One chakram in hand was all the man needed to stop Ludwig's incoming blow. For a fraction of a second, Ludwig's sword, along with him were held in space by the raised hand carrying the chakram. It was a skinny hand, one that belonged to a man who hadn't eaten for a hundred years or so, yet it was easily capable of stopping Ludwig's blow along with the weight of Durandal. The ring sang. Sparks took short lives and died against the hooded chest. Ludwig felt the meeting not in the wrists but in the spine. The stop was absolute and effortless. It told him too much about the gulf between intent and result. There was too much strength behind that skinny arm, so much of it that it kept Ludwig in the air for a second or so.
"Why now, why are we so hasty? Brother!" he asked. The word brother landed soft and wrong. It tried to put them on the same side. It tried to build a bridge with bone.
