Cuts chicken

When they had closed within ten feet of the Hunter, one of the death-dealers
in downy white bounded up toward the heavens. Built to carry the
creature’s seven-hundred-pound frame, the chickener’s legs had enough
spring to leap over fifteen feet in the air, even from a complete standstill.
With all of its talons spread as wide as they could go, the bird started to
drop from the air right at the point where it would intercept D.
Perhaps the eyes of the bird caught the silvery path of D’s weapon as it
sliced off both the attacker’s legs in midair. As D plowed straight into the
flock of screeching chickeners, more black beaks than could be counted
came down at his head. The human skull would be soft as a grape to them,
but the parabolic arc of the vicious bird beaks was rewarded not with a taste
of D, but with the glittering slashes of his sword. Bright blood scattered in
the sunlight.

Less than two seconds later, over a dozen chicks lay on the ground. Fresh
blood stained the green grass. Gory blade in one hand, D stood motionless.
Though had he slashed away with his sword in the middle of a wild mist of
blood, not a drop of it marked his clothes or his gorgeous face.

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