distance between him and the annoyed monk.
And sure enough, once he's gotten even the slightest bit of ground, a distraction is deployed: Each fist into Faust's bag-bound face thus far has met with a barely-protected jaw, as one would expect - the bag is very much not built to cushion blows.
The next hit, however, ends up scrunching the bag inward entirely as if empty, and a bulging eyeball catapults out of the good doctor's eyehole like a stress toy that just got stepped on.
"OUCHIES!!!"
Here's hoping she's taken aback long enough to not notice one of his five-foot-and-a-bit-long legs coming around for a ki-infused sweep at her knees...!