They danced a deadly, silent tarantella. Neko worried the thing’s blind side, tearing at its limbs with his blades. His strikes were rarely clean, the monofiber edges of his weapons doing little more than scar the hard outer covering of the creature’s appendages. It was well-protected. Whether it was armor, magic, or its own skill did not matter; it was wearing Neko down. He remained unable to close with it and bring his blades into contact with something vital.