[P] Picture Perfect Numb Belligerence

Harvey Butler · 5 May 2015, 09:11 PM

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((000)) Taking place at the training grounds.

He'd struck the defenseless training post so viciously already that he hardly felt the impact now at all.
Bandaged hands were bloodied and numb to the strikes, each blow delivered with a weary grunt.

They were quick, brief punches made blindly and often catching the rough edge of something, but they all made a connection despite their specific inaccuracy.
He wasn't concerned with making his mark; his attack was pushed through with all the energy that he could offer, putting the weight and power of his entire body into each blow, as this was about exhaustion, not perfection.

When his vision had nearly blackened, the panting warrior pulled back with a groan. The merle male had nearly stumbled backward, swaying slightly before he found his footing. His breathing was deep and rattling.

He tiredly dropped to his knees, closing his eyes tightly as salty tears formed in the corner, formed by the wear he'd endured, as well as the raging pit of emotions that haunted him internally.

Before he'd even accepted to assist the fellow Briton, he should have considered what possibilities came along with the task.
He knew that pursuing the kidnapper of William's dear would end with bloodshed (from friend, foe, or a combination of the two), but he didn't think it would start like this.

Before he could back down, he was standing before a corpse who's blood was on the shepherd's blade.
It felt so familiar that any thought opposing comfort was absent.

It wasn't until afterward, as he watched his companion and their allies (he could never consider them friends, despite the assistance) tear apart the other strangers and leave them about the soiled ground, that he began to grow uneasy.
Within that instant, as his dagger was unsheathed and posed at the mongrel, he felt his actions could only be justified, as if he was doing what was best...
For who?

If he hadn't killed the unknown assailant, the Squire would have undoubtedly been murdered himself. It was obvious self-defense, but he'd willing placed himself in that situation.
He was determined to one day guard the pack as an admirable protector, not some adrenaline junkie purposely instigating others to attack, simply so he could have the pleasure of destroying them.
Not that he particularly enjoyed it, but his logic was still unstable due to the waves of conflicting feelings that crashed through him.

So far, he'd now been the cause of death for two strangers. Dangerous and acting upon ill-intent, but otherwise unknown.
The Butler sire had come to Nova Scotia for catharsis and it seemed he was just reverting to his old ways.
It wasn't quite the same, but for the time being, he couldn't help but ignore the significant differences.

His breathing had only calmed some by the time he'd opened his eyes again.
Harvey stood up shakily and brushed his hair back, ready to strike again.

William Pendragon · 5 May 2015, 10:03 PM

He was marked as a warrior in this pack now. A profession he wasn't keen on. William was once a man who held the blade as a horrid device. He hated the feel of its handle. He preferred crafting clothing. Items that brought joy to the eyes of many. There was no pressure. Nothing to hold on his shoulders. William did not see fault in what happened the day he became a swordsman. He only faulted the man who drove him to this. These decisions were founded on that man's need for a profit. The silver dragon around the Brit's neck softly bounced against his pelt.It was like the tapping of his grandfather pushing him further down this path. He dare not admit his grand father's violent dealings with not too friendly loners. But his grand father had a swift hand and cold stare.

The man would not apologize for his actions. When asked if he regretted them he only said he regretted having a family in a pack that celebrated unprovoked slaughter. He claimed to be the product of a corrupt world. Will was told to ignore his grandfather. But it seemed the curse of one became the curse of another. Will felt the blood on his hands and knew that it would remain there. Their inside contacts held no shame for the deaths. They would justify by calling the people that died monsters. Garbage to be taken out. Rats to be destroyed. Will refused to see them as such. He saw himself in their faces. He saw a path he could have easily taken instead of the one that led him to Harv, Amelia and the Court. Will wore only that necklace and remained without his weapons. That would be too much to grasp.

The scent of blood and the sounds of wood against flesh filled his space. Will slowly but surely arrived on the scene to a staggering and bleeding Brit. Will's eyes widened. His pupils shrunk with empathy and anger. He grasped the other's wrist in a low growl. He appeared stern and authoritative despite having been a lower rank. "Harv look at yourself you are a literal bloody fool." His grip lessened. "Please stop we need to talk mate." Will's eyes softened to those of a fearful pup. He wasn't a warrior. He wasn't a fighter. He was a tailor. A man of the cloth. He had dawned the blade for Amelia. He was shameful. Harv needed him. William needed to be strong. He needed to be like his grandfather. He needed that edge. That strength.

Harvey Butler · 10 May 2015, 10:40 PM

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((000)) --

He turned too far during his blow, attention torn from his practice and given to the presence of another. He called out more in anger than pain as he hand slipped and he ended up practically falling into the dummy, having lost his footing in the surprise of his miscalculated aim.
With an irritated huff, the Briton got up and looked about the grounds. He couldn't blame the company; it was a free location to those of the Court, and had he not been so weakened and weary, he likely wouldn't have failed the strike.
The Squire was aware of this, but it would not prevent him from continuing toward the idea of perfection.

The grip about his wrist, however, would do the trick.

For a brief moment, he'd blacked out entirely, first only catching the faint scent of a member nearby, and now standing with his friend by his side. These events were not uncommon, but they were always understandably unsettling.

The Briton was breathing far too heavily to gasp out a reply, but he did nod his head, indicating that he'd heard what William was saying. While his mind went on to race, his body was in agreement with the Pendragon male; it was time to stop.
After a while to catch his breath, the Butler sire nodded again and cleared his throat. "Yeh. Yeh, okay..."
He wasn't one particularly up for talking, but he could only deny his need to for so long.

And he trusted William.

Quickly, as through impulse, the shepherd found himself embracing his friend when he was finally calm enough to do so. A small whimper left him as he stayed for only a short time, aware of the filth that probably coated his body from the extensive training session.
As he pulled away, Harvey looked back up toward the tailor. "I'm sorry, mate." He started, putting politeness before problems, "...Was there, uhm... Was there somefink specific ya wan'ed to talk 'bout?" The Courtier asked, as if he didn't already know, or at least lacked any general hint.

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