The sound of steps coming closer in this secluded grove that Joe chose to rest in brought him from the eerie edge of some sort of half consciousness that he had fallen into, and to a ready consciousness. He was waiting to see if the person would simply pass, or if they were yet another that he had to deal with if his life were to continue this way Once the step were within range, and there was a slight shuffle of fabric, he was sure that this was no passerby. Joel's instincts told him differently. And the sudden, heavy sensation in his grotesque replacement of a limb reinforced that idea. Joel chose to stand, not even bothering with removing the blade embedded in the prosthetic. His movements upright were bit disjointed, as if he was little more than a puppet being pulled upright. His sword was scooped up by his real hand in a fluid but still unnatural bit of movement. While Elena was a blur he did not see, she was surely greeted with a blur herself. In a moment, he had moved. It seemed as if one second he was against the tree, and the next he was mid lunge more than halfway through the distance that separated them and still being carried by the sudden burst of momentum. His sword across his form and pulled back, ready for an initiating swing the moment his uncanny lunge put him next to his opponent.<br/><br/>His feet planted, just within range of his blade, keeping some room in between him and his attacker. By the toss of a knife, he had assumed his attacker favored smaller blades, or was simply one of those fools who bet their lives on disarming themselves. Either way, exploiting the reach his own sword gave him was the way for him to continue. With his feet set, Joel brought the blade around, leaning into the strike in an attempt to end this quickly. Unfortunately, his assailant was quick on their feet, able to weave past his blade without taking any damage. But that did not mean that Joel missed entirely. His blade had snagged the hood that they wore, pulling and tearing it free of their head and leaving the proper cloak portion in disarray, threatening to lose it's form from the fraying and the force. What was underneath was enough to cause Joel to take an instant to reconsider his approach. The aggressor in front of him was no man, but a woman. One possessing a dark beauty and a shapely form that -with the cloak in the shape it was- was reminiscent of women of ill repute that he was advised to ignore during his training.<br/><br/>Joel's mind moved from one objective to another. He was no stranger to taking what he wanted, now that he had died and lost his honor. No code of chivalry or oath of honesty bound him no more. It was one of the unsettling things about his quasi-resurrection: the man that had fallen off the bridge was not the man that was drug out of it. His morals were skewed and he saw no problem in it, even if it was logical for him to. Women on the road sated a need that was left neglected before. Thus, the shift in objective was apparent: from eliminate to conquer. Instead of following through with another glint of steel, Joel's arm reset for another instant, before he brought it back up and around, moving to catch his target off guard with a brutal strike of his sword's hefty metal pommel against her head.