It was not luck that saw Crixus avoid the Wraithlords attack, it was the result of hours and days and weeks and months and years of training, training that had been perfected during a dozen campaigns, across a dozen times a dozen worlds. It was the reflexes of an Angel of Death, it was awareness of thine foe, it was predicting what it would do by putting himself into its position, what would he have done? That is what allowed Crixus to move in such a way as to let the thrust miss him entirely before taking the chance to counter attack, at such close range however, his weapons were not ideal.<br/><br/>It was for this very reason that the 1st Company member put away his flamer and storm bolter, drawing out his mighty<em>Storm Shield</em>and<em>Thunder Hammer</em>. "<strong>Come then you filthy heathen, see if you can fell me! Because if you cannot, I shall fell you, then I shall strike at the rest of your smug bastard race!</strong>" He'd have spat the words if it would have done anything but put spit on the inside of his helmet. With Thunder Hammer in hand, Crixus moved to close the distance between his machine foe him and himself, swinging to hopefully take out its knee. "<strong>What a cruel fate, even if you had the stones to win this fight, your race are a dying lot, running on borrowed time! You could win a thousand wars, but you'll still all be gone in a few generations!</strong>" Crixus was very respectful of his opponents that way.