This guy was really itching for a fight, wasn't he? Definitely not a situation Dagan often found himself in.

"I'm pretty tough," Dagan admitted and tapped at his chest with the fore and middle fingers of his right hand.

Reinforcements, was it? That was a nice thought, but it was also inaccurate; he had not even meant to imply there would be ‘reinforcements.’ In reality, The Seeker was searching for Nike and anybody after him would be searching for Dagan. Correcting the man on this point, however, was entirely out of the question.

Dagan did nothing to impede the man’s advancement, he did not charge into attack, he didn’t lower his stance, kick out, pick up a rock and throw it, or anything like that; he simply remained a barrier between the approaching man and Nike like it was the natural thing to do.

The man seemed nonplussed by Dagan's remark. Whatever display of confidence or bravado Dagan mustered against him, it was unlikely he'd be phased.

"Empty words," replied the man.

He raised his hands before him, wrapped his fingers about something of which Dagan could only see a flicker. It looked like a pole of some sort. A staff, perhaps? Judging by the way he positioned his hands, he must have been holding it out from his body. To the side. And judging by the way he set his weight, with one foot in front and one foot behind, both evenly spaced, he planned on swinging soon.

"Now, begone."

With a mighty swing of his body, the man brought a barely visible force down upon Dagan. Were Dagan to do nothing, or attempt to brace the impact with his arms or body, he'd find that this was in no way a force of impact, but a cutting weapon. One that could rend his flesh with surprising efficiency . . .

Fortunately, Dagan had not bet on being able to bluff or intimidate his new acquaintance.

"I was just sayin'," he muttered as he clenched his fingers into a tight fist -
- and then suddenly un-clenched them, threw both his arms out, stumbled to the side, and nearly fell over, saving himself from a tumble by sheer force of will.

That was what he should have expected, right? An attack. Made sense, too, didn’t it? The stranger had pretty much spelt out his intentions in big bold letters and italics, or something.

Right, an attack. Dagan could do this.

There was that flicker - and there was a weapon, Dagan could barely see it, it felt like, but that wasn’t important, that man just tried to kill him with it and had probably used it against Nike, too. . . Forgetting about that, though, now was his only chance, Dagan thought.

Recovering, Dagan launched himself forwards in much the same way as he would have done if he was fleeing for dear life; however, it was not away from the area but directly into his attacker, shoulder first and without much regard for his own personal safety. Common sense, dull as it was with Dagan, dictated that if his attacker attacked with a downward slash, then Dagan had to take advantage of the opening before the man could withdraw his weapon - whatever it was - and begin anew.

There was no time to gauge the strength of his blitz, but Dagan was hoping that, at the very least, he’d be able to knock the man off-balance enough to create even more openings. If he couldn’t win, maybe a few well placed hits could deter his attacker and send him into retreat?

Either way, Dagan needed this man gone and away from Nike.

Dagan slammed himself into the man, shoulder first, ramming his shoulder into his lower chest and propelling both of their bodies forward. There was an audible grunt when the hit came, indicating at the very least that the man wasn't invulnerable. He didn't seem to budge too much, or at least not in a terribly uncontrolled way. He was pushed back, though, thrown through the front doors with Dagan, where he dug his feet in and stopped himself before he reached the bridge.

And while he may have stopped himself, Dagan would likely not find his momentum halted, for the man pulled his weight back and to the side, got a hand up behind Dagan's back, and upon slowing himself, throw his entire body to the left, intending to throw Dagan back, further away from the castle.

Were he thrown, Dagan would have a tough situation ahead of him. He wouldn't go far enough to hit land, but he'd be on track to hit the bridge. Unfortunately, the bridge was of shoddy construction, and would likely collapse into the oily sea as soon as Dagan hit it. This, in turn, would drag him down into the oily blackness, too . . .

The meaning of the word pessimism was unknown to Dagan, but that was mostly due to him not actually knowing the word pessimism; regardless, if he did know the word pessimism, he still would not have known its meaning, and thusly, the very fact that he hit the man - his opponent, Nike's attacker - was considered just as big a success as defeating him outright. Alas, now he had a different problem to worry about: in place of Nike being in harm's way, Dagan, himself, was in quite the pickle.

Stuttering something that could have been loosely translated as 'wait a minute, let's talk about this,' Dagan willed his body to turn and face his opponent, using the man's push to give him that little bit of extra something; however, that would not have been enough, in and of itself, to prevent him from being carried away and off towards the bridge. Fortunately, Dagan was of a significant enough height to have something of a long reach, and so he did just that, stretching his right arm out and attempting to clutch onto the assailant's arm, whereby he would pull with all his might to stop himself or to bring the man with him, but either way, Dagan reared back his opposite arm, balled up his fist, and readied a direct, powerful smash; he didn’t care if the man came with him or was dug in enough to slow the both of them, but the second he got his chance, Dagan was going to pull himself forwards, momentum be damned, and hammer him one.

Had there been the time to properly react, Dagan's opponent would have let out a grunt of displeasure. However, there was no such moment--no single opportunity to react in any way but to physically move, for a split second had Dagan grasping him by the forearm. There was no other choice in the matter. If the man faltered, he'd be struck hard again, and it scarcely mattered how tough a person was. They could only be hit so many times . . .

And so he waited-- another split second's time, but time nonetheless --for Dagan's next off-balance act, knowing full well that he had him at a tactical disadvantage by virtue of balance alone. The man still had his center of balance, Dagan did not.

So, when he saw the shift in his opponent, the man shifted in return, flipped his hand up to the best of his abilities to grasp Dagan's forearm in return, shift his position to evade Dagan's fist, and throw a foot into Dagan's knee-- or, rather, allow Dagan to simply throw himself into his foot. In the best case scenario, he'd have Dagan face down on the ground, arm behind his back. In the worst? He evaded an attack.

Suppressing the urge to go rigid in resistance, Dagan kept his arm, although increasingly more tense, in a semi-flexible state, and, as his assailant’s foot went up, he not only braced for impact, but maneuvered his free arm between he and his opponent, spreading his legs just a bit, and attempting to wrap the arm around the oncoming leg; hopefully, given his arm and torso, and the empty space between, he could absorb and redirect enough force from the attack and keep the damage to a minimum.

Getting ‘hurt’ was the least of his worries, he realized.

Landing on the ground, with his opponent’s leg ensnared, he hoped, Dagan would plant himself firmly, push off and attempt to topple his attacker with overwhelming power; he would use his trapped arm--trying to extend it fully, upwards--and his opponent’s leg, refusing to let go as he pushed forwards with the intention of knocking him onto the ground.

None of this was known to Dagan except on the most base level, however; he knew bits and pieces of what he wanted to do, but he didn’t know how to get it done. He was going to try none-the-less.

If he did manage to ground his opponent, Dagan would be at a loss as to what to do next . . . Maybe kick him? Use it as a chance to get away, grab Nike, and - No, that was out of the question.

"Shit."

A troublesome situation. One that couldn't be dealt with so calmly. Disabling wasn't an option, it seemed. Dagan was much stronger than the man, that much was evident, perhaps to the both of them, but the man still had something over Dagan that ensured his own victory.

Strength was one thing. Power was another . . .

In an instant, Dagan would feel a horrible weight, followed in short by what he wouldn't know to feel like a gust of wind, a combination that would utterly fling Dagan away. Direction mattered little. The man didn't bother to aim. He'd been planted firmly into the stone at their feet and was in quite a bit of discomfort. Removing Dagan took priority, and was easily accomplished.

Once done, the man stood. He brushed himself off and dropped his arms to his sides. He hadn't expected this much resistance. The last one hadn't given him nearly as much trouble.

"I've wasted enough time with you, spirit," his voice fell to the tone of a growl.

Wh-!?

Before Dagan could even finish the thought, he felt a sudden case of vertigo - quite a unique case of vertigo, in fact - and then, just as suddenly, found himself hitting the ground with a solid thud, and that was followed by a discomforted grunt. A normal person would have probably been a little put off by being lifted in the air and thrown in a random direction, and even more so when it was done in a not so corporeal manner. Not Dagan, however; he seemed to simply accept what had just happened with little more than turning his head to glare suspiciously at his assailant.

“No, I should say that; you started it!” Dagan gave an informative shout before pulling himself up from the ground, and also patted down his sides because it seemed appropriate. Like always, he was more or less unharmed. Clearly, either this guy need to throw harder or he, Dagan thought to himself, needed to weigh more so that he was not thrown at all. Hadn’t he warned the guy that he was pretty damn tough?

“You know,” Dagan thought out loud and started lowering himself into a ready stance; he needed to sprint up to the man or he’d be a sitting duck. “You could, like, just leave and we’d all be happy, y’know? Well, Nike wouldn't be happy . . ."

"I'd prefer to," said the man, "But I can't have you returning here, or telling others of this place. Too important. Can't have spirits crossing over."

The man made no further motion of aggression, though. Merely stood still, eyes leveled upon Dagan. If anything, he was likely preparing to defend himself again. Dagan was aggressive. Threw his weight around a good deal. Had a bit of talent with it, to boot. Made it hard to control his weight when he did charge or initiate a grapple of any sort. It was something he had to prepare to deal with.

There weren't too many situations like that for him anymore.

"I've no choice but to send you off here."

Dagan glanced around cautiously before returning his focus to the stranger. Whatever was so important about this place, it didn’t seem all that special to him. Besides, it didn’t matter at all how important the ruins were. It didn’t excuse what had been done to Nike.

“This is some place, then, huh? Worth hurting someone over nothing?” Dagan asked, troubled by the man’s admission. There was no reason to take the man at his word, but an element of curiosity had weaseled its way into him. He wanted to find out if the stranger was speaking truth, or just biding his time. Before he could do that though, he needed to prioritize, this man was between him and helping Nike. Only after Nike recovered could the two explore this place.

Dagan pushed at his distractions, steeling himself. He took a deep breath and stepped forwards, and then he broke into an abrupt sprint that would have left most men in the dust. Before he reached his opponent, however, Dagan visibly slowed himself and brought his arm and fist back, and, as he snapped it forwards, as though he were going to attack, he immediately crossed it infront of his body, bringing his shoulder out as a tackle, making to ram the man with all the power of his sprint.

The theory was that this man liked to make a show of things. He had countered Dagan earlier with a fancy maneuver, shifting him around like a sack of potatoes, and, Dagan was sure, if he had continued onwards with just a sprint, the guy would have just moved out of the way; however, what if he had been presented with an attack? A punch, something that could easily be countered and taken advantage of? Then, what if the punch was actually a feint, and the feint lead into a full on tackle full of as much concentrated force as Dagan could put into it? All he needed was to get this guy down and disoriented, and then Dagan could deliver the fiercest, swiftest kick to the head he was ever like to give to anything or anyone.