Getting ready for another attempt to hit Oren, Hector noticed a women had just come below deck.  Forgetting about the fight entirely he turned to face her, shifted back to flesh, extended a rough, calloused hand out and chirped, "'Owdy miss, what 'rings 'ou below deck with us bunch of rapscallions?"  "Oop nearly 'orgot mes self, people 'all me 'ector" He finished with a broad smile.  But before she could shake his hand, if she was going to, Hector collapsed to one knee, grimaced, and coughed up some blood.  

"Bloody ribs!" he cursed, "Could someon' see 'o 'em? Or least get mes 'ome painkillers..." Those were the last words he spoke before he passed out.

"'Ogress? No, not t'all mate, but I 'appen 'o be on the 'ide o' people 'oo on't tro bott'os at mes."   He said to the old man's question.  Turning his attention back to Oren, he noticed Oren had leaped into the air.  With a quizzical look, Hector took advantage of his opponents inability to dodge effectively and charged head first into Oren.  

After years of street brawling, Hector had learned the hard way that tackling an airborne fellow was often, while simple, the easiest way of pinning them and ending a fight quick.  And it just so happens that, muscle, in any sort of material, is still muscle, and could contract or extend with minimal effort on Hector's side.

"Bloody 'ight you on't, now opolgize efore i'ave to split you in two" Hecktor spat back, with a notably more metallic voice.  He started taking some slow methodical steps towards Oren.

*Smash* Hector's head snapped up to see where the shattered bottle of whiskey was thrown from. He spotted two men chatting to each other in the approximate direction of the throw. Standing, hand holding his side, he shouted "Oi! Nutter! 'Twas it one o' you who trew that 'here bott'o o' firewater at mes self?! Cause if it was, one of you is in for a 'orry smacking around! 'Ere me?"

He slowly took his steps foward toward the two of them.

The older of the two now turned to face Hector. He was initially a bit taken aback, but as soon as Hector threatened him, his confusion turned into a sly grin.

"What was that?" Oren said with a torrent of arrogance beneath it. "I didn't quite catch that... err... would you call that a sentence? I couldn't tell if they were all words." This mate was asking for a fight. His stance, his taunting attitude... Too bad for him his scrawny frame wouldn't hold up to a single hit from Hector's fist.

"Not e'en an opolgy, tat on't do one bit" Hector said shaking his head. At the end of Hector's sentence he swung his arm holding his side at the ribs of this Oren fellow. Milliseconds before contact his flash changed his arm to steel, flashing it back again after impact

But Hector had not made contact with Oren's ribs as planned. After his hand flashed back to normal, Oren stood with a katar on his right arm that he had used to deflect the attack away from his body.

"Too slow," Oren taunted. His eyes looked less joking than his voice however. Oren was ready to fight.

"A ruddy blade, is it? Tat's no fun 'at all mate" Hecktor said as he shifted to steel and shot a knee towards Oren's midsection.

but they feel sterile

Your point? They're still treefolk.

Treefolk.  Or Enchantment burn.

A boat! Why did he have to travel by a boat? He never understood how they floated on the surface the way they did. And the motion... Oh the bloody motion. It would have been enough to make him hurl, if his stomach wasn't clamped shut in a steel knot.

So there he was, back against the boom, sitting with his head buried in his arms. Hector chuckled to himself, "Look at me, king of the streets, emperor of the pubs, almost ready to blow chunks. Lets hope there ain't much more of this flotsam to endure." He looked around at the serfs around him and wondered if they would be any help on this expedition. Heck, he didn't know if he would be. So instead of trying to think on it to much longer he closed his eyes and tried to block out the dull throb of the broken rib he earned last year.

Username: Queztatlapoca (or Quez)

Name: Hecktor

Age: 24

Sex: Male

Physical Description: A brawler by trade, he's covered in taught ropey muscles, and nearly as many scars. A short repeatedly broken nose dawns his face, and just above that sits two nearly black beady eyes. His 5'7" height puts him a bit shorter then most of his competitors but he nevertheless comes out the victor. His brown pants, sun dulled and torn, haven't been changed in at least 2 years. Those however are in perfect condition when compared to his vest he wears before and after fights. A keepsake from his childhood, he refuses to wear anything on top of or under it. He wears a pair of combats on his feet, he says, for style.

Combat Info: As tough and as grisly as he is, Hecktor's ability heightens that. With the ability to turn parts of himself or all of himself into solid steel in the blink of an eye it's no wonder he hasn't lost a fight. Combining he's unarmed speed style with his body of steel he is a threat to any who get in his way. The downsides to this are quite visible. The injuries he does sustain last for days longer then they should. His metabolism is nearly one quarter that of the average person. Flus, colds, diseases linger and eat away at him. His acute asthma doesn't help either.

Background: Work in progress

I'm Alive! and willing to join in! but for about a week i'll have limited internet access. *sadface*