Thread:Vox and the Vendetta/@comment-27147599-20180109035748/@comment-34052734-20180616013450

“I don’t know, actually.” Oliver brought a hand up to the back of his neck, rubbing it whenever he didn’t know an answer or was ashamed.

————————

Strapping a sword from the armory to the carrier attached to his belt, James huffed, irritated from all of the events that have taken place. Orville has robbed him, yes. And Alastair threatened to leave James to rot for the rest of his life as only a night guard. He was merely annoyed, and possibly becoming protective over Mr. Adler’s oblivious daughter. He had to locate her. Gripping the reigns of his stallion, he led the horse out of its stable before tacking it. He seethed, the passerby Alastair causing him delay.

“Where do you think you’re going? To rescue your damsel in distress?” The marquess scoffed, a hand slithering it’s way down to the handle of his weapon. He unsheathed it swiftly, the whip of the metal releasing a short cry.

“She’s not my damsel, she’s yours.” James grimaced, still facing the horse, as he heard the sword scrape against the holder. ''Very clean. Crisp, even. For an unskilled patrolman.'' He dragged a hand down his face before pivoting around to the controlling nobleman. “I’d put the sword down if I were you.”

“Why? You don’t at all scare me. Where are you going? I demand an answer.” Alastair was menacingly persistent, but by the expression on James’s face, he was only scratching at the surface. He nearly screamed. “Don’t be an ass! State your claim.”

“The only ass here is you, sir,” James spoke in monotone. He failed to answer his command. As a result, the marquess lunged forward, taunting the knight by clipping his left ear. Blood trickled along the curve of the cartilage, streaming down the base of his head down the front of the neck. He only flinched.

“I advise you to answer me, ratbag,” Alastair hissed, a spittle of saliva collecting at the sides of his lips. An invisible string pulled his mouth into a snarl. His nose wrinkled.

James’s lips were drawn into a line as he turned to mount his horse. Something sliced at his arms. Deep shades of vermillion drained from his limb, coiling around his elbow. The stallion whinnied in fear as its hooves kicked at the floor, eyes wildly gazing at the two. James’s teeth were now clenched as he hastily whipped around, unveiling his sword and striking the dumbfounded Alastair in the left breast. The marquess stumbled backwards, startled by such a vital hit, and dropped down to his knees. He groped for his weapon, clasping the handle with incredible amount of force and waved it in the air like a flag man in a parade. Alastair soon tensed up, squeezing the handle of the sword before his hand loosened and his body shuddered when it smacked onto the concrete. The blade sang as it fell.

Alastair’s lipped moved only just; barely not. “She doesn’t love you.”

The marquess’s head reeled forward into the ground, his neck not strong enough to keep it up. A sanguine liquid drip, dripped from his nostrils and looked around his face. A coat of white crawled over his eyes, his mouth remained agape.

James pressed his handkerchief to his arm, letting it sop up vermillion before nabbing Alastair’s. He sandwiched it over his sword, and with one solid motion, cleared the blood off the blade. He wobbled before steadily placing his weapon back in its carrier before hauling himself atop the stallion. His fiery glowered down at the fallen noble, his heart cascading metaphorically.

“I know. But that doesn’t mean I’ll leave her to be incognizant,” he responded to the corpse, spitting between his teeth onto the back Alastair’s head. Sir Wilkinson ran his fingers through the horse’s mane to calm it down before giving it a nice kick in the rear to have in canter.