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Deitric didn't stop when the massive dragon-kin infront of him hurled the punch forward. The warrior flung himself forward still, but had altered his course just to the side of the attack, turning his body to create a drastically smaller profile. He'd cut the movement close enough that the punch still barely connected - he could feel it, but he was passing beside the arm at a full-speed charge, and even if it affected him, it wouldn't be enough. It'd leave a bruise along his flank and the front of his chest where it had grazed him (and possibly even bruise or fracture/crack a rib or two), and maybe even tear his jacket, revealing the light brigandine armor he wore beneath. But the attack wasn't a full on collision, it was more of a hard, close graze.

Murdoch's arm was longer than Deitric's, but not by enough for it to matter - an eye's blink after Murdoch's punch narrowly connected with the passing tribesman's, his own left/forward fist would be colliding with its own target-- Murdoch's face. He'd turned his own body aside at the last second, using the turning motion to both (partially) dodge the oncoming blow and to deliver his own - his entire body turning to put his weight and spinning momentum into the blow as he aimed to smash his burning fist into the dragonkin's face - right between the eyes, nearly. When the knuckles slammed into purple scales, there'd be a rapid expansion of the fog-flames as they momentarily "splashed" against Murdoch's visage.

On camera, it'd be close enough to look like they'd struck each other at the same time - but in slow motion, Murdoch's attack would have struck just a fraction of a second earlier. They'd both most likely be forced apart - Deitric to recover from the sudden pain that would have spread across his entire upper body and to get some air back, and Murdoch most likely back after coming into direct, forceful contact not only with a fist, but with the odd, flaming fog that had surrounded the Khasmin fighter's fists that shone nearly as brightly as the harsh, artificial light above them. Suffice to say, they'd both probably be in a fair amount of pain.

Deitric grunted as he continued on, hitting the mats with a subdued thud, rolling over his left shoulder to come back up on his feet a bit unsteadily. His jacket was a bit tore, and he felt pretty roughened up beneath his armor, but luckily he'd worn it in the first place. It wasn't nearly heavy enough to keep him from getting hurt, but it kept his ribs intact, even from the glancing blow. The warrior was made of tough stuff, but when an opponent's fists hit like a Mac truck, natural durability only went so far. Hell, there might even be more damage done to him than he realized - it was hard to tell, at this point.

His upper body throbbed and complained, and his breathing had only began to recover (if "still functioning" could be considered "recovering"), but he ignored it, opting to try and close the distance between the two again. He hadn't had much air time when he'd lashed out - he only popped up a few feet from the dragonkin, who was hopefully still dealing with getting a lightbulb-fist crammed into his face. He was too close to bother with control now - the tight binds of his mental control fell away, and he embraced the burn of Destiny.

His fists, and the rest of his body, for that matter were alight with the blazing, bright fog-fire, some of the skin on the back of his hands blistering from the raw, uncontrollable power he was exuding. He was never meant to use it for so long - he couldn't truly control it, and letting it run wild caused him more than his fair share of pain. It was like being suspended over hot coals, or stuffed into a sauna. But what it did for him - what it could do to non-humans - was worth the trouble. For a moment, it enveloped him - it'd retreat to his fists again, but like any wild entity, it rushed out in its freedom before calming again.

Assuming he'd managed to pop up from his scraggled roll and close the step or two distance between them, leaping up to try and grasp the dragonkin's left shoulder and bring up one of his knees, aiming to slam it home into Murdoch's elbow and try and cripple the arm. The blow was strengthened with his pulsing, burning energy, hopefully catching his opponent off guard.

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Up above, the Psi Nine crew kept their camera focused on the two fighters duking it out. They'd never seen someone - or something - with the raw strength that Murdoch held, and they'd never seen Deitric alive with the odd, white fog-fire - it was far removed from his typical shocking abilities, but it held a certain familiarity. Unbeknown to them, the white fog-fire was the pure, unrefined form of the typical electrical output the human dynamo put out. In this form, it was much more potent - and much more dangerous for Deitric to use.

?!

Deitric was surprised his opponent could see - and even more surprised that he was attacking. He felt himself being brought forward to be smashed aside by the snap-to headbutt. He had no choice but to endure it - but he could try anything to lessen the blow.

CRACK--

The dragonkin's forehead smashed into Deitric. The warrior had turned his body hard to try and move his head out of the way, but at a cost - it put his shoulder right in the way. It hadn't been to hard to move, though - it was only natural to move his body to get the most out of his knee, but it became exaggerated in his attempt to lessen the damage given.

The Goliath's forehead slammed into his shoulder just inside the socket (nearer the neck) and something let out a sickening crunch and gave way, the grip of his right hand slipping away as he the fingers went numb from the roiling overflow of pain in his arm. Largely ignorant of the medical field, Deitric only knew that his right arm - similar to his opponent's left - might not be so easy to use. It wasn't as though he had time to figure it out, though. The arm wasn't moving, and that's all he needed to know.

The force of his opponent's retribution slammed him to the ground in a kneel, his right shoulder slightly lower and off kilter in comparison to the right, giving the fighter a sickening form of asymmetry that was entirely unnatural. Time slowed down to a molasses crawl as all the white fog-fire around the useless arm fluttered and died--

Before his good arm erupted with power, blazing white-hot like a furnace as he threw himself up from his kneel - he had barely hit the ground before he'd managed to throw himself up with all the power his legs could harness. In even a good situation for Deitric, this would have probably been a good time to call it quits - but the Khasmin warrior was seeing red; a giant target looming over him.

As he sprung up, his wrathful fist shot upwards like a bullet, leading the way for the rest of the body. A burning silhouette of a Falcon's head came to life around his fist as luminescent power exploded upwards in the form of a maddening and terrible Hawk's Flight uppercut, aimed right for the underside of the Titanesque Murdoch's chin.

The move was rarely used, but to good effect - it had a certain "sharpness" to it, it allowed him to pierce armor in the way that a warhammer might - with brute force tightened into a small area, namely, his fist. The attack was straight forward, and simple - an upward strike propelled by both bodily force and the force of his own meta-ability, like a fist-capped rocket of sorts. In this case, his other arm wouldn't be doing much - it was out of the picture.

Fans at home, or those watching live would have to wait for a slower replay just to understand what had happened from the flying knee to now.

The entire movement took only a moment of a moment - the ferocity of his opponent's attack had thrown him down to earth with to a humbled kneel, and Deitric instantly responded with an attack of equal ferocity and rage, letting out a primal roar to match Murdoch's draconic rage in a display of unbending determination. It was rare to see the typically stoic warrior pushed so far - and hearing anything "loud" from him was entirely unheard of - with no pun intended. Forced to his limits, he was pushing back against the other fighter's brute force with his own brand of power and unholy rage.

[Omfg. I had a post written and it didn't send -.-. This post isn't as good, but it'll have to do.]

Fortunately for Deitric, his armor had been there for the oncoming knee. It gave and absorbed some of the blow's force, but luckily, Deitric's attack helped even out the damage. His attack did more than just carry him up - it literally sent him up off his feet and into the air. His opponent's knee hit his chest while Deitric was moving up, spreading the force of the blow through out his upper body. A variety of bruises and muscle contusions came with it, but it was better to be hit with six or seven human punches in the upper frontal than a single mack truck to the chest.

His fist tore up the side of the dragonkin's face with a sickening rip, his body flying upwards in a blur. Of course, the knee also helped changed the trajectory of his overall flight - he was forced a good three or four feet away while being a few feet total above the dragonkin at the zenith of his Hawk's Flight upper-cut.

The tribesman from the Khasmin Plains couldn't afford to hesitate, though. For the first time in the tournament, Murdoch had been sent reeling from the blows of an opponent. Cameras flashed, capturing the image of the two raging warriors in immortality - Deitric in the air, with Murdoch, albeit blinded, lashing out in a flurry of attacks where the human had been a nanosecond before. The beastly dragonkin's strength was impressive - if someone had been there, they'd of been in some deep trouble. But, by the time Murdoch's third attack lashed out, Deitric would have done the same.

He couldn't rightfully control the swarming energy of Destiny that enveloped him, but he could direct it. Direct it right at Murdoch. He didn't have time to hesitate - or time to worry about control or reason. All he had time to do was attack; push the advantage he'd gained in an attempt to lay the giant Murdoch low.

White-hot and burning bright, the Destiny swarming around his fist manifested in the shape of a hawk's head over his fist, the beak superimposed over his fist as the scant few feet between them was almost instantly covered by the airborne tribesman. It was the exact same attack as before, but in a flying hay-maker form - all his weight, all his physical power, and all the Destiny he could summon crammed into a small focal point, aimed to slam home right between the ruby red eyes of Murdoch. All two hundred and fifty two pounds of Deitric were tearing through the air behind the fist, and hit or miss, Deitric would move with enough force to continue one after the hit to fly somewhere behind Murdoch - still in bounds, but still moving nonetheless.

The fighter didn't make a sound through his attack - he couldn't. He was barely sucking in air, and he couldn't waste any on something like a shout. But the crowd; the crowd was vibrant! Roaring in approval and dismay, triumph and anguish, fans of both fighters screamed and shouted in an unintelligible medley of voices. That was what reached Deitric's ears - that, and the rush of his own blood in his ears.

Deitric kept himself from cursing as he flew past, skidding to a stop on the pads, the pad beneath his boots twisting about with the force of his landing. He used the dislodged pad to turn about to face the dragon-kin, standing some ten or so feet away from the beast. The pad had absorbed most of the shock of his landing, so it didn't skid beyond a few inches.

Forcing himself to breathe through his nose to try and gain his composure, the blooded warrior reached down, deftly snapping a single tomahawk from its resting place at his belt with his good hand. He needed to conserve his energy - mostly for fear of literally burning himself out. For the moment, the white fog-fire retreated, leaving a faint, cackling electricity around his form (which, unlike Destiny, didn't make nonhumans fill nauseous).

He channeled a slight charge into the axe, just enough so that it were aligned with his own aura. With a single step forward the warrior loosed the 'hawk towards Murdoch, counter-weight first - using the blade would have been too risky. As soon as the first axe was thrown, the second followed with the same charging procedure, but it was going blade first.

The spun through the air like twin blurs - if Murdoch needed to see blurred images of stationary targets, the axes would most likely be neigh invisible to him. Each had its own target, the first for the spot right between Murdoch's bloody red eyes, and the second (the one going blade first) aiming right for his right knee. The twin missiles moved swiftly, traversing the distance in a split second - ten or eleven feet was hardly a distance to cross when hurled with the tribesman's proficiency.

As soon as he released his twin projectiles, the Khasmin man began to slowly retreat to widen the distance between he and Murdoch, trying to gain his breath back all the while. His entire upper body throbbed with pain, and it every breath was painful on his right side. His right arm also refused to move for the most part - he could bend it at the elbow and move his fingers, but even doing so sent ripples of shaking, cold-sweat inducing pain through his body. He was more able to leave the arm hanging limp.

What he needed was to regain his breath properly before continuing his push - the axe throws would help, and possibly even prove more useful than his opponent realized.